You have always been a betting man.
A risk taker. The one whom all the boys love to hate and all the girls hate to love. You swagger, you smirk, you look at me as if I am worse than the dirty Hogwarts floor your spotless shoes step on each and every day. You hate me, you hate my family, you hate everything I stand for, so why are you here now, on top of me, grunting, pushing in and out of me?
Your blonde hair, slightly mussed from your physical efforts, falls over your eyes as you continue on towards your goal - physical release. but like I said before, you are a gambling man like your father. You like to stand in the front of a hurricane and yell at it, daring it to try and sweep you up. And the funny thing about you, Draco, is that you actually think you stand a chance. Magical powers are one thing in the hands of someone like Dumbledore, but in the hands of a seventh year Slytherin barely passing his O.W.L.'s, there is no contest.
Your breathing is getting faster. It is coming. Soon. Soon, you will reach your climax, and with it that power you wield over me. You feel the height of the thrill when you let your seed go into me. Will you do it tonight, Draco? Or will you pull out? What kind of mood are you in tonight? Did you lose at cards? Did Crabbe and Goyle take this week's allowance? Do you feel the need to win? To have the power? To know that you can have control over something, anything, in your pathetic, miserable life?
So how desperate are you tonight, Draco? Are you going to do it? Are you really going to tempt fate again? Sometimes you do, and when I feel your seed going into me, I want to get out from under you and kill you for doing this to me. To make me submit to your physical whims whenever you get the urge. You know my family's secret, and because of this, and only because of this do I allow you to do this to me: to make me your Gryffindor whore. Do you think you will climax inside me tonight - play Russian Roulette with my reputation and your inheritance? Take the risk of conceiving a redheaded, ferret-faced, smirking child?
I lie here, frozen underneath you. No, not because you put a "Petrificus Totalus" on me - that would be too easy for you. You like the feelings you stir up in me - the self-loathing of a cheap hooker, you once labeled the emotion. My body is nothing but a substitute for your own hands, and perhaps you could have a better time of it by doing this yourself, beating yourself to a desired end - but then of course, there would be no sense of danger. You have taken all my preventative measures away from me; you disable my wand from completing a contraception spell, and wearing a Muggle condom would take away from the risk, the high, the climax - the reason you do this to me each and every night.
You will be reaching your peak now. In a minute. In a matter of seconds, I believe, as your back arches. You are readying yourself for your ejaculation. And I ready myself for this to be over. At least for tonight.
I hate you, Malfoy. I hate the way you moan as your reach your climax. I hate the way you whisper to Crabbe and Goyle when I see you in the halls, because they know what I do for you - but they do not my secret. I hate the way you touch me when we are alone here, as you find your end and I find my shame.
I hate you.
A risk taker. The one whom all the boys love to hate and all the girls hate to love. You swagger, you smirk, you look at me as if I am worse than the dirty Hogwarts floor your spotless shoes step on each and every day. You hate me, you hate my family, you hate everything I stand for, so why are you here now, on top of me, grunting, pushing in and out of me?
Your blonde hair, slightly mussed from your physical efforts, falls over your eyes as you continue on towards your goal - physical release. but like I said before, you are a gambling man like your father. You like to stand in the front of a hurricane and yell at it, daring it to try and sweep you up. And the funny thing about you, Draco, is that you actually think you stand a chance. Magical powers are one thing in the hands of someone like Dumbledore, but in the hands of a seventh year Slytherin barely passing his O.W.L.'s, there is no contest.
Your breathing is getting faster. It is coming. Soon. Soon, you will reach your climax, and with it that power you wield over me. You feel the height of the thrill when you let your seed go into me. Will you do it tonight, Draco? Or will you pull out? What kind of mood are you in tonight? Did you lose at cards? Did Crabbe and Goyle take this week's allowance? Do you feel the need to win? To have the power? To know that you can have control over something, anything, in your pathetic, miserable life?
So how desperate are you tonight, Draco? Are you going to do it? Are you really going to tempt fate again? Sometimes you do, and when I feel your seed going into me, I want to get out from under you and kill you for doing this to me. To make me submit to your physical whims whenever you get the urge. You know my family's secret, and because of this, and only because of this do I allow you to do this to me: to make me your Gryffindor whore. Do you think you will climax inside me tonight - play Russian Roulette with my reputation and your inheritance? Take the risk of conceiving a redheaded, ferret-faced, smirking child?
I lie here, frozen underneath you. No, not because you put a "Petrificus Totalus" on me - that would be too easy for you. You like the feelings you stir up in me - the self-loathing of a cheap hooker, you once labeled the emotion. My body is nothing but a substitute for your own hands, and perhaps you could have a better time of it by doing this yourself, beating yourself to a desired end - but then of course, there would be no sense of danger. You have taken all my preventative measures away from me; you disable my wand from completing a contraception spell, and wearing a Muggle condom would take away from the risk, the high, the climax - the reason you do this to me each and every night.
You will be reaching your peak now. In a minute. In a matter of seconds, I believe, as your back arches. You are readying yourself for your ejaculation. And I ready myself for this to be over. At least for tonight.
I hate you, Malfoy. I hate the way you moan as your reach your climax. I hate the way you whisper to Crabbe and Goyle when I see you in the halls, because they know what I do for you - but they do not my secret. I hate the way you touch me when we are alone here, as you find your end and I find my shame.
I hate you.