I know how to keep her safe, if that's what's required of me. I know well how to protect, just as I know how to leave her open. Often it's a thin line we tread, keeping silent in my cold room on the icy floor, a thin line that shivers with a cry aloud from me or a sigh from her. We move like all the world's magic is balanced in our fingertips, and the slightest jolt will will a shower of spells into the unknowing night. We cannot keep our eyes off each other.
No woman compares to her, and I have eaten twenty Black Cherries in my time. That's what they call them, the women on the darker side. Narcissa queens over them all with her swathe of lightning-blonde hair like Lucius. I had them all, and it wasn't a bad life - well, obviously it was - but their attraction was short, and full of ugliness: dwarfish, compared to the deepening excitement of nights with my new, gentle beauty.
They were masculine. They were focused, bored, and forceful. Their lust was strength, their domination was power. They challenged their husbands. Making love to a Black Cherry was like fighting a cat.
There was no longing; only desperation. Wishing that they'd come, and put more sincerity into the rape of their deavouring kisses (they never did; it could cost emotion, it would require a mote of truth).
There was no adoration. I was not in love with them. Their bodies met perfection, unlike a real woman's, and so they had no need for modesty nor humility, which every man knew was the admition of true beauty in a real woman's form.
Black Cherries had no souls and no goodness, and only stones for hearts.
Hermione sighed in her sleep.
Enough of these dark thoughts.
Her body was imperfect, and stretchmarks caressed her thighs like gossamer threads of one's most precious thoughts. Her soul, likewise, was young and graceful, and fearfully precious to touch. (The Black Cherries' souls were as monstrous as their bodies were seductive). Her glowing face called on the morning when others' hid in the darkness, commanding lightbulbs. My longing with her was fulfilled too: my climax was sleep, warmed, and pulled out of the dark gorge of my dreams, safe in the knowldge she was beside me. My climax was peace, better than sleep, with her body in my arms, our bodies in the same bed. There was no nonsensical angst with Hermione, no lying awake wondering whe she was going to hurt me.
When morning came, she would get up and leave, but not like one who'd had her fun. We spent the day in bliss, remembering every touch. She was my Peach, my Plum.. She didn't need a nickname, because I love her.
No woman compares to her, and I have eaten twenty Black Cherries in my time. That's what they call them, the women on the darker side. Narcissa queens over them all with her swathe of lightning-blonde hair like Lucius. I had them all, and it wasn't a bad life - well, obviously it was - but their attraction was short, and full of ugliness: dwarfish, compared to the deepening excitement of nights with my new, gentle beauty.
They were masculine. They were focused, bored, and forceful. Their lust was strength, their domination was power. They challenged their husbands. Making love to a Black Cherry was like fighting a cat.
There was no longing; only desperation. Wishing that they'd come, and put more sincerity into the rape of their deavouring kisses (they never did; it could cost emotion, it would require a mote of truth).
There was no adoration. I was not in love with them. Their bodies met perfection, unlike a real woman's, and so they had no need for modesty nor humility, which every man knew was the admition of true beauty in a real woman's form.
Black Cherries had no souls and no goodness, and only stones for hearts.
Hermione sighed in her sleep.
Enough of these dark thoughts.
Her body was imperfect, and stretchmarks caressed her thighs like gossamer threads of one's most precious thoughts. Her soul, likewise, was young and graceful, and fearfully precious to touch. (The Black Cherries' souls were as monstrous as their bodies were seductive). Her glowing face called on the morning when others' hid in the darkness, commanding lightbulbs. My longing with her was fulfilled too: my climax was sleep, warmed, and pulled out of the dark gorge of my dreams, safe in the knowldge she was beside me. My climax was peace, better than sleep, with her body in my arms, our bodies in the same bed. There was no nonsensical angst with Hermione, no lying awake wondering whe she was going to hurt me.
When morning came, she would get up and leave, but not like one who'd had her fun. We spent the day in bliss, remembering every touch. She was my Peach, my Plum.. She didn't need a nickname, because I love her.