Playing Games
A'Jes'
I sense him when he enters the library. I don’t look up, but I know he is
there, scanning the room for me. I continue writing on the parchment in
front of me, consulting from time to time the book lying open on the
table. He passes behind me and I catch his scent. He smells clean, like
fresh wind clings to him wherever he goes. If I were to raise my eyes
right now I know I’d see that his face is flushed, hair windblown from
practice. He loves to fly. He loves flying above all else magical. It's
a thrill for him, being in the air. I like my feet on the ground.
I don’t look up. He circles the table and sits down opposite me, making a
show of opening his books and spreading them about. Hah. He wants me to
think he is here to work. I know better.
I bite my lips to keep from smiling. There is only one reason he is
here. He’s going to try to seduce me. I know it. He knows it. I am
pretty sure he knows I know it. It’s his game. I continue to write, but
the suspense is making me tense. I pause in writing my treatise, my
pretense being to check a source in my book, but in reality it is to calm
my heartbeat while I wait for him to make a move.
He starts with my feet. I swallow to keep from moaning. His feet are
bare, and he deftly strips the soft house shoes from mine before slowly
stroking down my feet with his long, clever toes. I go back to writing on
the parchment. When he slides one soft, warm foot up my leg, I grab a
different piece of parchment to scribble on so I won’t have to re-write my
History of Magic essay after I lose control of the quill. Instead of
continuing my essay on this new sheet, I begin to write scandalous
things. I have many of these, these writings of mine. Written as he plays
with me in the library while we both pretend the other doesn’t exist. He
stops with my feet long enough to probe my crotch with a questing foot. He
is rewarded when he comes in contact with my growing erection. Slowly, he
rubs me there. I can feel heat creeping up my neck into my face. I
struggle to control my breathing as he leisurely jerks me off under the
table with his foot. I scribble furiously all the naughty things I’d like
to do to him, with him, in him. All the things I wish he’d do to me. He
is such a tease.
He is broader than me through the shoulders. More muscular, more athletic,
more outgoing, just more. He is heartbreakingly beautiful and confident
and -oh- he has now left my erection and started on my legs. I don’t know
how much longer I can hold him off. I sense his growing frustration, his
arousal hangs almost palpable between us, but he is patient. He is nothing
if not patient. The skin on my hands is turning pink, flushed with the
blood coursing through me. I take a deep, steadying breath.
I remember how it started. We discovered each other in *that* way at the
beginning of our fourth year. He was the most compassionate of my
roommates. Whenever one of us was sad or homesick or lonely, he would hold
us, cheer us up, or make us laugh. He cared for all of us like a big
brother. One night I woke up to him thrashing and crying in some horrible
nightmare. I climbed into his bed beside him and held *him* for a
change. I woke up the next morning with him curled around me like I was
something precious he needed to hold on to. I had never felt more needed
or cherished then when I was in his arms. I kissed him awake that morning,
in more ways then one. We spent that year sneaking around Hogwarts kissing
in empty corridors, groping each other in the stairwells, playing with each
other in the privacy of our dorm room when everyone else was off doing
other things.
I am amazed now that no one ever found us out. I can only conclude it was
pure, blind, stupid luck. The game began innocently enough. He was
kissing me, and stroking my skin, and he wouldn’t touch any of the really
sensitive places on my body. I kept waiting and wishing he would, and then
not, because when he finally did touch me there it would be over so
fast. I made an off hand comment, probably breathed in a gasp of pleasure.
“God, I love it when you tease me…” The minute the words were out of my
mouth I knew. I knew I shouldn’t have said them. An odd look came into
his eyes, and his mouth quirked.
“What?” His hands stopped their stroking, and I moaned. It’s
ridiculous. He gets near me and I turn to putty.
“Don’t stop!” I hate the way he makes me feel. I love the way he makes me
feel. An almost feral glint glowed in his eyes and that is how the game
was born. The rules of the game are simple enough. To bring yourself, and
your partner, to climax as slowly as possible. You are not allowed to beg
in any way. Whether you vocalize it or by body language, begging in any
form earns a penalty. Penalties are at the discretion of your partner.
The bonds came later. Long after we had become adept at holding each other
on the brink for hours before crashing over the edge. He likes to tie me
down. It releases something in me. I am not the perfect prefect anymore,
not the prim and proper Head Boy when I am tied down, naked, hot and
needing. I am beautiful like that. I see it in his eyes. He cherishes me
so much when I am at my most vulnerable. And the pleasure is sweeter
there. It also means I had to become adept at using all of my body to make
love to him, not just my hands, mouth and cock. I’ve learned to stroke him
between my thighs, to use my toes, the crook of my elbow, the tender
juncture between head and shoulder.
Sometimes, he is too needy, the game is too much for him to handle, he
needs the release *now*. At those times our lovemaking is almost
savage. A give and take so fast and furious, so primal and desperate that
we generally end up breaking something. Usually, its my glasses (if they
knew how many spells have been used to fix my glasses after we shattered
them...), or furniture, or even a window (they're not as sturdy as they
used to be...). Once, I broke *him*. He had to make up some foolish story
to go with his broken ribs. Luckily, Madam Pomfrey bought the old “caught
unaware by a bludger” routine. I suppose his being captain of the
Quidditch team is good for something. I was inconsolable as I tried to
apologise, but he kissed me roughly and told me never to apologise for
that. He loved it. I’m more careful now. I didn’t mean to toss him so
hard. I didn’t think I could. I mean, he outweighs me by more than a
stone, and who would believe *I* could be rough? I’m not anything like my
brothers.
But usually it starts like this. He seeks me out and starts his
play. We’ll end up making love for most of the night. When we finally do
sleep, we’ll be curled together, sweat drenched, sated, and oh so happy. I
love him. Deeply, and with all I am. He makes life bearable. He makes
life sweet. He is my sun and moon and all the stars in the heavens. His
foot is back, slowly stroking my cock under my robe. If I look up now to
meet his eyes I may very well lose all semblance of control and demand to
be taken right here, in the library. Take that, Madam Pince, you dried up
old windbag.
I am still scribbling wildly about the places we should make love, have
sex, beat each other off, fuck like bunnies. I come to the end of the
sheet of parchment. My writing is hasty and messy and I would be ashamed
to show it to anyone but the man sitting opposite me. These scribbles of
mine turn him on. He loves knowing what he is capable of bringing out of
me, the language I use is crass and base and primal. The lust inspired
words spiral out of some place deep within me where I am slowly losing
control.
I rise from the table a trifle unsteadily. I gather up the books I had
been “reading” from, making sure my legs will hold my weight, I leave him
there. In the center of the table I left the parchment I had been
scribbling on. Behind me, I can hear the faint rasp as he slips it over to
his side of the table. It should take him several minutes to read, and
several more minutes to get his breathing back under control enough for him
to follow me. It is a supreme effort for me to walk calmly through these
halls and set an example. I am the Head Boy, after all. If they knew the
state I was in, wouldn’t they all just laugh themselves sick? I want to
run screaming, violently ripping at the cloth imprisoning me.
I am hard, and aching. With each rub of material against my cock, pleasure
spirals out in waves. I can control this. I can act like nothing is
wrong, and I am not aroused, wanting, needing, hot and wet. Today, I am
lucky. No one stops me.
Once, I was unlucky enough to be stopped by the twins. I wasn’t very
gracious to them, I am afraid to admit. But he was waiting, and I was
aching with the need to take and be taken. And they prattled *on* so. On
and on about something completely unimportant and irrelevant. Dismissing
these thoughts hastily, I continue up, through the nearly deserted
Gryffindor common room and I take the stairs two at a time. I make it to
my room. My single room. Ahhh, the perks of being Head Boy.
I strip quickly, soft cloth puddling on the floor. Oh, if they could see
what he does to me. I *ignore* the abandoned robe. I don't even move to
hang it up. I light the candles and strip the bedclothes off the
bed. Sheets stay, pillows stay, but blankets just get in the way. There
is a slight knock at the door.
"Head Boy? May I enter?" It's him. I make him wait. Long minutes go by
as I try to control my breath, stop the shaking of my hands. "Head
Boy?" It drives him wild. He needs to ask permission to enter, hoping I
will grant his request. Maybe this will be the time I don't let him in,
and he will have to leave wanting me. He is aching for me. I can hear it
in his voice. This, too, is a game, and the power of it takes my breath
away.
"You may." Permission granted. The door is open and closed in a
heartbeat, locked with spells, and I am on him. Naked, hot, and wet I have
him against the door in an openmouthed kiss. He is hard, and rubbing back
so roughly. His tongue is wet and hot and plunging in my mouth. He is
making those strangled needy sounds deep in the back of his throat, and his
robes scratch me deliciously as I grind my skin against him. Slowly, he
pries me away, walking me back to the middle of the room. I let him,
knowing what he wants. He wants to see me. He wants to see all of me. I
stand there trembling as he circles me, the expression in those storm-grey
eyes is lustful. I notice something clenched in his fist. It's my
scribbling from the library.
"Do you mean it?" He asks quietly as he holds it out to me. His eyes are
lust-mad, almost crazed. I remember the scrawls, the words his teasing
tore from me, emptying my deepest desires on to the page.
I raise my chin in a slight dare. "Every word." His wand is out and my
arms are tied, jerked suddenly toward the ceiling as the binding pulls them
up. I spread my legs a bit farther apart to balance. He steps in and
kisses me, gently, searchingly, sweetly. His fingertips run down the sides
of my body and I ache to have him take me. His forehead meets mine as he
shudders and gropes for control. We breathe together, hot and moist.
"I love you." And then he takes my sight away. I jerk in surprise when
darkness comes so quickly. I hear my breath coming in ragged
pants. Everything intensifies. I can hear him breathing, but I don't know
exactly where he is. His scent surrounds me. I can almost taste the wind
he rides when aloft on his broom. I flinch when a warm hand is stroked
around my body. I can feel, God, I can feel the sweat explode from my
skin. It's running down my body in tiny rivulets- like gentle fingers
caressing me as they slide ever lower. I feel his tongue on the back of my
neck. The rasp of cloth against my skin. He still has his robe on. A
breath of cool air and then he is gone. I pant, I can feel my erection
straining, needing contact, but I still the movement of my hips before it
becomes needy and begging. Sightlessness is new. We've never done this
before because he always likes to see me gazing into his eyes when I
come. He loves the tears that inevitably erupt from me in the throes of
ecstasy. I can hear him quietly moving about me. I hear the table drawer
sliding quietly open, and I turn to the sound. "Don't move." He hisses
from across the room. I hang my head, my blood pounding in my ears. I
can't beg. Don't beg. Whatever he does or doesn't do, don't beg for it.
I strangle a gasp as a warm, wet finger opens me abruptly. His other hand
circles my waist and he brings his body into full contact with mine. He
undressed when he went for the lube, I notice before rational thought
flees. I groan at the heat rolling off his naked skin. I struggle not to
thrust back onto his finger as he works it in and out in a slow rhythm. He
is sucking on the skin of my neck, his other hand skims up my body, pausing
only a moment to rub my nipples before burying his fingers in my hair. I
arch back against him, trying to give him better access, spreading my legs
a little wider. He groans and pants in my ear and then a warm, wet mouth
is pulling on my earlobe. I stifle my cries by biting on my arm, stretched
so conveniently next to my ear. Agonizingly slowly he pulls his fingers
from me. I whimper a little at the lack of contact. I feel him, rubbing
gently, nudging me so slowly. I can feel his fingers clutching bruises
into my hips as he guides me back onto him. And he is there, inside. I
bite down on my shoulder until I taste blood. He stands there, not moving
at all, just buried in me to the hilt.
His control amazes and delights me. I don't know how long this will last
but it is so sweet. We are together, nestled. I can feel him throb inside
me and hear his groaning pants next to my ear, and if he left me now I
think I'd die. My body is on fire with the need for completion, but I
stand there, too. Not moving a muscle. I want this to be over, I want it
to go on forever. I never want to be anywhere but here, with him in me,
lighting me up, setting me aflame. His hands leave my hips. He still
hasn't thrust. I feel his ribcage move against my back as he stretches his
hands up to mine, and slowly stroke down my arms and slide down my chest
until they rest on the top of my thighs. Smoothly, he strokes the tender,
sensitive skin in the crease between body and thigh. I jerk reflexively
and he stops, waiting for me to get used to this feeling, too. Again his
hands disappear from my body and I struggle against the need to try to find
them and make them brush against me again. When he finally does touch me,
it is whisper-gentle, and it is just with the tips of his clever
fingers. He strokes my cock, and I lose any semblance of control. A
convulsive shudder passes through me and I come, crying aloud, tears
running from my spelled-sightless eyes. He loses his control too, and is
moving now, a pounding, brutal, beautiful rhythm. He comes and comes and
comes, pulsing deeply within me. I have clutched the rope holding me
stretched out in both hands in the effort to hold myself up, so when he
releases me from the bindings I fall forward, off balance. I am trembling
so hard I don't think my legs will hold me, but he is there, his strong
arms cradling me gently against him as he slips out of me. I cry from the
loss of contact, the loss of him. So carefully it makes the tears flow, he
lifts me in his arms and we tumble together into the cool, clean
sheets. Overheated, sticky, and moist skin slides easily between the
sheets, and I don't care that by morning the sheets will need changing. He
is holding me gently against him when he restores my sight, and the first
things I see are his eyes.
"Was that what you wanted, love?" His eyes are wet. Usually I am the one
crying, but his eyes are wet, and his voice is low and rough.
I feel like I am falling, falling and the only thing keeping me sane are
his eyes. "Yes." I murmur. "I love you so." He hugs me tighter, and
continues to pat me. Almost like he needs the reassurance I am here, real
and substantial. As his hands continue to play over my skin, I find myself
drifting. Slowly drifting away. He makes me feel safe, and warm, and
loved in a world that is often cruel, and harsh, and cold.
Fin.