The heat of her palm through my jeans was too much, and the look of pure, unadulterated challenge in her eyes was the breaking point. I didn't care about the cameras, the crew, or the lighting rigs anymore.

​I reached down, my hands trembling slightly as I helped her clear the denim. When I finally sprang free into the cool air of the gym, she let out a low, appreciative hum that vibrated right through me.

​"God, look at you," she whispered, her fingers immediately encircling the length. She didn't just grab my cock but she explored it. Her thumb traced the crown, catching the bead of moisture there, before she slid her hand down the shaft. "You've been hiding all of this under that professional act? It's huge... so thick. I can feel your pulse jumping against my palm."

​She leaned in closer, her breath hot against my skin as she began to stroke me with a slow, agonizing rhythm. Her other hand drifted lower, her fingers dancing over my balls with a feather-light touch.

​"And these," she murmured, her voice dropping to a gravelly, dirty tone as she gently cupped them, weighing them in her hand. "So heavy. You're so full for me, aren't you, Coach? You've been wanting this since the first take."

​She looked up at me through her lashes, her eyes blown wide with hunger. She gave my shaft one last, firm squeeze, dragging her nails lightly along the underside.

​"I think I'm done with the script," she breathed.

​Without taking her eyes off mine, she leaned forward. Her hair fell over her shoulders like a curtain, isolating us in our own private world. I watched, my breath hitching in my throat, as she parted her lips and slowly fed the head of my cock into the heat of her mouth. The sensation of her wet, velvet tongue swirling around me was a total system shock.

​I groaned, my head falling back as she took more of me, her cheeks hollowing as she began to suck, turning the gym floor into a scene no one was going to forget.

The shift in power was instantaneous. As the first wave of heat from her mouth hit me, the last of my restraint vanished. I didn't want a performance anymore; I wanted a surrender.

​I reached down, my fingers tangling deep into her hair, gripping firmly to tilt her head back at the perfect angle. She looked up at me, eyes watering slightly from the sudden dominance, but I saw the spark of thrill in her gaze.

​"You want to talk about punishment, Salma?" I growled, my voice dropping an octave, raw and stripped of its professional veneer. "This is how I handle someone who breaks my script."

​I stepped forward, closing the small gap between us and driving my hips home. I didn't wait for her to adjust; I took control, shoving my cock deep into the velvet heat of her throat. She let out a muffled, choked gasp against my skin, her hands reaching up to grip my thighs for balance as I began to set the pace.

​"That's it," I whispered, looking down at her as I pulled back nearly all the way before thrusting in again, harder this time. "Take every inch of it. You wanted to know how big it was? Now you get to feel it stretching you out."

​The sound of her struggling to breathe around me, the wet, rhythmic sliding of my shaft against her tongue, and the way her throat constricted around me was intoxicating. I was no longer the actor playing a role; I was the man taking exactly what was offered.

​"Work for it," I commanded, my thrusts becoming more rhythmic and aggressive, bottoming out against the back of her throat with every strike. "Show me how much you can take before you break."

​The gym was deathly quiet, the only sound the wet slap of my hips against her face and her desperate, muffled whimpers of pleasure and strain.

I reached for the hem of Salma's workout gear, my movements rough and urgent. She helped me, peeling away the layers until she stood shivering but expectant in the center of the frame.

​I didn't give her a moment to recover. I grabbed her hips and spun her around, bending her over a nearby weight bench. The sight of her—arched, vulnerable, and looking back at me over her shoulder—shattered what was left of my composure.

​"Please," she whimpered, her voice a ragged mess of scripted lines and real desperation. "I don't want the squats, Coach. I want this. I need you to fill me up right now. Give me what I've been begging for."

​She was talking dirty now, her words a stream of filth about how much she wanted to feel my weight behind her, how she wanted the whole crew to see exactly how I broke her down.

​"You're a brat, Salma," I growled, my hand landing with a sharp crack against the curve of her ass. The sound echoed through the silent gym. "And you know exactly what happens to brats."

​She let out a sharp cry that turned into a moan. Reaching down, she gathered a pool of saliva in her palm and slicked her hand, reaching back to find my cock. She gripped the pulsing length of me, her fingers slick and warm, and began to rub me with a frantic, desperate rhythm.

​"Look at it," she breathed, her eyes fixed on the point of contact. "It's so thick... I'm going to take all of it."

​With a trembling hand, she guided the head of my cock to her opening. I felt the wet heat of her touch as she positioned me, and then she pushed back, impaling herself. I let out a low, guttural roar as I buried myself deep inside her, the friction of her tight, slick walls welcoming me home.

​"There," I hissed, my hands digging into her hips to hold her steady. "Is that what you wanted?"

​She couldn't even answer; she just arched her back and screamed my name as I began to drive into her.

I gripped Salma's hips and hauled her around, lifting her slightly so she was facing the main camera lens. Her legs wrapped instinctively around my waist, her back arched against the cold leather of a weight machine.

​I began to thrust, deep and rhythmic, the sound of our skin meeting filling the silence of the gym. Salma was gone, lost in the sensation; her head fell back, and she began to cry out in a flood of Spanish. The "actress" had vanished, replaced by a woman unravelling.

​"¡Sí, así! ¡Dámelo todo, por favor!" she gasped, her voice a sultry, melodic wreck. She called out for more, her "latina sex sounds" echoing off the high ceilings—low moans mixed with sharp, breathless Spanish commands for me to go harder.

​The crew was frozen. Holmes was staring at the monitor like he'd discovered fire. I was focused entirely on the friction and the way Salma's eyes rolled back in her head—until the heavy gym doors creaked open.

​The silhouette was unmistakable. It was Red Eye, Abigail.

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