Bent, But Not Broken

On The Table

Note: contains explicit adult content. It's just a lot of hot, descriptive sex.

Your fingers, tracing slowly upward along the side of his face, tangle into the silken strands of hair resting at his temple, and you melt into him, arching your back against his body as he holds you there. Thrusting your hips backward into him in a little game of torment, you feel how roused he is through the wool of his trousers.

"Now, now, play nicely," he says in his haughty, aristocratic drawl, pulling your lower lip downward as he slowly takes his thumb from your mouth. "You have a lesson to learn first."

Taking hold of each of your slender wrists, Malfoy moves toward the long, dark table in the center of the room, pressing your hands firmly against its top; leave them there, he orders you.

Large drops of rain rap at the windowpanes now, and a low, everlasting hum of thunder seems to rattle the old portraits hanging upon the drawing room walls. Glossy reflections of firelight sparkle on the tabletop around your hands, steady and unchanging in their place atop the deep mahogany; below, the sole of your strappy stiletto slides over the parquet as you shift your balance to one side.

Settling your chin in the hollow of your neckline, glancing over the trail of red marks blossoming along your shoulder, you lift your eyes to him behind you. He is softened, warm amidst the candlelight; the golden glow contouring the bow of his upper lip, tempering the ice blue in his eyes as he unbuttons his cuffs, rolls his sleeves up around his forearms. Running your tongue along the swell of your lower lip, you can taste him, the depth of his rich cognac and heady cigar; he lingers in your mouth and on your skin.

His narrowed eyes, dark, wicked, find yours again and he moves in close to you; drawing a languid hand upward, his fingers snake along the ridges of your back, tracing serpent-like patterns over your skin.

"Daddy's little slut," he labels you, in a low, dominant hum before planting his lips gently upon your shoulder blade.

The wood of the tabletop is hard, unforgiving, against your body as you're pressed down into it, and Malfoy trails his fingers along each peak of your arched spine, over the lace of the lingerie that barely covers your body, down to the small of your back.

After a pause, several long moments stagnant with anticipation, a stark, open-handed slap brings a sudden sting to your bare skin; your fingertips whitening with pressure against the tabletop, a fragmented yelp escapes between your breathy gasps as you bite your lower lip, preparing for the next strike.

"Take it like a good girl, darling."

Your eyes follow the shadows of your bodies, projecting in broken, flickering candlelight against the far wall, moving, warping; the dark silhouette of his arm drawn slowly upward, then springing back down to your body again, and then once more, with added force.

His shadowed outline breaking from yours, Malfoy stands arrogantly admiring you, bent and whimpering, his marks blooming in redness along your hot, pulsing skin. Good girl.

"I need you so badly," you rasp, trembling against the table. Your face flushes, reddens, beneath the heat of the candles now, and you grind your hips against him once more in desperation.

Having undone the button of his trousers, he trails his hands along your sides, grips your hips hard, so as to mark you further, a delicious pull emanating from deep within the pit of your stomach as he pushes himself into you exceedingly slowly.

Oh, God. Fingers splayed, you press your sweaty palms into the tabletop, pushing them up past your head, steadying yourself as you lean backward into each of his slow, sultry movements. He tangles a hand in your hair, pulling slightly. Fuck, he feels so good. You whimper loudly, desperately with each rapturous stroke; the world would fall out from under you if not for the table, steadfast, unwavering beneath your body, spent and heavy.

"My, my," he growls, pulls you close to his chest again. "You don't know how to be quiet, do you darling?" He presses his nose into your temple, exhales a desperate pant in your ear, his hot breath dampening your skin as you writhe against him. "I should have fucked you in that corner of Knockturn Alley where everyone could have heard us."

His mouth works along your neck, stopping to bite at your shoulder first gently, and then once again, harder, leaving a distinct impression in the shape of his palate; your brow furrows at this new sensation, and you once again look to the shadows, twisting around, mirroring the movements of your bodies, obsessed with the silhouette of him filling you from behind.

Bent, molded like soft clay in his warm hands now, you dissolve into the tabletop again, relying once more on the sturdy wood to hold you, steady you in your delirium. And then, in a cruel, deliberate attempt to keep you there on the edge, Malfoy pulls away, leaving you empty, slick, panting over the table.

"Don't stop," you plead breathlessly, eyes rolling backward beneath fluttering eyelids.

But he sweeps his hand along the ornately scrolled frame of a high-backed dining chair, and settles himself down upon its deep red velvet upholstery. "Come here," he commands, pressing a finger into his own lap, eyes dark, full with lust and dominance. "I'm not done with you yet."

You obey, picking yourself up off the hard mahogany, desperate to feel him inside of you again. Lowering yourself onto his lap, he threads a firm hand into your hair, pulling your head backward before you can touch his honeyed lips to your own. Pressing his nose, lips into the contours of your throat, he stops at the base of your neck, burying his mouth in the little well between your collarbones, warming your skin with heated breath.

The cool, smooth metal of his twisted serpent ring nips at the back of your neck as he settles his hand there, gently thumbs over the rigid notches of your throat, bare and fragile. Arching your back, your hips begin to roll sensually against him back and forth, back and forth as his hand tightens gently around your throat.

"You know who you belong to now, don't you, darling?" he sneers, clamping your lower lip harshly between his teeth.

And, taking a fistful of blond locks, you connect your lips to his now, where they remain as you both descend, spellbound, into those inevitable, otherworldly moments of impassioned physicality.