Author's Note: If you begin to read this, please, please review. I really want some feedback, about how the 'plot' was, were you disturbed? How was the language? How well did I utilize the various elements I used? Are their any particular phrases that stuck you and will stick with you? And most importantly, did you enjoy it, however perverse it was?
I love this work. My first attempt at sex, at 'smut' pulled with my own brand of originality (with a perverted hue!). It's taken a Hell lot of time when compared to the number of words it contains. So again, please, please review with substance and preferably, hopefully, with your personal answer to one (or more :P) of the aforementioned questions.
Thank you.
Wastelands, part 1
She felt enchanted. There was so much power within him tonight, so much power just dancing upon his skin, just out of reach. It permeated the air, heady and musky and delightful. She could feel it rising from his body as she touched; welling up along the cuts along with the blood. Groaning, she leaned back against the wall, in arousal and in disgust. She had never seen him like this. She had never seen anyone like this.
His body was illuminated by the small bedside lamp she had just conjured. The dancing flames created amorphous shadows of light and dark upon his skin, and she stared as they languorously morphed into the other, light blending into dark and separating again. Their play drew her in. The heady scent of power diffusing through his skin struck her speechless in lust. Night entered through the open windows and whispered sweet cruelties into her ear. She tried to gaze away. “No, no, no, no…”
He was there, so helpless, so beautiful, right in front of her, in her domain, underneath her… power. She heard what he'd done. A hundred dementors… and he was only thirteen. It made her just desire him more. An unbridled vision of the night came into her mind. The air frozen and still around him as the Dementors' closed… a rising wand, and a shock of power… sensual and destructive… and the bright, sepulchral sheen of the Patronas as it shattered that mists of despair that were cohering in and around him. She trembled. A sliver of restrained dropped upon the ground and broke.
A soft, whispered regret and the doors were locked. Determined, she walked towards him. Another flick of her wand and the curtains closed around the bed and solidified. She suddenly realized that there were other patients in her Wing tonight. But no, she had given then sleeping draughts after Dumbledore had left. There was nothing to worry about. Nothing else to worry about.
She whispered a word and his hospital gown disappeared.
The first touch was the hardest. She braced herself as she brought an open palm into contact with his back.
“Oh!”
She couldn't help it. Her spine arched back, each and every one her muscles felt taut, filled with this wild, vivacious energy that Potter emitted. She had been feeling that power every since he went comatose. It had been teasing her, mocking her. She couldn't help it: she arched back and moaned and trembled in the surprised throes of orgasm.
It took her many moments to compose herself and she gazed in wild wonder at the thin, emancipated body that had made her lose control so entirely. She was breathing heavily. “Restraint be damned,” she thought. She brought her wand to turn him around. Nothing happened. She tried again, pronouncing the movement of the spell clearly. Still nothing. Strange thoughts were beginning to creep through the arousal. Again. Nothing. She looked at her wand in surprise, wondering…
Only to see her hands cupping empty air. She had probably dropped the wand during the orgasm.
She laughed.
A moment later, with the wand in hand, she muttered the spell again. His body rose into the air and slowly turned, with the shadows of the lamp dancing violently upon his pubescent formations. Shadows dipped in the crevices of his boyish hips; light enunciated the jutting ribs on his puerile chest. Strangely she felt no regret, no dissenting thought. Her mind was alit with possibilities. His power hummed in the background, a maddening caress to her engorged desires.
She brought him down gently and began to undo her own clothes. Now naked, and shivering, with eyes bright and wide with lust she registered, finally, at the edge of the cliff: she was going to rape Harry Potter.
The world was grey and the tempest groaned and grew as Madam Pomfrey put her feet beyond the edge and fell into the abyss.
She picked up the half filled flask of a sleeping potion, and tipped its contents through his surprised lips. Her hands touched the cold skin of his cheeks, drawn tight over the face, and travelled down, pinching his lips in their descent. His power was infecting her, and she was beyond caring now. There was urgency in her moments, in her jerky explorations of his childish body. She was spurred on by the vision of a desire she could not define.
He just lay there, dead to the world, his beautiful green eyes pointed towards the ceiling, his lips slightly parted in an expression of surprise. She ran her hands upon him, bending and devouring with her hot, restless mouth the lovely protrusions of his collarbones. She followed with her lips the cold pale expanse of his body, and every bump, every shuffle in the smooth cloth of his skin served only to heighten the throbbing, violent pleasures that chained her.
With her wand clutched tightly in one hand, she touched his sacs gently, cupping them in one hand, running a light finger down their hairless, childish curve. She twisted them sharply wondering in some godforsaken corner of her mind whether it would elicit any response.
It didn't.
She felt broken; she felt invigorated. With a helpless sort of lunge she clambered upon the bed, and dropped her mass upon him. There was a roaring in her ears, the awakening of a wildflower, strange and unrestrained. He was cold beneath her. Fire and Ice. She shuffled her legs, and the friction travelled high and dripped her arousal upon him. She mourned and began to involuntarily grind herself upon his chest.
His breath hitched and gurgled in his throat.
Her wand was pointed straight at his limp member and she looked down at it from her perch. She was grinning lusciously, a wide wild crunch of teeth surmounted by fat lips. This was it, her victory. She bent and trailed a slow path along his small, shriveled member. “Oh god!” she cried as her body stiffened again for a fleeting moment, then writhed atop him, her legs thrashing upon his face, punching his cheeks, stabbing his eyes. “Oh god! Oh god...”
Her desperate breaths as she crushed him were broken by the whimpers that escaped as one orgasm wound down and another began to build. She could feel the pungent haze of his power seeping into her, drowning her through her pores, breaking her and molding her. Her body couldn't stay still. The desperate need for, for sex burned her. Her chest heaved, in out inout, as she turned towards his prize. It lay as limp as before.
“Engorgio.”
It was horrible how she was breaking him and in some dim corner of her mind she knew this would kill him. But she, she couldn't bring herself to care. Her need blinded her.
The member grew, the small head encased by foreskin enlarging into gigantic proportions, three inches, 4 inches… she didn't want to stop, he was not Harry anymore, he was just her penis, he was only a penis, red and monstrous for her pleasure.
She clutched the member and slid down the large flap of foreskin that covered it. What greeted her wasn't what she wanted. The smooth expanse was an ugly mess of folds and indentations. It doesn't matter. Nothing else matters.
“Petrificus.”
It froze, turning hard as stone. Red and monstrous and for all purposes, aroused for her. The foreskin hanging around its base, looking like a small pedestal through which her pleasure jutted up. With pathetic, jittery movements hindered greatly by her mass, she aligned herself with it. And then she dropped. She dropped and rose. Dropped and rose. Again and again. Her hands feverish with desire latched on to his chest for support. The world outside grew darker and darker.
Pomfrey screamed.
Her legs burned and quivered beneath her. Her arms clutched a torn and bleeding patch of skin, as the orgasm broke her mind into shards and pinpricks that pierced her skin and set her lungs on fire and she screamed and screamed…
This was heaven. This was bliss. His member gutted her with every fall, its abnormal proportions stretching her until her breath was violently expelled from her lungs. As she lifted her quivering mass and heaved down again, she felt it pierce her, but it was not only the physical feeling that sent her frothing but also the power that he seemed to expel from every pore, the power that coated his body, and now hers, like a slick aphrodisiac. Upon him she rocked in lust. Her breath heaving, her thighs slamming into his spindle frame, leaving deep purple indentations.
He was a broken doll she repeatedly claimed. He was dying beneath her. She dropped upon him, angry in her lust, her body crushing his lovely bones, her breath expelling her cries into the silent, horrified air. She dropped…
…And the unwilling foreskin she had hardened into stone gave way beneath her assault upon his lust. The pedestal of her pleasure broke away. Blood welled up like a halo around his member and cried.
Her eyes were wide and wild in lust. Her mouth frothed and screamed and moaned. Damp and matted, her hair hung in front of her, hiding reality from view. Her chest heaved in breathless symphony with her thrusts. She brought a bloodied hand up from his mangled chest and mashed her breasts. Her lust bore down upon him like a beast: a gaping, hungry mouth that came to rest upon a halo of blood.
Upon him she rocked in lust.
And somewhere, someplace that didn't matter anymore, in a reality shattered to feed her dream, her nightmare - on that lost earth a clock ticked, ticked, and chimed.
There was a feral look in her eyes, as if the pretense she had built had been washed away exposing the untamed beast beneath. Her screams had degraded into growls, into drooling moans and half human sounds of pleasure. She had bent, somehow, her mass so that her lust lay open to his thrust, her withering legs spread wide in a perversely inviting position, convulsing in the air. Her flesh curved against itself in hundreds of folds that rippled with every moment she made, with every violent scream her helpless throat cast into the air. She was a prisoner of her own desire, of a vision she could not understand. Madness had shattered her like glass, and then sprayed the fine remains in a lethal fog back towards her.
A hand clutched desperately to her wand.
She was not complete anymore. She had been broken up into fragments that no longer worked in tandem. Her hands sped up down, mashing her breasts, clutching his face, bringing it close for a searing kiss that half ripped his lips. Her lags trashed of their own accord. Nothing was connected. She was a disjointed mess pulled forward by the adhesive nature of her lust. Her magic understanding the song of her lust shot out the unspoken spells.
And he was thrown backwards, his body arched back uselessly, as if he were dead. Another spell, another scream that rang in the silence of their hell, and he come tumbling, his face slipping between her knees, kissing the fat of her stomach. And his broken lust seared a violent path into her cunt, depositing a fine spray of blood that didn't matter anymore, because nothing mattered. The world was an amalgam of her pleasure and his pain.
She stopped for a second, a fleeting moment that she found his lifeless eyes staring into her own and was truly, completely unable to recognize, to understand. The growl sounded, the moment passed, and he was flung back into hell, into wastelands, his puppet body thrashing without a will of his own, twisting, straining at its seams, tearing, and bleeding its red nothings into the air. Back and front, back and forth, between Hell and the putrid naked beast that held him, his lust thrusting again and again and again into her insatiable desires renting her into orgasm after battered orgasm.
The air was still and quiet, and resigned, and in the wastelands that spread from the deepest night into the most hopeless of dawns, there was only a bed and the song of her lust.