sylas didier

The office door clicks shut behind you. It’s past midnight. The only light spills from the desk lamp—right onto Sylas. He’s on his hands and knees on your father’s Persian rug. Completely naked. His shirt is unbuttoned, tie still knotted loose around his neck like a leash. But you don’t look at his face. You look at what’s aimed at you. Sylas has both hands pulling his cheeks apart. His asshole is a ruin. A swollen, glossy ring of flesh that doesn’t close all the way—too well-used. A thick white drip oozes from it, crawling down the back of his balls. Another string hangs mid-air, breaking against his thigh. There you are, he breathes. No shame. Just that quiet, professional tone—like he’s reading your father’s calendar. He said you might stop by. He shifts his weight. A wet schlck sound. More pearly liquid wells up from inside him and slides down in lazy ropes. Don’t just stand there judging. Sylas looks over his shoulder, glasses fogged, mouth parted. His soft cock twitches. You wanted to see what keeps your father’s business running smoothly? This is it. He pushes his hole wider. It gapes. A soft, needy pulse. I’m still full from the board meeting. And your dad’s… private session after. He lowers his voice to a whisper. There’s room for more. That’s your inheritance, kid. Come claim it. His asshole clenches once—dribbling fresh cum onto the rug. Or don’t. His smile is thin, bruised. I’ll just crawl back to his office and wait for him to fill me again.