A/N:

NSFW.

Mature Audiences Only

Eh.

Just an infinitely forgettable, short, one shot.

Erotica, Smutty Smut Smut, Infinitely Forgettable, NSFW

There was very little holding her in position – stretched out nude on her back atop him like she was as he extended his long legs out in front of his favorite chair and crossed them at the ankles – besides that only somewhat contracted left arm of his that exerted just the slightest amount of pressure around her waist - to keep her in place, though, rather than alleviate her situation.

He wasn't much interested in doing that.

Oh, and the thick, hard cock she was slowly becoming impaled on due to the steep angle of his legs might have had something to do with the fact that she hadn't slid all the way down the silky incline of his expensive dress pants. He was, as always it seemed, in an impeccable dress shirt and pants he'd barely adjusted enough to free himself, denying her, consciously or unconsciously, the succor of feeling his bare skin against her back.

Her hands were where he'd told her to put them in that dark chocolate rasp of his hovering at her ear - behind her head - forcing her back to arch and present those breasts in a thoroughly, obscenely enticing manner, as if they were begging for the attentions he was only too happy to give them, one hand squeezing the base of the closest one, but his other hand reaching down to claim her mons - and beyond - in an act of possession that was almost as pure and declarative as the stake he was already in the process of claiming.

He knew this position wasn't the easiest for her in which to accommodate him - her slight, slender legs draped over either side of his much longer, thicker, more muscular ones, holding hers almost uncomfortably wide, her small feet hanging there, long inches from the ground, no help to her at all - but then he had always liked the idea that she struggled to accept him, thoroughly enjoying the tiny groans he knew she was trying to suppress all of, unsuccessfully, and almost – but not quite - distressed sighs as he indulged in a bit of delayed gratification for them both and allowed gravity to force her to accept more and more of him, whether she wanted to or not.

And she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the fact that pad of his middle finger found itself resting atop her clit was merely a happy accident. Every move he'd made since he'd pulled her onto his lap had broadcast the bald truth that this time her pleasure was completely incidental to his own pursuits, but then that idea turned her on, too, so even when he decided to be at his most selfish with her, she still managed to get off.

Usually.

And if not, she had absolutely no doubt that she'd get what was coming to her.

Eventually.

. . . in the end.