[Insert disclaimer here: I do not own any characters from Naruto. I do, however, own a pair of breasts. They're not as big as Tsunade's.]

Jiraiya might have claimed her. He might have suggested, flirted, frisked and fondled. But Orochimaru knew her. He knew her in ways Jiraiya could only fantasize about.

He knew how aroused she became under the cover of a blindfold. He knew she had a preference for the supple, yet flexible black nylon ropes that tie boats in Kirigakure harbor. Most importantly, though, he knew her breasts.

He caught his first sight of them when they were both children - when she was flat-chested Tsunade and he was collecting snakeskin. And he watched them grow, watched them swell beneath her shirt, nipples bursting in the cold night air as he tied her against a training post and hissed dirty things into her ear. He watched them wiggle when she spoke, when she moaned, when she begged him not to taunt her like the torture expert he had clearly become. He watched them bounce when she moved, jumped, fought, struggled against the ropes until her shirt was sweaty and nearly translucent.

He touched them, often and deliberately. He started at the base of her arm, his long sensual fingers teasingly supporting each perfect cup, tormenting with anticipation until she was literally on the verge of screaming. He caressed them. He massaged them. He rubbed them with his thumbs. He took her nipples in the tips of his fingers and squeezed them, gently, then less gently, then harder, and harder still. Until she was moaning, panting, crying his name in ways that made his snake stand rigid.

He smirked. He smiled. He licked his lips and tickled her left nipple with the tip of his tongue. He slid closer, nipping at the soft flesh with his teeth, sucking at her breast like the babe he never was until he could feel the heat of her chakra radiating from every inch of her body. It spread past her breasts, over her chest, through the fist that had broken through his knots to grip his hair and hold him down, up her legs and out again into the dewy grass between her legs.

Were Jiraiya in this position, he would have taken her. He would have slid himself inside her, thrusting, grinding as their lips met in ferocious fury and violent passion. He would pull her hair. She would bite his tongue. He would savor the blood like hot sake and swear her name like it was blasphemy.

Orochimaru, though, was not so base and unrefined. He knew the sensuality of subtlety. He knew what she liked, he knew what she needed and he knew exactly how to make her come - knot after knot and night after night.