Stripping her of her Chocolate Curls
(please do not read this if you are under age. thank you)
His eyes were on the mane of her brown hair again.
How could it be so expansive, so tangled, so tousled, so windswept, so perpetually brown and yet be agonizingly alluring to his absorbed eyes?
He licked his lips.
Like chocolate curls, they were.
And he'd be damned if he had to live another year, another month, another day even, without having those strands curled around him and his very pale hands.
What a contrast it would make; she, coffee brown, he, icy blue.
Not to mention the obvious Slytherin-Gryffindor, pureblood-mudblood thing going on as well, Draco waved away impatiently.
He was in potions class; or rather, his physical being was in potions class, yet his mind had traveled in search of far naughtier thoughts and situations…
Granger stepping languidly out of the bath tub… slippery soap suds and scented water dripping slowly, cascading smoothly down her lithe elegant curves…
Her hair, wet brown tendrils glistening with moisture and hanging like a dark, sensual curtain concealing those very same lithe elegant curves…
He smirked and smoothed his hair down, feeling a bulge in his trousers that he knew needed to be satisfied this time around.
He had planned this for weeks, and was determined to have his way with her that very night.
The bell sounded, and he slowly rose from his chair, placing his books and equipment into his book bag at a snail's pace, knowing that any moment…
"Oh, damn," Granger swore lightly, as blood red ink dripped from her sodden bag. She turned to her subsidiaries.
"You both go on and get dinner, I'll come in a minute," she said, frustratingly reaching for tissues from her robes pocket.
"No Hermione, we'll stay and help," Potter insisted, reaching for some tissues from her hand and bending down to tend to the wet carpet floor while the girl dried her bag.
Draco scowled.
He hadn't counted on the boys loyalty, their resolve to stay back and a help a friend… especially as he had put a perpetual hunger charm on Weasley's lunch sandwich… not that the said boy even needed a hunger charm…
"Guys, I am so hungry I could eat a hippogriff," Weasley commented, right on cue Draco thought.
"I said you can go, Ron," the girl snapped, shooing the boys away with a flick of her hand. "I have some extra work I have to do in here anyway."
Weasley and Potter both shot a glance at him, but they nevertheless said their goodbyes and left the classroom.
Draco felt a jolt of exhilaration spread through his body.
The girl was on her hands and knees scrubbing hard at the enduring red stains on the floor, her hair frequently coming in the way of her job so that she had to keep brushing it exasperatedly from her face.
He knew those chocolate curls would be his soon.
"Granger, I hope you know that blood can be a hard thing to get out of carpet."
She looked up, evidently surprised to see him.
She was incredibly distasteful in the truest sense of the word; un-arched eyebrows, deep-set dark brown eyes, so dark in fact that they looked black, a sprinkling of freckles on the bridge of a stubby nose, and thinnish lips. She was incredibly short too, may be just five two, and not to mention skinny.
Truly nothing like the way he had pictured her in his fantasies
And yet he wanted her.
He wanted to twist and contort her magnificent locks around his fingers, wind them, like a winding sheet, around her delicate throat until her large, black eyes popped…
"Malfoy?"
He whispered a spell, and the door of the potions room locked itself.
Trepidation filled in her eyes as she set the tissues aside.
"You heard what I said, blood is hard to get out of carpet. It just stays there forever, a perpetual reminder of the stinging pain undergone to get it there in the first place."
The girl raised a straight eyebrow at him, standing up and looking at him with disbelief in her dark eyes. Her hair clung to the sides of her face like a sheath.
"What are you talking about? Why did you lock the door?"
He edged much closer to the girl, just as it always happened in his potions classroom fantasies.
She sucked in her breath as he traced a long pale finger along her cheek and down her throat, tracing the swells and crevices of the pattern of her throat as if he were making a journey down her body.
"Mal-"
"Shh…" he whispered, pushing her against the desk as his gaze lifted to the crown of her head, where the mane of brown locks lay.
Like chocolate curls, they were.
And he knew that, for the first time, the curls would be his and his alone to be tamed.
His pallid hands lunged at her tresses and she gasped as he twisted the strands around and around his fingers. His fingers felt so constricted of blood, taut and tapered.
So right all of a sudden.
His mouth found its way to hers without warning and he was then kissing her, and his fantasy was changing shape. She whimpered and he was only excited more, as his hands explored her hair and scalp while his tongue explored her mouth and mind.
His knee was grinding into the valley of her legs; his own valley was filled with her bent leg as he pushed her further and further onto the hard wooden desk.
His trouser bulged tenfold as his hands became more and more tangled in the mess of her brown hair; his mind seemed far away suddenly as his mouth delved lower and deeper, through the neck of her robes, to explore her lower body.
She cried for him to stop, over and over, but he had rendered her under a body-bind of his own; a body-bind of insatiable lust and maniacal need that were was no escape from.
His trousers came undone; his hand had evidently been removed from her hair for a split second, a struggle of a second for his hands that only wanted to be engulfed in more hair, and then more.
Like chocolate curls they were, mixed with blood and tears that soon trickled steadily from the desk.
She sobbed as her valley became filled with his peak, over and over again and to a peculiar beat, while his hands ravaged her scalp, her neck, the mounds and mounds of hair that sprouted from her skull.
And then his seed had been deposited, the very special one that was only found on his peak and he found himself laughing, laughing cruelly into the girls pasty face as he swept himself from the room, his hands carrying bunches of her hair and his face mangled in a characteristic smirk.
And there she lay, on the desk of the potions classroom.
Tears streaming incessantly from her eyes, voice hoarse and throat dry, her blood mingling perfectly with the blood red ink that had stained the carpet earlier, her mane of hair a tangled chaos of strands and threads.
Like chocolate curls they were, exhausted, and finally melted from the brutality of the moment.
This is for my friend, Laura, who I love with all my heart and wished I could have protected. She died two months ago on the 8th, an assault victim. God bless you, Jen. We dearly hope you are safe now.