Her words, raw with need and perfectly delivered to the camera, were the final trigger.

​"You got it, Lisa" I snarled, my voice thick with contemptuous possession. "You get exactly what you begged for."

​My hand shot down, tearing open the zipper of my silk trousers. I shoved the material down quickly, freeing my cock, which sprang out—hard, hot, and violently ready.

​I grasped my own shaft with one hand, slicking the tip with my spit, and used the other hand to brutally part her legs, hooking one high over my shoulder. Her exposed pussy, slick and glistening beneath the ripped lace, was perfectly presented to me.

​I didn't waste time with teasing. With a single, savage thrust, I slammed my full, thick length into her tight opening.

​A sharp cry of mingled pain and ecstasy tore from her throat as I buried myself to the hilt. The tightness around my cock was instantly agonizingly good, confirming her words: she was incredibly tight.

​"F-fuck!" she gasped, her hands flying out to grip the edges of the mahogany desk, her knuckles white.

​I held her pinned against the desk, my teeth gritted, savoring the feeling of violent, complete possession. The sound of wet, tearing suction echoed in the silence of the crew.

​"You wanted it," I growled into her ear, leaning down to capture her mouth in a punishing, deep kiss. "Take it!"

​Then I started to move—a powerful, aggressive, piston-like rhythm that shook the very foundations of the desk. Every thrust was deep, driving the air from her lungs and forcing a series of sharp, panting cries from her lips.

​I drove into her with a savage, unrelenting force, each thrust deep and deliberate, making the heavy mahogany desk beneath her rattle. The tightness of her pussy was phenomenal; it gripped me like a fist, milking every inch of my thickness.

​"God, you're so tight," I growled, my voice hoarse, pulling back almost entirely before slamming home again. "Does my huge cock hurt your little corporate pussy? Tell me!"

​She was struggling for breath, her head thrown back, a single drop of sweat tracing a path down her temple. She couldn't form words, only ragged moans of pure submission.

​I seized her hips, locking my grip, and started a faster, shallower, more punishing rhythm. I watched her face, demanding a reaction, demanding the surrender.

​"Look at you, Dickslayer," I snarled, forcing her to meet my eyes as I maintained the relentless pace. "All that power, all that ambition, and look where you ended up—spread open on my desk, begging for my cum. You're nothing but my easy, greedy little slut now, aren't you?"

​The verbal abuse, coupled with the brutal physical rhythm, seemed to break the last of her professional reserve. She finally found her voice, a raw, desperate scream.

​"Yes! Fuck me! Fill my little slut hole, Mr Hart! I took this job for this! I want you to ruin me on this desk!" she shrieked, driving her hips up to meet my thrusts, her fingers clawing frantically at my silk shirt.

​Her words ignited a new level of aggression in me. I lifted her hips, angling my thrusts even deeper, pounding into her with a furious, final zeal. The climax was building rapidly, hot and violent, matching the primal energy of the scene.

The ferocity of her surrender, the sight of her panting body pinned beneath me, and the unbearable, tight suction of her pussy sent me hurtling toward the edge. Her desperate demand—"Ruin me on this desk!"—was the final command I needed to obey.

My rhythm became a frantic, uncontrolled piston. I drove into her harder and faster than before, every muscle in my body tightening with the immense pressure building at my groin. I let out a deep, animalistic roar, the sound echoing the violence of the moment.

"I'm coming, you greedy slut! I'm going to own you!" I bellowed.

With a powerful, final, gut-wrenching thrust, I convulsed. My cock pumped hot, thick jets of semen deep inside her, flooding her tight, welcoming pussy. The feeling was an overwhelming, soul-shattering release—a violent and complete possession that emptied me instantly.

I held her there, buried deep, my breath coming in ragged gasps, as my body continued to spasm with residual pleasure. Her hips continued to twitch beneath me, milking the last throbbing remnants of my climax.

Dickslayer let out a long, shuddering sigh, her head falling back as she stared at the ceiling, her body glistening with sweat and evidence of our brutal encounter. The papers scattered on the floor, the torn shirt, the desecrated desk—the scene was absolute perfection.

​"Cut!!!" Mr. Holmes said, his voice quiet but filled with satisfaction.

​I pulled out of Dickslayer, zipped up my trousers, and immediately shifted focus. I was exhausted, but the rush of adrenaline from the successful take, combined with the urgent financial crisis, forced me back to professional mode.

​"Lisa," Mr. Holmes said, his voice sharp and professional as I stepped back. "That was phenomenal. Go to makeup and wardrobe. You have ten minutes before your next scene."

​He turned to the crew. "Let's take a breather, guys, all of you. Five minutes maximum. We need to reset the set for the duo in eight."

​I looked at him, confused. "What, you didn't like the length of that scene?"

​"I think... you were fantastic, Mr. Hart. You gave the audience exactly what they wanted," Mr. Holmes said.

​"Then why are we shooting another scene in such a rush? We need to breathe," I said, catching my own breath.

​Holmes turned to a cameraman. "Nicholas, how long was that sequence?"

​"About 30 minutes, sir," Nick said.

​Holmes turned to me again, his face a study in cold finance. "We are not making short films, Mr. Hart. Longer screen time equals to more money. We should have pushed that to forty-five. We lost fifteen minutes of revenue. We make it up now. Every second we stand here is profit lost."

​He was pushing the pace relentlessly. I had to respect that. He was a pure monetization engine. He made perfect sense.

"Okay.....We can shoot another scene again."I said.

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