Day 17: "Something Missing" (HP, Tonks, NC17)
Title: Something Missing
Fandom: HP
Character: Tonks, age 16
Rating: NC17
Words: ~900
A/N: As ever on the typos.
Something Missing
It wasn't until she had a talk with Catherine Winters that Tonks realized something was missing.
Or rather, she knew it was always just kind of …okay. This wasn't from lack of trying; once Walter Morrow had spread the word she could alter the shape of her vagina, she became rather startlingly popular. Which, okay, it was kind of sad, and she knew they were using her, but she was sort of using them, too; she was getting a whole education regarding cocks, and she'd never been popular before because honestly, pink hair and a weird nose and early on none of it had been in her control, so for the first five or so years she'd been at Hogwarts, she'd been a sort of frequently-mutating freak. Who was a bloody Hufflepuff which meant nothing bad at all, damn it, but which meant half the school saw her as a frequently-mutating probably-dim freak. Not good, as far as social cachet.
So. With the new control and the power to bewitch, so to speak, she figured she'd just go ahead and take advantage now, because after next year she intended to go into Auror training. It didn't hurt she was getting a pretty clear working understanding of certain aspects the psychology of (boy) wizards out of the way they acted when they got (or didn't get) what they wanted from her, and from how they behaved in the afterglow.
But now, Catherine told her she really ought to be enjoying it more than she was (implying, somehow, that she was the one doing it wrong, but if the boys' responses were to be believed, she didn't think so; she thought Catherine was jealous), and talked about the throbbing unexpected brilliance of coming, about how it built and broke, about the panting post-orgasmic limp spentness of the limbs, and Tonks realized all the eager boys weren't doing a very good job.
She'd have thought at least a couple of the ten or so she'd let fuck her wouldn't suck at it; after all, wouldn't the odds suggest a rate better than zero percent?
This was why she was home alone, in her old summertime bed, with a dirty book and a good couple of hours before her parents should be home. She propped the book on her knees, figuring to read a bit before doing anything else, and set her hand between her naked legs.
She was surprised how dirty it felt to her to be doing this, alone in bed, because, well, okay, evidently everyone else did it, and she wasn't quite sure why she hadn't, except that her mother was non-traditional about a lot of things but still, in their house they associated wild emotional things--that was, lack of control of passions--to be more the province of Aunt Bellatrix. So she hadn't really ever experimented on her own, and until she stopped being a freak and started being more "experienced" none of the other girls had chatted about it. At least, not with her, not casually. And she was getting sidetracked again.
She read about the injured hero, scarred and ill, and the heroine's tender care of the scratches and gouges in his chest and belly, skimming because while the romance of the story was fun and all, she guessed she was supposed to get to the sex bit. Still, it was kind of a nice story, with the heroine providing all this lovely comfort, and she got slightly sidetracked from the goal again.
Finally, forty minutes later, she turned the page and found the hero awakened and growling, pushing the heroine down on the bed after a heated conversation in which she convinced him he wouldn’t hurt her, and then she remembered: she was supposed to be working out this orgasm thing.
She used her fingers more determinedly as she read the passionate scene, pushing them into her as the heroine (depressingly named Jane--not a pink hair kind of name, was it?) felt her lover's cock inside her, rubbing with her thumb as the hero (who was much more attentive than Walter or any of the others) did, pushing up with her hips as her attention fell away fro the book and more toward what she was doing with her fingers.
Finally, she set the book aside and used both hands: one to circle and rub; the other to shove two fingers inside. To her surprise, the sensation of striving was nearly overwhelming. She wanted to get just there, so close, almost, just like… that.
The loss of control took her breath away.
It was like unexpected morphing, only not, her flesh clutching at her fingers on its own, without any input from her. It was a change she could make voluntarily, but hadn't. Didn't. It was liquid and hot and eager, and as the pulses slowed and weakened, she pulled her fingers free, panting, and muttered a thank you to Catherine.
It wasn't that she wasn't going to keep right on playing with the boys. However, now she had expectations in return. It would be useful, after all, to see how they behaved when she made them work a little for it.
She picked up her book with sticky fingers, and after a moment, as her breathing resumed its normal pace, commenced lazily rubbing in circles again.
She was nothing if not practical, and her parents wouldn't be home for another hour.
Fandom: HP
Character: Tonks, age 16
Rating: NC17
Words: ~900
A/N: As ever on the typos.
Something Missing
It wasn't until she had a talk with Catherine Winters that Tonks realized something was missing.
Or rather, she knew it was always just kind of …okay. This wasn't from lack of trying; once Walter Morrow had spread the word she could alter the shape of her vagina, she became rather startlingly popular. Which, okay, it was kind of sad, and she knew they were using her, but she was sort of using them, too; she was getting a whole education regarding cocks, and she'd never been popular before because honestly, pink hair and a weird nose and early on none of it had been in her control, so for the first five or so years she'd been at Hogwarts, she'd been a sort of frequently-mutating freak. Who was a bloody Hufflepuff which meant nothing bad at all, damn it, but which meant half the school saw her as a frequently-mutating probably-dim freak. Not good, as far as social cachet.
So. With the new control and the power to bewitch, so to speak, she figured she'd just go ahead and take advantage now, because after next year she intended to go into Auror training. It didn't hurt she was getting a pretty clear working understanding of certain aspects the psychology of (boy) wizards out of the way they acted when they got (or didn't get) what they wanted from her, and from how they behaved in the afterglow.
But now, Catherine told her she really ought to be enjoying it more than she was (implying, somehow, that she was the one doing it wrong, but if the boys' responses were to be believed, she didn't think so; she thought Catherine was jealous), and talked about the throbbing unexpected brilliance of coming, about how it built and broke, about the panting post-orgasmic limp spentness of the limbs, and Tonks realized all the eager boys weren't doing a very good job.
She'd have thought at least a couple of the ten or so she'd let fuck her wouldn't suck at it; after all, wouldn't the odds suggest a rate better than zero percent?
This was why she was home alone, in her old summertime bed, with a dirty book and a good couple of hours before her parents should be home. She propped the book on her knees, figuring to read a bit before doing anything else, and set her hand between her naked legs.
She was surprised how dirty it felt to her to be doing this, alone in bed, because, well, okay, evidently everyone else did it, and she wasn't quite sure why she hadn't, except that her mother was non-traditional about a lot of things but still, in their house they associated wild emotional things--that was, lack of control of passions--to be more the province of Aunt Bellatrix. So she hadn't really ever experimented on her own, and until she stopped being a freak and started being more "experienced" none of the other girls had chatted about it. At least, not with her, not casually. And she was getting sidetracked again.
She read about the injured hero, scarred and ill, and the heroine's tender care of the scratches and gouges in his chest and belly, skimming because while the romance of the story was fun and all, she guessed she was supposed to get to the sex bit. Still, it was kind of a nice story, with the heroine providing all this lovely comfort, and she got slightly sidetracked from the goal again.
Finally, forty minutes later, she turned the page and found the hero awakened and growling, pushing the heroine down on the bed after a heated conversation in which she convinced him he wouldn’t hurt her, and then she remembered: she was supposed to be working out this orgasm thing.
She used her fingers more determinedly as she read the passionate scene, pushing them into her as the heroine (depressingly named Jane--not a pink hair kind of name, was it?) felt her lover's cock inside her, rubbing with her thumb as the hero (who was much more attentive than Walter or any of the others) did, pushing up with her hips as her attention fell away fro the book and more toward what she was doing with her fingers.
Finally, she set the book aside and used both hands: one to circle and rub; the other to shove two fingers inside. To her surprise, the sensation of striving was nearly overwhelming. She wanted to get just there, so close, almost, just like… that.
The loss of control took her breath away.
It was like unexpected morphing, only not, her flesh clutching at her fingers on its own, without any input from her. It was a change she could make voluntarily, but hadn't. Didn't. It was liquid and hot and eager, and as the pulses slowed and weakened, she pulled her fingers free, panting, and muttered a thank you to Catherine.
It wasn't that she wasn't going to keep right on playing with the boys. However, now she had expectations in return. It would be useful, after all, to see how they behaved when she made them work a little for it.
She picked up her book with sticky fingers, and after a moment, as her breathing resumed its normal pace, commenced lazily rubbing in circles again.
She was nothing if not practical, and her parents wouldn't be home for another hour.