Tom Riddle Makes a Friend
One long finger caresses a smooth spine, running its pale, trembling way down the bumps, curving gently over each one and reveling in the shiver the touch excites. Then back up again, ceaseless, tormenting, until its being begged for more. The finger withdraws and its owner smiles at the groan the absence elicits. Small, fluttering, butterfly brushes replace the caress, running across the wide expanse of back, down sides (a tickle here, and another smile), under to run down a belly and then over hips again, savoring the soft skin.
He watches as the boy below him nearly writhes in wanting, begging, pleading for more, for eternity. He can sense his pain, his wanting, the combination. Of course, he must amplify both, give him what he wants, make it worthwhile, make it last.
In retrospect, he thinks he liked the screaming best. Even more than the feel of the leather in his hand, the satisfying crack of it in the air, the streaks of red blood striping themselves across skin once so smooth, he liked the screaming. The screams and moans and the combination of each as beneath him the boy begged for more, and begged for him to stop.
Yes, the screaming.
Now, he sits calmly in a chair, watching as the other slowly gets up, reaching for a wand to heal the marks, wincing with the effort. He laughs softly and flicks his own wand, heals them instantly. The other looks at him, hopeless gratitude and animal panic fused into one expression.
He wonders at it, these extremes he ignites in people. He almost pauses to consider its causes, but dismisses the notion. They do what he asks. And when they don't, they beg for punishment. Who is he to question the nature of the world?
"Next time, curse him when I tell you to. You're a prefect, you should know how to take orders by now."
"Of course…My Lord."