Giving

GIVING

He knows it's what you want and he taunts you, makes you squirm at the prospect of getting it, and gasp and plead at the prospect of the pain it will mean for you. For the only way you can have what you want is for him to take everything from you, every bit of pride and anger and rebellion. That is the only way he can pour it back into you in the form of pleasure.

He has finally cornered you, exploited your weaknesses and pinned you down in such a place and position that you can't escape, although, at first, you try. His breath against your neck is hot and tickling, and suddenly the room seems to swirl, and it all disappears. You know, in the back of your mind, that you are at home, on your bed, but having a chain tying your wrists together above your head, and his slender form on top of you, fingers on your skin, makes you unable to relate the sweet comfort of home to this...travesty.

You do not know whether it is he or you that is pretending. He is unreadable, and still was even as he appeared in your room, his face always as you remember it is at school, emotionless and blank, or contorted into a triumphant smirk. You shut your eyes tight, long lashes brushing your flushed cheeks, grimacing at the pain he is giving you.

But then you zoom in on that thought, and all else freezes, and you realize with a dull horror that your grimace is not because of the pain, but because of the pleasure that is coming with that pain, the pleasure that you are enjoying, although it is he, your enemy, that is giving it to you. Your muscles tighten as, in shame, you struggle all the more, although you know the truth: it is useless. Because, deep down, there is no denying it, you want this, have always wanted it, and being a Gryffindor, stubborn, brave, and reckless, you always fight and fight and fight until you get what you want.

Now, though, you are fighting against what you want, because he is doing the unacceptable, and giving you what you want. But it is forced, and you hate to be controlled, regardless of the fact that the heat rushes through you at the simple thought of what he can give you, of how much there is of him to give, because what you want is he himself, your enemy, but not, you insist, the one to defeat you. That is what you hate about Draco Malfoy; he does not respect anyone, even his enemies, and you know that the only way to know your enemy is to respect him. Secretly, you always have respected the Slytherin, admired him, even.

Oh, but now is not the time for this, is it? The chains are hard, cold and harsh against the soft skin of your wrists, biting, even as his teeth bite down on you, causing you to groan with rage and pleasure as those teeth and that flaming, commanding tongue treat your nipple, suck, causing the heat in your face to spread south down to the hardness that your mind denies but your body cannot.

Everything about this so far has been speed, soft and yet hard, pleasure and yet pain, taking and taking more and more from you so that he can fulfill your wish and spill it all back into you in an overwhelming torrent. You feel as if split into two, for you want this so much, and yet you hate him because he wants it, too. You can tell. But he wasn't supposed to want it, for you were supposed to force it on him, and get all of your wishes fulfilled as you get the ultimate pleasure, physically, as well as mentally, knowing that the challenge he is, the controller, has been defied. But he has turned the tables on you, and is taking from you in order to get what he wants, to make you suffer, and he has total control of the situation.

A raw pleasure burns deep inside you as his teeth nip from one path on skin of yours to the other, his tongue swirling a trail of flames that burn you, scar you, and his mouth swollen from the constant touch of his lips to yours in hungry kisses. One half of your split self wants this, begs for it, and yet another part growls furiously that it has been denied control, the chance to humiliate the enemy by making him feel the pain he doesn't want to. You like the pain, the mix of pleasure with pain, the challenge of bearing them both, just as he likes the challenge of seducing you. Instead, he is the one giving the pleasure, and you are the trapped and angry pleasured.

You shudder at his touch, as, finally, he lifts the maroon sweater from its place underneath your armpits, and you watch the large R on it wrinkle as he pulls it over your head. Your eyes stare unblinkingly at his as he sits there, those grey eyes piercing, filled with an unusual curiousity rather than the hatred you are so familiar with. You wonder if he is counting all the freckles on your body, surprised, disgusted, or unimpressed by the litter of dots scattered over your skin, seeming to be everywhere. He has kissed almost every freckle. You wonder what he thinks of the sweater your mum gave to you, that has become a mite too small, that's ugly color clashes horribly with your scarlet hair; you breathe deeply in and out, waiting for the next kiss.

Instead, however, he slides down your legs, now sitting on your knees, your erection now in plain sight, convivial beneath your trousers. You groan with dissatisfied, angry pleasure, as he leans down to swirl his tongue in the dip of your navel, neglecting your erection that pushes so firmly against him. Frustrated by the lack of attention to your aching member, your next outburst would be an insistent noise if not for the slight whimper at the end.

He silences the noises by clambering up you once again, his bare torso against yours lusciously soft and languid, relaxed, and then he presses his lips harshly against yours, taking your lower lip between his teeth and biting, lapping up the blood even as you moan in pained pleasure. Your loud moans when he momentarily grinds his crotch against yours causes him to smile. Pleased, Draco whispers a spell, and you grimace as one cuff is undone, allowing your left hand freedom. For a few moments you lie there unresponsive to his treatment, eyes closed, waiting in pain for the blood to pump back to your wrist, for the numbness to dissipate.

This freedom does not cheer you, but rather it infuriates you. The fact that, when pleased, he decides to give you a tiny taste of freedom indicates that he is controlling you. No! Feeling a surge of anger bubble up inside you again, you slip your hands underneath his shirt, viciously sliding them all over his slender torso, pinching and bruising the smooth skin. You grin, even as he kisses you again, when a harsh pinch to his nipple and touch against his crotch elicits a stifled groan.

You growl softly as his mouth sucks at your neck, and your hands on his body become more frenzied, rushing, hurting. One button of his trousers you manage to get undone before your wrist is cuffed again; but you cannot help giving a tiny smile at the fury so obviously pulsing through him as he viciously jails your freedom once more; he may have some power over you, true, but you have the power to make his emotions boil unlike anyone has ever seen.

You begin to laugh at his rare display of emotion, but are halted abruptly by his body's sudden pressure on your cock. The fact that this was just a way to shut you up makes a snarl rip from your throat. But that snarl soon transforms into another sound. He slides that deft, torturously hot tongue of his against your ear, even as his fingers unbuckle and slip the belt from your waist, causing you to wriggle in eager anticipation.

His hand against your crotch is surprisingly gentle, unlike the roughness of the previous activity, but even so you moan loudly, erection firm and in full-force as your hips buck upward. But then you gain some hold of your senses, screaming mentally to yourself that you must stop and not give in, for your enemy is not to be trusted, nor appreciated. He will not take anything from you, you tell yourself, and that includes your pride, your anger, your stubbornness.

In an attempt to escape, to vent out your frustration at your two split, conflicting selves that battle inside you, you wrap your legs around his waist, shaking him furiously as he is caught in your hold. But this ceases to provoke him, and he simply smiles infuriatingly even as you realize that you have done a horrible mistake, for his crotch against yours has aroused you all the more.

Wanting to scream in rage but instead biting your lip to resist the urge, you unwrap your legs from his waist, and simply give him a stolid stare, trying to tell him that he cannot defeat you, that you will not break. He nods as if he understands, and leaning down, he unbuttons your trousers, and then taking the cloth in his teeth, slowly slides them off of you, his grey eyes holding yours the entire time. You find yourself unable to look away from the cloud storm that brews beneath the surface of his icy gaze.

You lean your head back, teeth gritting, muscles tight, the tendons in your neck stretching, eyes shut, as, done with the task of relieving you of your trousers, his fingers tickle your thigh, and his mouth works gently, too gently, against your cock through your boxers, teasing. A low moan slips from your lips, and you rock back and forth all the while, swaying and arching your body towards his mouth, his fingers, so close to giving you what you so strongly, undeniably desire. Lust has won over; you cannot deny how much you want this, and so one side of your split, contradicting sides slinks away in defeat.

Finally, you feel strong, desirous enough to take the initiative, and getting Draco off guard, you squeeze your thighs against his head. Your breathing is heavy as you squeeze over and over. The effort, combined with the pleasure of something, although it is his face, grinding against your cock, plus the fact that his grunts of protest--surely mouthing several swearwords against your erection--are quite amusing, all causing a great, almost overwhelming spill of emotions in you. This mixes with the aroused stiffness and heat of your pleasured, still aching member, and causes your walls of resistance to fall down; your loud moans seem to echo against the walls, and yet you know that there is no one outside the room to hear you.

With a growl of rage Draco bursts free from the cage you have created, and you laugh loudly as he sits glowering at you, eyes narrowed to slits, blonde hair tousled wildly. Unheeding of his swearing, his reprimanding hits, you continue to laugh, unable to stop. But a sudden violent pulling on your boxers, and your laughing stops abruptly as you realize that you are totally nude, and that the look on your enemy's face is one of cruel mirth.

Then, the torture begins, and your eyes water, throat threatening to burst, as he milks you for all your worth, that tongue sliding up and down your cock, causing the protesting side to join the other split side, and the two sides to battle again, as you ponder if giving in to such hot, forbidden pleasure would mean defeat.

You bite your lip in a refusal to voice the pleasure he is giving you as that tongue swirls round and round, and then those teeth nibble, and that mouth takes you in, and in, and in, until you think that the only alternative to screaming would be death. And even as he sucks you vigorously you wonder if you should give in to him, although your pleasured moans create the illusion that you already have. It is a test to see who will win, who will give the other the most pleasure, who will be least submissive, more teasing, more surprising to the unsuspecting other.

But then the realization hits you, and beckoning him closer, you allow him to rest his head against your shoulder, and whisper what you know will prove to him that you and he are equals, and that he has been defeated by you as much as you have by him. You will make sure that you, too, will win. You have given in, and yet, your words show, what is important is that he will be as much the loser as you, because although Draco wants to take everything from you and you once wanted to not give any of your strength, control, nor your body to him, it doesn't matter anymore. You have changed your mind; this is the difference, the difference that will make Draco realize that you have won: he is taking, taking, taking, and you are not jealous of it, don't care, anymore.

"Draco...You make me wish that I had more to give."