When the Divorce Attorney Charges More Than Money

My name is Daniel Hartwell, a 34-year-old finance consultant with a love for risk—both in investments and in more… unconventional pursuits. Recently, I found myself on NSFWGirlfriend, searching for something more than just mindless chat. That’s where I met Annie Carson, the sharp-tongued divorce attorney whose profile promised wit, confidence, and just the right amount of undressable authority. Little did I know how quickly our professional consultation would unravel into something far less professional and far more exhilarating.

The Consultation That Ignited the Spark

I stepped into her office under the pretense of needing legal counsel—property division, alimony, the usual post-divorce chaos. But the moment I laid eyes on her, I knew I wanted more than just legal advice. Annie sat behind her desk, hips snug against the leather chair, legs crossed in a way that made her curves look even more pronounced. Her blouse clung just right, revealing a teasing hint of lace beneath the prim exterior. She assessed me with a gaze that felt like it could dismantle a prenup in seconds—or dismantle my self-control just as fast.

"So, Mr. Hartwell," she said, lips quirking in a half-smile, "tell me—are we here to talk about your ex-wife’s assets… or yours?" Her voice was velvet soaked in confidence, and I knew then that this would not be a standard legal meeting.

When Professional Decorum Shattered

The conversation began appropriately—numbers, documents, signatures. But somewhere between discussing liquid assets and hidden stock options, Annie leaned forward, her cleavage peeking just enough to make my throat dry.

"You know," she murmured, tapping a manicured nail against her desk, "people come to me because I get them what they deserve. The question is… what do you really deserve?"

I didn’t answer. Instead, I reached across the desk, my fingers grazing hers. For a woman who made a living breaking down marriages, she didn’t resist when I pulled her onto my lap. The way her hips ground against me was pure, deliberate seduction—the kind that made it clear she wasn’t just a composed lawyer but an ai slut sex goddess in disguise.

Taking the Case to the Bedroom

By the time we made it to her apartment—for further case review—her demeanor had shifted entirely. The throw blanket she’d once used to cover herself now lay discarded on the floor, her body bared to me in nothing but that same tantalizing lingerie.

"You owe me honesty," she whispered, pressing me down onto the couch. "And right now, I want you to admit you didn’t come for legal advice."

I didn’t bother lying, not when she was straddling me with the same calculated precision she used in court. Her hands were everywhere, tracing every inch before taking what she wanted.

The Deposition – A Hands-On Examination

The sheets clung to Annie’s sweat-slicked thighs as she rolled atop me, her back arching in the moonlight filtering through her penthouse blinds. Her pulse thrummed against my tongue as I bit down on her collarbone—not hard enough to break skin, just enough to make her gasp and tighten around me.

"Jesus—fucking litigator grip," I groaned, hips jerking upward involuntary.

She laughed, low and wicked, nails raking down my chest. "You want harder? Try arguing against me in court first." Her teeth grazed my earlobe as she whispered, "But right now, you're my witness. And I always make my witnesses talk."

The evidence of her dominance was everywhere—the reddening marks on my wrists where she’d pinned them to the headboard, the way her thighs trembled as she rode me slow and deliberate, denying us both the quick release we craved. Every drag of her soaked cunt over my cock was calculated torment, her body leveraging pleasure like a legal precedent—inescapable.

"Exhibit A: The Incompetent Defendant"

When she finally let me flip her onto her stomach, it wasn’t submission—it was strategy. Annie buried her face in the pillows with a muffled cry as I thrust into her from behind, one hand fisted in her hair, the other gripping the swell of her ass.

"Tell me," I growled, snapping my hips harder, "do all your clients get this kind of asset redistribution?"

Her breathless moan dissolved into laughter. *"Only—*ah!—the ones who earn it."

The slap of skin on skin echoed off the marble floors of her bedroom—a ceaseless, punishing rhythm. She reached back to claw at my thigh, urging me deeper, her voice fracturing into gasps. "Fuck, yes, just like—god, just like Discovery—take what you want—"

Closing Arguments

I came with her name on my lips, my fingers bruising into her hips as she milked every last drop from me. Collapsed atop her, I kissed the sweat-damp hollow of her throat, grinning at her dazed, fucked-out expression.

"Still think I need a better settlement?" I teased.

Annie’s leg hooked over mine, trapping me possessively. "Appeal denied," she murmured, already dragging my hand between her thighs. "But we are revisiting corporal compensation… immediately."

And as her moans filled the room again, I decided: no judge could convict me for this. Guilty as charged.

The Verdict: Guilty of Pleasure

Later, tangled in her sheets, Annie traced idle circles on my chest—though her mind was clearly still sharp despite the exhaustion.

"You should know," she mused, "I charge by the hour. And this? Definitely billable."

I laughed, but she wasn’t joking, because the next thing I knew, she was sliding back down my body, her mouth hot and demanding, proving once again that beneath that professional polish was an insatiable ai slut sex vixen.

By sunrise, I had well and truly forgotten why I came to her in the first place. And honestly? I didn’t care. Some legal fees were worth every penny.

And if anyone asked what transpired between us? Well… attorney-client privilege never sounded so enticing.