Chapter One: A Troubled Boy
I would like to tell you now before it is too late and you have passed your judgment, that it was never my intention for anything of this 'nature' to take place. No, kind gentleman (and gentlewomen) of the jury, this could not... no, would not have happened had I not the sense to foresee what was absolutely bound to take place.
I would ask to plead my case now, in front of your righteous gaze, that if there is blame to place that it be on the shoulders of giants and not on such meager shoulders as my own. If this has been anyone's 'fault' than as surely as I am Professor Severus Snape, this was The Strumpets doing. The little creature that tip-toed into my life during afternoon tea on an unlaced shoe and one thin white stocking; one Harry Potter.
I remember the first time I lay eyes on the boy very clearly, as if it were only this morning; his tiny gash of a mouth plump and stained with the sticky raspberry syrup of an iced pop (a treat that I would very soon come to sample for myself). His bright, unblinking eyes trained on me like candy jewels in a sweet shop window; their display not to be upstaged by lengths of pale, cream-rose satin skin and the deepest, blackest velveteen mop of flimsy, unkempt waves.
He, with his fragile, searching little hands; so pale and smooth like confectioners sugar shells, one curved to trace along the crisp white hem ofhis equally small and untidy shorts, the other grasping lazily around the small wooden pith of his ever-diminishing frozen treat.
Harry, always with his tiny pointed tongue, every so often peeking out of its sweet, sticky cavity to map over and dip after trickling pools of ruby-iced confection, leaving its trail of contrasting stains on the boys sinfully milk-pale flesh. I watched raptly that sultry afternoon as he concentrated on the task of collecting each stray drop on the tip of his tongue; between his warm fingers, smeared endearingly at the small, pinched corners of his precious petaled bud, a bright dribble on his chin, just below the pout of his protruding bottom lip.
I hear the faint tinkering of his maidenly aunt in the kitchen with the tea, an entire etched glass door between she and the two of us. The boy shifts, still sitting uncomfortably where his aunt has placed him opposite me, his tiny feet dangle from the too-tall chair, one unlaced shoe slipping slightly from his curved, clothed heel. I jar as his skinny knees press tightly together, the golden glow of his heat-dampened thighs causing him obvious discomfit in his confinement to the small space of his narrow seat.
He does not look my way from the time poor Mrs. Dursley introduced the boy, and that has been some time now, but still I find myself more than curious as to why such a child should be perched and then ignored. After all, I am here to meet with the boy (I have agreed, for better or for worse, to take on the position of young Potter's guardian) as a favour to Headmaster Dumbledore who believes the misfit boy to be too much for one woman in Mrs. Dursley's unfortunate (widowed) condition.
'Do you dread coming with me, boy?' I ask it of him kindly, my tone quiet and somehow lost of its normally forbidding drawl. I don't wish the haggard woman to over-hear us in the kitchen. He looks up at me from his pop with the same startled, owlish gaze that he greeted me with the first time we were introduced, the buttered part of his mouth purced as if deep in thought. 'Oh no, sir.' The boy breaths his answer in the way a child half his age would muse over being asked the question of whether or not he would like ice cream for breakfast. I nod encouragingly and he continues on, sounding curiously short of breath. 'I--I think I've been waiting for this day since forever, sir. Since aunt Petunia told me I would be going to live with you, sir'
The Strumpet flushes softly, fingers clenching into small fists at his sides. His ears and neck are swept with a delightful pink lemonade colour before fading abruptly with the startled exclamation of his young, tinkering voice.
His loved treat has dueled with the heat for far too long now and has fallen to its untimely finish in a smattering of garish red on the thigh of his flawlessly white cotton shorts. He jumps from his seat onto wobbling, coltish legs, swiping at the smeared spot vigorously, eyes darting between the kitchen door where his aunt stands rooted in obvious fury, and the stain, further permeating the thin material with its now nightmarish shade of crimson.
The sound ringing through the air is her screech and without a word I realize why the boy has been so anxious to leave this place. The woman flings herself toward the boy, horror etched across her thin features, her normally narrowed eyes wide with alarm and riveted to the mark on the boys thigh. 'Stupid boy! Foolish boy!'
She grabs him by the elbow and I can see quite clearly that this pains Harry greatly. He struggles with her, trying to jerk his arm free, twisting beneath her grip which only tightens to the point that I am sure she will dislocate the joint from the pressure of it.
I step forward, gently intercepting, looking the frazzled woman in the face all the while nudging Harry behind me so that I am a barrier between she and the boy. I can feel his small fingers grip my elbow from behind in the same place his aunt had harmed him, clutching me to him, finally deciding on resting his head gently on my back. My blood thins at the thoughts skipping like an old silent film reel in the back of my mind, telling me that at his full height the boys smooth brow must barely reach the juncture of my shoulder blades. He is so small.
I must protect him.
'Now, now. The boy is troubled, you must remember yourself, Petunia. A lady such as yourself need not worry with such trivial things.' I use her given name coaxingly, placing a firm, gentle hand on her thin forearm. The tension visibly drains from her shoulders but the taut, white line of her mouth stays put as she tries to catch a glimpse of the boy over my shoulder.
I turn abruptly to him, urging the boy onward with a smart pat to his pert little bottom, sending the boy on his way to change into a more pristine pair of shorts. The boys back arches slightly and he turns shortly to give me a hot little glare before marching on his way. I watch appreciatively as he ascends, trotting up the stair, his bottom wiggling indignantly with each step in his hurry to obey. I tell her breezily that I will deal with the boy to my own leisure. I see from the glint in her eyes that this pleases her and so I continue on in my chiding, indulgent tones.
'Perhaps I should take the boy with me now, Petunia.' Her face tightens around her mouth so I continue on briskly before she has the chance to refuse my kind offer. 'Yes, don't you see. The boy needs a man's hand in matters of discipline, as I'm sure you know more than well enough. I would be more than... 'happy', shall we say, to relieve you of this particular burden.' The lines around her mouth soften and I know I must be getting through to her. It has become imperative that the boy leave this place with me today. 'Of course, only if you should allow the boy to come with me.' She smiles, and if my eyes do not deceive me, she blushes quite pink across the plane of her sharp cheek. I smile obligingly and nod my head as if to tip my hat to her.
Without further words between us, I make my way up the narrow stairwell to collect my boy, not truly understanding in that moment what I have gotten myself into.
Chapter Two: Strumpet
This boy, I think, will be the end of me. He consumes me always; in my sleep and in my work. I have tried to shut him out. I have tried and failed to discipline the boy (and myself) and now it is time for me to admit my defeat.
I reach the top of the stair that blistering day and my world comes down around my shoulders in little more than a thud. For there, in all of his graceless glory, stands my Harry; bent over his suitcase, scrawny, scuffed knees knocking, his bottom arched just so, a tiny white triangle of material displayed between his straining thighs, and his skirt... his skirt, already much too small to be worn in public, pleated and perched over his hips in a fringe of coarse gray wool. It occurs to me then that nothing coarse ever need touch that flawless skin again if I have any say in the matter.
He turns to me upon hearing my audible thud in the archway and stands up proper to face me. His cheeks flush as his eyes meet mine and I realize I must look the fool leaning in the doorway, gaping, arms crossed over my chest, hat still in hand. I stand as proper as he, looking down upon his little dark head and for the life of me I cannot keep my eyes from roaming up the length off those endless stems and to that skirt.
He wears the same shirt he did with the matching shorts but untucked now and slightly rumpled around the hem. I note that the waist line in cinched to the furthest button and would be pinching his frail form had he any flesh to spare. The boy is in dire need of new clothing. I will have to remedy that immediately. My mind drifts to the clothes I will dress him in and lingers much too long on his undergarments for my own liking. I frown distastefully and to my surprise his little mouth droops, straight lashes laced suddenly with bright, glittering tears. The breath rushes from my chest as if I had been struck there. The boy is crying and it is because of something I have done. Those tears are my doing.
His lip trembles and he sucks it quickly into his mouth. He is fidgeting with the pleats in the wool, trying to smooth a few ruffled ones around his thighs, not looking up at me, not daring, his achingly narrow chest hitching and stuttering beneath his thin white shirt. I take a step forward and he bolts into activity, head down, rummaging through his dresser drawers. I look on somewhat bemused as
he has still not let on to what has upset him.
He pulls a bundle of creamy material into his hands, unfolding it. Another skirt. Pleated and very, very white. He holds it out for me, fingers bunched tightly into the folds of material. I take it from his hand without any resistance and look back at him. 'Aunty t-told me I was to wear my Sunday skirt and I didn't listen. N-now you are displeased. Please don't be angry, Sir. Don't leave me here with her. I promise I won't do it again.'
He looks up at me as if waiting for me to strike, shame faced, his teeth still tugging and his glistening lip. I have to force myself not to smile. Instead I frown, brow sinister, crossing my arms thickly over my chest. A tiny gasp breaks from his lips and he looks down at his shoes, barely bothering to feign interest in the contrast of polished black and white leather.
Slowly, he raises his eyes back to meet mine. 'Please, Sir.' Gently I nod my approval, secretly disturbed at his reaction to the very thought of my displeasure. This look does not fair well on such a pretty face. I tell him so chidingly.
'Now, now boy. Tears do not fair well on such a pretty face.'
It appears as if I really have struck him now with the jolt his little form receives it as. His eyes widen, if that is possible, and then I watch as the most delicate flush feathers its way across the ridge of his collar, down his neck and finally vanishing under his neck line. He smiles shyly at the floor, fingers toying playfully with the hem of his skirt, accidentally exposing the smooth area between his thighs.
I force myself to look away. I must not do this.
I step back toward him, my expression grim and determined as I tug him toward me and begin tidying his appearance, (and if I must admit it) a little too roughly, jerking him this way and that until his shirt is tucked neatly beneath his miniscule waist line. He doesn't protest for even a moment the way I would have expected after having seen him with his aunt just minutes before. In fact, if I did not know otherwise, I would start to think that he had enjoyed being handled in such a gruff way. I smile at this.
The little strumpet.
He does not preen or go to look over himself in the mirror but I cannot help but notice the way he very deliberately smoothes the flats of his pink little palms from the swell of his ribcage and down to reach the narrow arch of his tiny hips. Satisfied that all is in order he looks back to me, his expression quizzical, almost bewildered. I stare at him unblinkingly for a moment and then realize what he must be waiting for. 'Well. Don't just stand there, dear boy. Gather your belongings, you are to come with me earlier than expected.'
I have learned over our short time spent together to simply expect the boys sudden moods, so it is no surprise to me when he shrieks with laughter before very quickly remembering himself, clapping his hand over his mouth. I look at him just as sternly as ever but I'm not sure he minds my stern face as much as I had hoped for. He drops a clutch bag from his grasp, face red but eyes bright behind little round spectacles before taking one step, then two toward me. Rocking up onto his round-toed feet, his hands held tightly behind his back and pressing the hot little line of his mouth to my cold, stale lips.
I want to scream. I want to hit the boy. I want to push him down on his trembling little bed and just split his wet little mouth open with my tongue. He pulls away, tongue lapping over his lips, finding a steady footing before turning from me and tearing from the room, skirt flaring and giving me one last glimpse of the little scrap of material beneath.
I want to die.
Chapter Three: Nectar
Yes, well. Perhaps 'die' was not the best wording for the so-called 'feeling' flaying this man's human heart. The boy did kiss me that day, all alone in a child's sun-bright corner room; one sock off, one sock on, sure, puckered mouth set hot and so new to my own lecherous flesh.
He pressed so carefully and insistent to me, I remember, as if it were I who needed to be protected. I suppose, were I to look back, I would have to admit to a mere thread of truth there.
The boy adjusted remarkably well to his new home. I don't have much on a teacher's salary but I am lacking in nothing of necessity. My home is spacious enough with a large front and back porch, a garden, two bedrooms and a study, a dusty kitchen space and a nice deep porcelain tub in the bathroom. There are not many windows in the space that I do have but the panes that the place boasts are large and vast enough to flood the house with mid-afternoon light.
I gave him the smallest bedroom that had been known strictly to me as the 'library'. Of course it was no true loss as I had only ever managed to fill one small case (three shelves) with almost nothing more than teaching texts. Before I had met Harry I ordered the lacking space outfitted for a small boy to occupy; there was a rather minute corner desk with a stool near the window, a day bed, round floor rug, a wooden trunk near the foot of the bed and a tall bookshelf for his belongings beside the closet.
I stood in the very room I stand in now nearly all morning after it had been completed thinking dully about what kind of change this boy would bring to my humble life. I did not know then, of course, that come the day he set his tiny little foot across the thresh-hold, my life would forever change. I did not know then (for how could I predict such a thing?) that he would be first the life of me and then very soon after, the death of me.
It was a sort of bliss; just me and the boy. We ate our meals together each morning, usually on the back porch beside the goldfish pond, while he dangled his naked, pink toes lazily over the cuff of my pant leg. He would come to the table always in his favourite navy blue sailor suit and I would indulge him until after he had finished his milk and then take him by the hand (pouting all the way, might I add) to change into something more fitting for the day ahead. He would never protest, but that did not mean that he complied in any way. In fact, once we got to the quiet of his room he would be as silent and pliant as a rag doll, standing there in the center of the narrow space but not a single step from where I had left him, round eyes trained to me as I picked out the days outfit.
I would stand at the closet, trailing a hand over the fine material of each garment until I caught a particularly shy smile over my shoulder from the boy. That was how I knew what he wanted; that soft, pink smile. And then he would indulge me as I dressed him, lifting his arms when need be but otherwise watching me in silence as I buttoned buttons, rolled cuffs and tied ribbons. I dreaded the day I would discover him without underpants with a certain guilty excitement. But, of course, that day never did come for me. Instead, when laundry day arrived I would gather his hamper and pluck out the pieces (with no small smile to my lips) I noticed he had begun to imprint my name upon between twin hearts with a felt tipped marker. 'No,' I decided 'it would definitely not do for the maid to see these.'
To my amusement the boy had a particular loathing for the socks he wore, and had I not such a fondness for catching those fleeting glimpses of his one sock-less calf as he patted past my door or later on finding a lone rumpled sock on the stair landing, I would gladly have abolished the wearing of any sock under my roof.
Over time I noticed the boy was positively peculiar on some days. He would tip toe around the house without a sound for long stretches of time until I had no choice but to become curious to his whereabouts. I would stop what-ever work I was occupied with and often enough found him perched happily on the edge of his bed, hands clasped in his dainty lap, ankles crossed and waiting only for me with the brightest of smiles. He hadn't taken to making friends with any of the neighbor children and so I accounted these days to loneliness and vowed to soon provide him with a playmate of his own.
Lucky for me, I had noticed a small boy playing in the neighboring garden paths a few afternoons ago while taking tea on the porch. This afternoon he tossed a ball which landed just short of the pond. I retrieved it and reached over to hand it to the child and was met with an ethereal little beauty that would have stolen the breath from me had I not an even lovelier boy-child under my own roof.
Upon scrutiny I found no flaw; his mouth a bright red ribbon, skin rivaling that of an early morning Lily, and hair so fair and fine I would have thought it transparent had I not been at arms length.
He smiled up at me, mouth parted into a crest. There was something in that unflinching gaze that told me there was much more to him than appearance. He took the ball from my outstretched hand, stroking the soft pads of his fingers tips up over my knuckles as he grasped for it. I flinched visibly and that slow little smile widened. He drew his hand away and before I could turn back I heard the silver tinkering of his adolescent voice. 'Who is that boy I see, sir---is he yours?'
I turn to follow his gaze which lands squarely on my Harry (yes, 'mine'), his eyes bright and glittering. Not focused on me, I see, but on the boy behind me. I feel a tinge of jealousy at this but push it aside in favour of introducing the two. I beckon him forward to us and he comes; each step he takes weightless, his tiny hips swaying with purpose. He reaches my side but says nothing, still looking at the boy who doesn't move. I notice now that that smile has been replaced with a grim little line of almost-defiance. 'Harry, the neighbor boy---''
'Draco, sir.'
'Yes, Draco, was just asking about you. Would you like for him to come over and join us for tea?'
My hopes of a playmate for Harry were dashed that first afternoon. No, it's not what you think. Really. The neighbor boy did come over for tea, and almost every afternoon there-after. But, you see, the boys didn't actually 'play' together at all. Instead we sat there most afternoons; Harry sunning his feet on the glowing floor boards at his nook of the table, Draco ignoring his tea except for when I brought my own cup to my lips. We would talk about games they liked to play and the places I myself have traveled but never venturing past that to family or school.
Some days I would be too inundated with grading papers to join them for long and could not help but to notice the curious silence that lay between the two whenever I left the room. Often times I was sure the boy had gone home only to walk in on them participating in some kind of staring game. Draco would see me and in a fluttering, gone was the firm line of his ruby mouth and there in place was the sensuous little pout he thought a smile. If it so happened that I should join the pair mid-way through cakes I would no doubt have a wiggling Harry warming in my lap for the remainder of the afternoon.
Every once in a while, when the other boy was most attentive to Harry, the strumpet would lean up as if on tip toe again and purse his mouth to my cheek or neck; a hot, triumphant little press of delicate flesh to my burning conscience. And then just as quickly as young Draco had come, he would excuse himself for home. Only when you could hear the creek and swing of the metal gate would the boy slip from my lap and trot away into another room to play.
Draco never stopped his visits and the boy never once protested to his presence each day so I thought it only due time before the two would take to a deeper friendship. And so my lunch hour was spent mostly in the presence of children. Yes, given (and taken) these were not 'normal' children, but all in the same, children. If fact, little by little, I began to detect a certain...'rivalry' between the two boys but could never figure out what for. I even dared to question the boy one evening while tucking him into bed, but he would not answer me. He only lay there coyly, lips pursed, sleepy eyes blinking slowly up to my face.
Things began to change over time. Once, on one of those quiet mornings, I could find the boy nowhere. In somewhat of a panic I recall rushing into the yard to be halted quite effectively in my tracks. For there stood my little boy, knees knocking, hands clasped behind his back, standing up on his toes to place one chaste little kiss to the pointed cheek of a man that struck me as a larger version of young Draco.
When men grow old, you must realize, something unfortunate happens to our minds; it grows a rather thick skin to which we can escape no more than we can avoid hair loss. In my condition I was in no way fit to deal with the sight of that man receiving a kiss that should have been mine and...
I. Saw. Red.
Before I sought to do anything else, I sought to part those perfect lips from that sour, wretched flesh. In an awkward jumble of grown limbs I managed to bring my presence between the boy and my neighbor, gripping his fine little arm between my large roughened hands and savagely jerking him backward and away. The boy struggled with me, twisting frantically, soft little grunting noises escaping his throat with each kick and flail he exerted, his heart shaped face bright with mischief. He was tireless in his quest for freedom from my vise grip of him, that is, until I wrapped my arms around his waist and flung him neatly over my shoulder. With a squeal of delight he wriggled atop me, a pair of skinny legs kicking akimbo, his cotton clothed bottom perched high and exultant into the air. I recall taking one fleeting glance back at Malfoy and was greeted very plainly with a smile made familiar to me on a smaller, prettier set of lips.
I stomped through the groaning screen door and refused to set the boy down. I liked very much, I could admit to myself, this boy struggling at my own terrible mercy. 'What, may I ask, where you doing with Draco's father, boy.'
I haven't called him 'boy' in some time and I punctuate this indecency with a sharp swat to his backside. His body tenses under my hand, stiffening and then shattering the silence with a tiny keening cry made for kittens in a well and not for naughty little boys who've been kissing strange men. He takes a hitched, unsteady little breath, still shocked. 'N-nothing, sir. Mr. M-malfoy just liked my new skirt a-and---'
I punctuate the air this time with another harder slap to the curved crease of one round, bared buttock. He bucks as if in slow motion, arching his back and digging a hard little heat into the sharp corner of my shoulder. This time the cry is guttural and anxious, his shudder audible.
'Oh!---H-he made me promise n-not to tell!'
A third slap.
'Professor!'
A fourth.
'M-my skirt!--he said my skirt w-would be prettier if he could see w-what was under--'
A pause.
'And did you show him what was under that pretty little skirt, boy?'
'N-no, sir!--not ever, sir.'
'And did you let him kiss you on the mouth?'
Silence.
A sharp, cruel smack.
'Uh-huh!'
He pants those last words, placing a delectable little strain on the last syllable of his babbling. In my fury I let a rain of painful strikes come down on his untouched backside. With each strike my hand grows heavier, I lose count, the bliss of this lithe heap of limbs squirming. Unbearable, that this could never be mine. I stop, my palm numbed, and try to set him down. He wobbles and I catch him around the waist, steadying him. He blushes, hanging his head submissively and cups a small hand to the seared skin of his bottom, rubbing slowly and then blushing.
From between his legs protrudes a little swelling that he tries to cover too late if it was me he meant to hide it from. I'm amused to notice that the pleats covering him flatten and unfold slightly between his thighs. He tries to smooth them with trembling fingers and succeeds only in flattening a few more. A laugh bubbles from my throat and his mouth immediately clenches to a most petulant pucker. He glares.
'What in blazes is going on in here?!'
The maid. Harry's back is turned to her and I breath my first sigh of relief. 'Nothing Charlotte. Only a tiff--nothing to concern yourself with my dear.'
She frowns deeply, rolling her eyes, obviously willing to keep to herself but disbelieving. Harry takes this moment to burst into a run, skittering from the room on his quick little feet. Silence. Both of us look after the boy who we can now hear stomping leadenly up the stairs. She breaks the intensity of the moment, bursting into sharp juts of laughter, shaking her head merrily and then going on her way past me to the kitchen.
I stand dumbfounded and bemused, not truly believing that I could have escaped so much disaster in such a short amount of time.
I don't catch him again with Mr. Malfoy but neither does Draco return. For all the reaction the boy gives to this I would say he barely notices Draco's absence. Now, when we are alone and I touch him in soft places, I catch contented little sighs and every now and then a hitch in his breathing. The boy is never not warm but it seems now that when he comes to me in my study or to curl into my lap for tea he is in a fever state; his skin heated and sensitive to the point that the wool of my trousers on the backs of his thighs cause a reaction of scrubbed pink abrasion.
I called for the Pediatrician but when all was said and done it was supposedly as simple as the heat of summer. He squirms in my lap now, bumping his bottom against my abdomen as he leans across the top of my evening paper for a sampling of the strawberry danish on my plate. He stays in the position perhaps a beat too long but then settles down firmly over the most sensitive part of me. I imagine I feel the little crevice of his most secret flesh part around me, snuggling up to me the way the boy does during our night time story telling.
Now it is my time to squirm and I do, abruptly standing and placing him on his feet before rushing off to 'make a telephone call'. I think for a moment that I see him smile but when I look over my shoulder to check he is already back in my chair, kneeling and perched over a tray of shortbread cookies and concentrating fixedly on which to choose first.
The days have become longer and longer in-between and when I make it home in time for dinner the maid has Harry freshly bathed and waiting in his finest little jumper at the table with a veritable feast of simple, hearty foods. Charlotte tells me proudly one evening that young Mr. Harry helped her with the roast this afternoon and as I take my first bite he flushes beautifully. I nod and take another bite and only then does he pick up his fork. I watch the little bud of his mouth work around the prong gently with each bite of potato. He swallows thickly and then looks up at me through lowered lashes, stopping mid-forkful.
I nod again in encouragement, expecting him to return to his meal but he stays fixed to me. A fleck of brown gravy stains the corner of his lip and he licks it away absently. My heart skips a beat at the sight of his tongue; pink and wet, pointed and slipping up over the smooth, clean silver. Suddenly I feel my hunger develop to something much more palatable than mere food. He shifts in his seat and I watch in horror as his cheeks stain the colour of a post-coital glow.
Charlotte reappears in her flawless timing with a pitcher of cool mint tea and stops upon seeing the boys vampish flush. 'You feeling alright, boy?' She asks this sharply so that Harry flushes an even further shade of pink. I cringe and thank God above that neither she nor the boy are looking my way.
He looks down at his lap and then slowly up at her. 'I--I just-- may I excuse myself, please?' He rushes away, napkin landing on the floor at Charlotte's feet who tuts in her kind sort of way and bends to pluck the napkin from the carpet.
Later that evening I would find his favourite pair of ribbon knickers soiled and crumpled with his own innocent nectar, hidden in the pit of the bathroom trash basket.
Chapter Four: Precious
It rains nearly everyday now. It rains when I lay to rest each morning before the sparrows wake, it rains each afternoon while I sit alone at the table where we once shared our breakfast. (Remember, by the goldfish pond?) It rains and it floods and it simply drowns a man until there is nothing left of him but a soppy mess of a soul left in place of a once fine, robust mind.
I once told you the boy would destroy me, did I not?
Disaster struck, I think, for me that same night he ran away from me at that table. He ran from me because he was afraid of what was happening to him, to us... and I followed.
Foolishly, I followed.
I went to the boy, his precious underpants still damp in my breast pocket, and I kissed him. I kissed him the way I had for so long yearned.
I gave in.
I pressed him to his closet door and I did what any sane man ought to have known better of. I held him there with my clumsy, trembling hands clenched through his hair, holding him captive as I took and plundered and ached into his precious, precious mouth.
The way he cried haunts me now; sorrow, fear, hunger, pain. All of this, you see, because I could not control myself when it came to this one, insignificant... boy. Because I could not quell the urge to take what I thought was mine.
It was the maid who found us, dear Charlotte, with her unfortunate timing; one oven-mitt still on, face split between her righteous indignation and utter shock. She struck me with her chubby, purple fists and pulled the boy from my tender grasp.
She stole him from me stumbling and crying down the stairs and out the parlor door. I ran after them, of course, but in the dark and through the downpour I thought I saw them vanished for good.
She would take him to the police, I knew that. My only chance, I was sure, was to try and get there first. I got into the car, turned the ignition and---and, there stood my Harry.
Sopping wet, yes. Sock-less of course.
But smiling, smiling at me through the passenger window; eyes squinting, hair flat against his lily cheek. He plucked the door handle, wrenched it open with a heave of his little arms and squirmed in up close to me, damp skin on leather seats squeaking, knees scuffed and red, boy giggling, and my world suddenly, blissful upright. 'I would get going if I were you, mister,' he said to me 'she'll be furious when she figures out I crawled out the back seat window.'
We ran away together, his warm, sweaty little hand in mine. We drove on for hours that way, the boy asleep on my lap, fingers curled into loose fists, crescent mouth slack in his dreams, mouthing careful, unintelligible words every few miles we drove. I kept my eyes between the winding, pitch road ahead and his beautiful, childish face. Watching over him this way, I resolved to love the boy from afar. I could never allow myself to lose him again, and for however long it took, if that meant not touching him, I would welcome the pain it brought.
Around midnight he woke, rubbing the sleep from his heavy lashes, wanting to know if it would be alright to stop. He was hungry, he said, because he never did get to finish his dinner.
With my new resolve at mind we set to finding a safe, comfortable place to tuck in. Eventually we found a small diner off the road some ways. A quaint little greasy spoon with checkered floors, wooden blinds, red leather booths and a gleaming chrome soda bar at the counter. Immediately his eye went to the counter and I knew it then that he must have one. I could give him that. I took him to the counter, the boy still clutching my hand and watched him arch up onto his toes, tilting the ruffle of his skirt and place his order in a little whisper he usually reserved for very special occasions. 'Chocolate soda please.' he breathed and then added as a side note in his most imposing tone, 'Without the cherry.'
The boy acted very peculiar once we reached our booth. He could not seem to sit still with his feet dangling from the too-tall booth and his damp clothes sticking in odd places. He snuggled up very close to me and took each indulgent spoonful of his thick soda with his mouth open like a little bird. I thought nothing of his behavior until halfway through my second cup of coffee.
He still had not stopped his squirming but something had definitely changed. He was anxious now in his movements; feet jiggling from the ankles when he was seated, and when he wasn't, crawling over me to get up and down from the lavatory and back.
When our plates arrived he quieted down enough to dip each crisped, golden potato into the sweet ketchup pooled in one corner of his warm plate, taking small nips and then dipping again before finishing with a contented sigh. He then set to popping each one of his five fingers into his mouth to suckle the last remains of salt and tomato from his sugar-sticky skin. I could not help but to notice how closely this dainty, achingly thorough act resembled one much more adult in nature. He seemed not to be at all aware of my gaze and so I continued on with my traitorous thoughts, taking on the role of the filthy voyeur.
My coffee grew cold and I asked for another cup, and that too ran cold because my darling boy was now causing me the most insufferable distraction. I had been lazily stirring the last of the cream into my cup when a round, pudgy sort of woman with a plump, red mouth tip-toed over to collect our plates. I tipped her graciously and while she paused to tuck the coins into her apron pocket I distinctly felt a very naked set of toes slip their way up my calf, stopping halfway to my knee, and with a flick of a no doubt pink toe, snap the clasp of my stocking brace free.
I looked directly at the boy and by way of his expression I could tell nothing of his secret, roving limbs. He kept his eyes to the woman who winked jovially his way. I looked to her rather more in a daze than I had expected, watching her thick mouth move at a lethargic pace around her large, square teeth. I thought I saw a smudge of her lipstick smear its way along the top row of her teeth but I wasn't sure as I was easily distracted by the arch of a small curved foot skipping its way in little taps up the inside of my thigh, coming to rest no less than an inch shy of my cock. I shifted guiltily in my seat and tried to slip from the boys' reach without rousing the waitresses suspicion (who, by the way, was still giggling coyly about something or another to poor Harry) .
I dart a sour look his way and he blinks, yawning, stretching widely (arms in the air, back arching) and then slumping back into the booth, his precious foot now nudged securely between my thighs.
I start, gasping, forgetting myself, shocked at the boys audacity. I look at him again and he doesn't so much as breath my way. But there is, I suspect, a suspiciously satisfied smile twinkling across his smug face that is perhaps a slight too brilliant for that of a reward to the batty waitress' wit. The boy laughs brightly at something she says and discreetly as possible I grasp my hand around his protruding ankle and push it from my lap with an angry flick of my wrist. His face falls just slightly and it is enough for me to understand the game he plays. The waitress finally takes her leave, and I see the most wonderful shade of red as a little foot lands heavily between my legs once more. Furious, I turn with my shoulders to face him but he does not appear to notice at all, slouched there, eyes shut, head tilted back against the quilted booth.
Free of any eye witnesses I shove the heel from my lap and hear the ring of the hollow steel table leg tickle the air as his foot collides. The boy flinches and now I can see that he is furious, maybe even a little hurt.
My heart wilts and I reach out to place a hand on his shoulder. He jerks from my reach, snarling the best way he knows how; lips curled but the sound escaping him more of a simper. I reach further, somewhat put off and admittedly possessive and pull him back toward me. He struggles briefly and then there is a scuffle in which the boy sets a fine row of tiny white teeth into my arm and I cuff him lightly around the ear.
This cannot be done publicly. I panic.
Squealing the way, I drag him by the scruff of his jumper, his feet skipping and dragging along the way, tiny clawing fingers clutching and digging into any piece of me within reach. I push him in through the first door to my right and he falls to the floor. He scrambles to his feet, eyes wide, barely gaining himself before I have him in my arms, my lips to his hair. He pounds his fists to my chest and I break away, backing him into the counter to the flat space between two sinks and push him quickly onto his back. I hear the panic in his voice but I cannot, will not, hear him now.
He is mine.
I run my hands up his thighs, hooking my thumbs into the buttery wool of his skirt and bunch it up around his navel. He squirms, wrapping his calves but arching his back. I catch his ankles in one hand and tear at the fragile cream lace of his underpants. He gasps, struggling, biting sharp fingernails into my straining shoulder. I cannot believe how heavily I am breathing now as the material catches on his clenched knees. I leave him that way, tangled in his own knickers, and wrench his legs further above his head so that I may reach down to feel the bud of his anus twitch and grasp under my finger.
I cry out. I almost lose myself. He is wet already.
Trembling shamefully I bring myself back to look at what I have for so long wanted; gleaming, swollen red, gasping and protruding as if to push out against me. I trail the flat of my thumb over his scrotum; the round tight sack strains deep and plump, trapped and pinched firmly between his thighs. He whines truly now as if it pains him and I force my eyes to his face. His cheeks are as red as his entrance, two pinpoints of pomegranate colour staining the rounded apples. He's biting his mouth ragged and his chin is wobbling, but he will not look at me. I close my eyes, trying to calm myself, trying to rationalize but the only thing that comes to me is the vision of him this way with his legs splayed and three little white fingers jutting in and out of that hungry little part of him that has driven me this far to my own inevitable downfall.
I twist my longest finger into him and the boy arches obscenely, flicking his hips and settling with my finger stretching him over my third knuckle. I can barely breath. I want to fall to my knees and
cry. Because if all of those touches and kisses, those looks---if he--
'Filthy, filthy---'
'This is what you wanted---tell me this is what you wanted!'
'No--'
'Is this what you were doing with that man, boy---if he touched you--if--'
'No!'
'Tell me the truth!'
'I wanted---I wanted you to find me and come a-and--'
"You're mine.
'Yes!'
'Mine.'
'Oh!'
He cries as I push into him. Despite his slickness my cock tears at the tight muscle of his tiny anus. It feels like a terrible, terrible sort of communion. He moves with my cock as I move, slowly at first, the tears streaming down his face, pooling in the hollow of his throat and into the dips of his ears. I double over him, trying to protect, pulling the bit of cloth from his knees and off of his ankles. Immediately he clings to me, wrapping new thighs around my waist. I will die if he moves.
He moves.
He lifts his bottom from the cold, hard counter, trying to take all of me and I help him, lifting him gently with my palms. He moans his very first moan and I devour him, catching his abused mouth underneath mine and stroking my tongue over delicate tissue and muscle in time with my hips. The squeals straining from his throat are too much of a cry for attention and I steal them away with a kiss.
No one must hear us.
His throat still works and when I pull back for air I am transfixed to the sight of his effort to contain himself; throat swallowing around large, thick syllables, muscles pumping and neck arching as if it where my cock slipping down his pretty little throat instead of his pleas for more! and now! and everything!
I came deep inside of him with the tip of my jealous heat pressed knowingly to the little gem of pleasure no boy-child should ever know he possesses. He cried for me when he came in one hot spurt against my tie and the sorrow in his voice told of a much more worthy tale than I could ever have given to you. He was losing something he had just found and he somehow knew this long before I could ever have comprehend such a deluded tragedy.
We left the diner, his newly ruined knickers in my trouser pocket, his Sunday skirt smooth and in place once more and my tie in the trash. From there we walked directly into that 'doom' I have been so fond of referring to over these past hours. For there, at the end of our first blissful walk, stood Charlotte.
In the end I surrendered her the boy. He went quite unwillingly (or so he spat in my face), little legs kicking, teeth bared.
She would care for him, she told me, and protect him from the monsters like myself, 'Mr. Snape'. She wouldn't tell a soul, she gave her word, and so I gave the very life of me away and in turn received the very 'death' of me.
My story ends thus far, with me standing here in the empty room of a boy I once loved where there was once a small desk, a small bed and a troubled boy called Harry.
The End
anti-clique inc.
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