fic: portrait of a lady (lucius/ginny, nc-17) -- part one
Title: Portrait of a Lady
Author: V.M. Bell
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to JKR. Title borrowed from T.S. Eliot, who snitched it from Henry James, so, really, it's fair game for anyone.
Summary: Lucius will have her, no matter the price, no matter the consequence, simply because he can. AU, set in Victorian London.
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Lucius/Ginny, established Harry/Ginny
Word Count: 7,605 (14,479 total)
Author's Notes: Over three years ago, I posted this drabble and had always been tempted by the idea of expanding on it. I began tackling that particular endeavour during the summer of 2007, after being inspired by D.H. Lawrence's Lady Chatterly's Lover and a collection of Oscar Wilde plays, and, after many delays and refusals to write smut, even though the latter was rather necessary, it is finally complete. As mentioned above, this fic is entirely AU -- there are no potions, incantations, or any other evidence of magic. Many thanks to alexajohnson, who and especially curia_regis, whose feedback and suggestions were most invaluable in helping me pull this together at the end. All concrit, comments, and reviews are appreciated.
--
Women are a fascinatingly wilful sex. Every woman is a rebel and usually in wild revolt against herself. -- Oscar Wilde, A Woman of No Importance
Lucius Malfoy spots her first at the opera, located some distance away on the mezzanine level; a woman with hair that red cannot be easily overlooked. Intrigued, he eyes her slim waist, her attentive gaze, her poised carriage. His gaze lingers, and he cannot be bothered to listen to the soprano as she launches into her aria or to stand as the rest of the hall raises itself in a thunderous ovation at the music's conclusion. He watches only her, the gloved fingers wrapped around opera glasses, the movement of her mouth as she speaks to a dark-haired man beside her, the sweep of her dress as she exits her seat. His gaze follows it, and he knows with the lazy assurance of nobility that he will have her, no matter the price, no matter the consequence, simply because he can.
Later, Lucius finds her lingering near the doorway of the opera house. Her arm is resting upon the dark-haired man's. Lucius stands a handful of paces away, superficially interested in a nearby painting.
"I thought it was well worth an evening," he hears her say.
"Ginny, I just cannot understand what you like about opera. All of the screaming just leaves me with a headache."
" 'Screaming,' Harry?" Ginny laughs. "You've no grasp of culture whatsoever, and, besides, I can only go to so many of your friends' dinner parties before I practically drown in the boredom of it all."
"That is a debate we can have at a later point, no?" Lucius turns his head enough to see Harry grace the back of her hand with a kiss. Her attentions drift away from her husband, and she surveys the bustle around her. They trade glances, accidentally, but the moment is so brief as to be insignificant. "It is getting late, dear, and they're expecting me early at the office tomorrow. Shall we go home?"
"Of course," she says, laying a hand on his arm, and together, they exit.
Obscured by darkness, Lucius follows them. Their light, perfunctory conversation about next week's dinner, hosted by Mr. So-and-So who had enraged Mrs. So-and-So by having an affair with Mrs. This-and-That, does not interest him. Indeed, he does not hear anything of their conversation at all, only the low purr of her voice when she laughs, the brush of fabric against the ground as she walks with careful rhythm. They pause before a building that has become typical of London's well endowed middle class. Lucius retreats to the street corner and hides behind a similar building, waiting until they were safely indoors and the night uttered not a sound.
Lucius returns to their front door and commits their address to memory. Standing there, he allows himself to wonder: what would that skin, stripped of its cumbersome clothing, feel like under his running hands? Would she remain silent, demure in her sensuality, viewing his lust as simply an obligation to be met, or would a greater passion lurk beneath? Does that perfectly composed exterior hide something voluptuous, something shameless?
Such questions, he thinks, could only be answered through experimentation, just as the current obsession with progress dictated.
--
All experiments must begin with a careful regimen of empirical observation, for it the foremost means of ascertaining existing conditions and circumstances. The observation must be both methodical and regular, then rigorously evaluated before the experimenter determines how best to proceed.
He has already learned some basic facts about the Potters' existence. Ginny's husband, Harry, is a lawyer. He has heard them referencing the profession when she walks him to the front door at eight in the morning and bids him goodbye with a brief kiss on the cheek. He does not return until the early evening, sometimes later, but Ginny always seems to be waiting by the door when he enters. She kisses him on the cheek again and unfailingly asks him how his day at the office was. He unfailingly replies that it was good, devolves some meaningless details, and asks if dinner is ready. Ginny says that she has been waiting for him, for which he offhandedly apologizes, and then she links her arm in his and leads him into the house.
In the hours she has to herself, Ginny appears to keep herself occupied with a constant stream of callers. Even from a distance, he can understand why she is a popular hostess: she is greets her guests with magnanimity, asking after their child, ailing relative, or some other worthy cause, and they respond enthusiastically to her concern as she guides them into the house and shuts the door behind them. If Lucius were a less attentive man, he would have dismissed her life as the paragon of all that this era strives to achieve: a prosperous household, a suitable husband, and a dimpled wife with naught but grace to her personage.
As usual, the key to understanding a woman lies in the details often overlooked by others, intentionally or not; Lucius prides himself on knowing how to detect and exploit them. Ginny Potter is not such a difficult puzzle to solve, in the end. The greater the insincerity of a woman, the higher her voice is, and Ginny's is comparable to the little silver flute of the orchestra, twittering ascending and descending scales without pausing for breath but veering off key with the effort. Although she carries herself with unshakeable posture, her back as stiff as a rod, her hands are restless, often clasped together, kneading each other. Lucius understands that it is fashionable for ladies to act nervously in the company of others, but there is something about Ginny, he realizes, that does not fit with everything else around her.
He must know more.
Thus, Lucius is quite pleased with himself when he slips undetected into the Potters' modest garden, where he now stands with his back against the wall, his ears attuned to any signs of talking from within. It is his fifth visit to their residence since the night of the opera, although it is the first time he has dared to trespass onto their property. It is the necessary next step: only so much can be gleaned from his usual haunt by the street corner. He hears the bustling of a maid, offering butter or jam to her employers, followed by the clinking of silverware as the Potters enjoy their breakfast on a fine London morning. There are a few minutes of silence, and, then, Ginny speaks, her words barely discernable.
"Did you sleep well last night, Harry?"
"All right, and you, Ginny?"
"Quite well, thank you."
"I don't seem to remember you turning off the light. Had I already fallen asleep by then?"
"Yes, you did -- you had even forgotten to take off your glasses."
Harry laughs. "Did I? I ought to thank you for removing them; otherwise, I imagine I would have slept on them at some point during the night. Why were you up so late, anyway, Ginny?"
"I was reading."
"It must have been good."
"It was George Eliot's new novel, Daniel Deronda. I could hardly put it down. You ought to read it at some point, Harry. Did you see that I left it on your nightstand? I was -- I thought we might both read it and perhaps discuss it."
"Yes, perhaps one day, but you know how these things are, dear. I have been working toward this promotion for over a year, and, if our clients aren't completely satisfied with the services I provide to them, then they can simply take their case to another firm, and we are left without any business whatsoever."
"I know your work is important to you, Harry. I know you have been busy. It is -- it is just that I remember you enjoy George Eliot's work, which is why I picked up Daniel Deronda the other day at all."
"I'm sorry, dear, but I just haven't the time right now. This pastry is quite delicious, though, I must say."
There is a lull in the conversation, and Lucius can only imagine the crestfallen expression on Ginny's face as her loving husband tells her, apparently not for the first time, that there is something he values more highly than her. But he can also imagine a frustration, long silent, festering within her, and it is not long before she speaks again.
"You always say that."
"Excuse me?"
"That you don't have time for me."
"Ginny, I did not say that I didn't have time for you, in particular -- rather, I do not have time for much of anything."
"But am I not important to you?"
"We have discussed this before. Of course you are important to me -- you are the most important person in the world to me, and I cannot begin to conceive of my life without you. You know I love you, don't you?"
"I love you too, Harry."
"And you know that, every day, I am getting closer to the promotion? Just think about how much more pleasant life will be after it. Moving ever upward, you and I."
"That is all you ever talk about."
"Now, dear, there is no need to take that tone with me." Harry sighs. "I understand this has not been easy for you, but it will only be for a little while longer, I promise. You believe me, don't you?"
"Yes, of course."
"That's the spirit, Ginny! I hope you understand that it has been difficult for me too, not being able to spend the same amount of time with you as I once did. Oh, I had wanted to surprise you with this at a later date, but now is as good a time as any to tell you. My superiors at the firm have told me that they are quite impressed with my performance lately, and so they have seen fit to give me a very long break from work in about a month and a half's time. I thought that we might tour the Continent together, just as we had always planned to."
"Well, I suppose I have always wanted to go to France..."
"There, you see? That is something for you to look forward to while I am gone during the days. Speaking of which, I've only just noticed the time, and -- "
"Ah, you're going to be late for work?"
"Indeed, if I do not hurry up."
"Then let us walk to the door together."
Their footsteps grow distant as they leave the dining area, and Lucius thinks that this will be easier than he originally planned.
--
Two weeks later, Lucius is spending his morning at the local park, occupied with a newspaper. He reads the articles without much interest, but there is little else to be done. He has already walked by her house this morning, hoping to catch a glimpse of her silhouette in the window, but he cursed to himself when he found it empty of residents. He has grown bored of inaction, and the prospect of simply seducing her in her own home grows increasingly tempting. Of course, he is not idiotic enough to do that -- the entire affair must be conducted on his terms alone. There is an opportune moment for everything, and he is still waiting for his.
When he next lowers his newspaper, he inhales sharply. Quite simply and quite alone, she is sitting at a bench across from him, engrossed in a book. Her eyes dart across the text, and he fights the urge to rip the volume from her hands. Instead, he folds the newspaper and simply stares at her as she progresses from page to page to page, waiting, waiting for her to set the book aside, possibly chance a yawn --
And this is exactly what Ginny does, daintily covering her mouth in the meanwhile. As she reaches for her book to resume reading, she suddenly stops, her fingers hovering inches above the bench. She blinks, lifts her head. Her eyes widen, and he summons a most debonair smile while she studies him. Lucius thinks that, if he were an unguarded woman subject to a stranger's attentions, he would certainly run. But she does not run. She does not seem to acknowledge anything or anyone around her but him, so Lucius folds his newspaper and walks over to her.
She looks up at him. Her speech is blunt. Instantly, he recognizes this as the Ginny that he witnessed that morning in the dining area: this is the Ginny that surfaces when she is overwhelmed by the insensitivity and condescension of her husband. "Do I know you, sir?"
"I do believe we ran into one another at the opera a number of weeks ago, madam." He inclines his head. "Perhaps you remember me now?"
"I ran into no one at the opera." Her stare narrows. "I was there with my husband. Only my husband," she adds.
"Your husband Harry?" Chuckling, he can see that she is disconcerted by his knowledge of her. "And you -- you are Ginny, correct?"
Her scowl deepens. "Ginny Potter."
"Potter. A delightfully plebeian name, I see."
"And you are?" she demands.
"Lucius Malfoy, madam."
He reaches for her hand, as all civilized gentlemen must, and plants a kiss upon its warmth. She smells of disarming innocence -- he recognizes her perfume, which is all the rage among London's matrons -- but there is somewhat else. His lips remain pressed to her as he identifies this new scent: it is the musk of woman as the flush rises to the skin, the hurry of the blood as expectations tremble. He must have her splayed before him, he decides, and perhaps Mrs. Potter need it too. With such a thought in mind, his smile widens.
He is not able to entertain this thought for long, however, before she withdraws her hand and, wrinkling her nose, rubs it against her gown.
"Lucius Malfoy? I know who you are."
"Ah, it pleases me to see that you are already acquainted with me."
"Yes, and I want nothing to do with you, Mr. Malfoy."
"You may call me Lucius, Ginny. We've no need for formalities between us."
"Why should that be? I did not realize that men of such stature --" Her voice is all derision " -- consorted with people like me."
"As a rule, it is true that men like me try to keep our social contacts within the right circles. The Malfoy name, as you know, is attached to quite a fortune. My late father -- God rest his soul -- was a wealthy man, well known throughout London for his philanthropic contributions and such things. I am afraid I cannot say the same for myself, but, then, I have no desire to."
"And I have no desire to continue this conversation with you any longer. Please leave me, Mr. Malfoy."
"Let us imagine that I do not. What will you do then?"
Ginny sits down. Plucking at her skirts, she seems distinctly ill at ease, though her grimace is as unshakeable as ever. "I will ignore you."
Picking up the book, she flips it open and studies the page intently. Noticing that her eyes remain fixed on the same point, Lucius permits her a minute's peace. During that time, he studies the grass, the trees, the sky, the two little boys chasing each other around a tree, and, when he looks at her again, he finds that her gaze has not stirred in the least bit.
He lowers himself onto the bench, occupying the empty seat beside her. "Ginny, you are aware that your eyes alone will not bore a hole through the middle of that book, no matter how much you glare at it."
She shuts the book with enough ferocity to stun even him, albeit only momentarily. "If you are not going to leave, then I will."
"Then leave," he says lightly.
Eyeing him for a moment, a contemptuous hmph escapes from her lips as she motions to stand up, but, before she can push herself up from the bench, he snakes a hand around her waist, pulling her back and crushing her to his side. She fights against his grip, but he does not relent.
"I have been watching you, you know."
"Have you?" she says. "What a lucky woman that makes me -- I am sure that every wife in London wants a serial womanizer lurking right outside her door."
"Ah, but we serial womanizers would be far less successful in our art if the women we sought did not willingly comply with our desires and their own. This particular one has been lurking outside your door rather often since the night of the opera, in fact. I must admit that, even in this city of abundant entertainment, it has become a favorite pastime of mine."
She squirms, and he holds her yet tighter. A gasp of pain tumbles, unbidden, from her mouth; his loins twitch at the sound, but he wills himself to remain calm.
"What do you want with me?"
"Why, my dear, that should be quite obvious, shouldn't it? I want you." She freezes, her mouth parted ever so slightly as she considers the revelation. "And I will have you, you see," he whispers.
Her eyes dart around the park, where urban denizens are practicing their daily routines. "Please leave me alone, Mr. Malfoy."
"I will have you," he whispers.
"I said, please leave me alone," she repeats, this time with force.
"Say yes, Mrs. Potter."
A pause. "And if I do not?"
Toward him, she directs nothing but simple hatred, her brown eyes catching the sunlight as they challenge him. Lucius dismisses it, his free hand rising to trace the contours of her chin as the other clings tighter to her waist. There are no lines to crease her youth, no experience to dampen her apparent naïveté. She believes she is resisting him with her caustic repartee when, really, resistance was never an option he was willing to offer. The experiment, he thinks, begins here. He lowers his face to hers, an even, calibrated descent, but it is only when his lips cover the whole of her mouth, his tongue slipping into that dark pink cavern, that she begins struggling in earnest. How sweet, how very sweet -- her entire body twists against his, and she whimpers. He clenches her, swallowing her cries.
Of course she has been kissed before, and, of course, she has lain with man between her legs. It is a wife's duty, after all, to provide her husband with a child, and intercourse is the necessary and singular means to that end. But she cannot ever have felt this, sheer ardor gnawing through her gentility and rooting itself deeply in untouched lands.
When he pulls away, she looks devastated.
"I -- I have a husband," she protests. Lucius quirks an eyebrow and lays two fingers flat against her wrist. Beneath his pressure, he feels her pulse racing and chuckles, much to her seeming chagrin. "What? What are you laughing at?"
"So you have a husband, and you say it with such poise. Well done. Now, I am supposed to think that you are strong enough to control your own impulses, or perhaps I am supposed to believe that you do not even have impulses, that I have not affected you at all." He leans in, his mouth a breath away from her ear. He holds himself quite still, and she is still. He waits -- and, almost imperceptibly, she shivers. "You see, Mrs. Potter, you are quite mistaken. You're shaking."
"You don't scare me."
Her words are rough.
"Oh, I know." From his pocket, Lucius extracts a folded scrap of paper and places it in her hand. Retreating, Lucius lets her go, gathers his things, and stands up. "I've known women like you. You're never afraid, really, but it isn't fear you're trembling with."
--
It is a risk that could easily jeopardize the entire venture. It is possible that she will forget the thrill of wrongness that surged through her when she did something that is expressively forbidden by society -- that is, when she, a married woman, kissed a man, not her husband, in a public place. It is possible that he has overestimated the extent of her desire. It is possible that she tossed that paper into a waste heap, having never given it a single glance.
But Lucius despises regrets. He will not abandon his original method. He will not lurk by her window. He will not seek her out again. She must come to him of her own volition.
Exactly sixteen days elapse between the rendezvous in the park and the tepid echo of doorknocker. A servant moves towards the door, but Lucius dismisses him. He mimics surprise upon discovering her standing before him, but he has to remind himself to effect impeccable normalcy in her presence. "Why, Ginny, how lovely it is to see you again."
"Oh, spare me your theatrics."
She is wearing a hat of dark green and a dress of an identical color. A length of buttons runs from her neck to her navel, and the dress is gathered in a bustle at the back.
"Please," he says, "step inside. Would you like some tea, perhaps?"
She walks into the shade of his house, removing her hat. "I suppose."
"Alfred," Lucius calls out, "some tea for my guest and myself in the parlor, please."
An isolated sound of assent from somewhere inside the house. Lucius returns to Ginny. "This way, Ginny."
He does not need to look at her to know that she is gaping at every inch of his house. The Potters, he surmises, must be wealthy people to live in the neighborhood that they do, but wealth is not a uniform term. Money is ever an admirable thing, but it is too easily obtained in this day and age. Money coupled with the prestige of aristocratic lineage, however, is an uncommon occurrence and an utterly seductive one. Gold can be earned by the basest of laborers for a day's work; prestige is the accumulation of greatness.
The tea set, imported from the Orient, is already awaiting them in the parlor. The room is truly the heart of the Malfoy residence -- Lucius remembers his father spending his evenings in this very room, drinking and smoking with his friends into the late hours of the night. Draped with portraits, the walls bear evidence of the family's illustrious history; heavy curtains prevent the light from discoloring the paints.
"It's a very nice house," Ginny remarks flatly.
"So I have heard." He gestures to a pair of sofas. "Do sit. I would hate for my guest to feel any sort of discomfort."
She does as she is told, and Lucius pours two cups of tea. He pushes one of them towards her. "Milk, sugar, or both?"
"Neither."
"I see. As for myself, I have always found tea to be a tad too bitter for my liking. I need at least a touch of sugar to, shall we say, rein in the bitterness. You do not find this to be so?"
She lifts the cup to her mouth. "I will drink it however I wish to drink it."
He reaches for the sugar bowl. "May you drink to your heart's content, then."
To be alone in a locked room with only one other person is never a particularly comfortable situation. To pretend to be intensely interested in one's tea in lieu of speaking to the other can only exacerbate this situation. In the silence, the two protagonists grapple with one another. Who will be the first to admit defeat and subsequently initiate conversation, or are they both too headstrong to concede a word?
What Ginny does not know is that Lucius has already removed himself from this conflict. He is watching her, trying to harvest from the details the very essence of her. She purses her lips before every sip of tea, and the liquid flows through the small o of her mouth. Every so often, she wipes it with the back of her hand and looks away -- discreetly, always. She never returns the cup to its saucer, even when she is not drinking from it. She prefers to hold it beneath her chin, her hand only lightly grasping its handle. It is in the course of this routine that he notices the slanted glance in his direction, and Lucius knows that he has guessed her correctly.
Perhaps purposefully, he lets slip a quiet laugh. Ginny throws down her teacup with enough force to crack both it and the unfortunate saucer upon which it lands. Lucius laughs harder as she turns red. What a poor, mistaken girl she is to believe that he is mocking her -- no, he is laughing as only men who have achieved something grand can laugh.
All the same, he cannot help but goad her on. "Oh, my servants will not like that, no, not at all. I promise you that these cups probably cost more than your entire house -- "
"Damn your teacups." She rises, her fingers balled into fists. "You and I both know why I am here, yet you -- "
"Then why are you here?" he asks.
There is stillness as her mouth pleads for an answer. "Because..."
From across the table, Lucius reaches for her. He unbuttons the cuffs on her sleeves and pushes them back. His hands encircle her wrists, caressing the bones beneath. When their eyes meet, he knows that he has her. He raises an eyebrow. "Because?"
She does not resist him when he pulls her to his side and presses the length of his body against hers, but he does not kiss her: she kisses him in that desperate manner of a woman whose true desires have been muted for too long. Oh, he knows that, today, they will do far more than kiss, but, even to one as jaded as Lucius Malfoy, veteran of the great brothels of Europe, the intimacy of two mouths and their mingled tastes is impetus enough. His hands seek her throat, where the buttons begin, and they surrender to his insistent pull. Downward, downward they travel until the gown pools at her feet.
He slides a hand underneath her hoops and petticoats and shift, teasing and tickling until they graze the folds of her cunt. Ginny clutches his shoulders, turning rigid above his touch, and, for a moment, he contemplates thrusting his fingers into her until she buckles against the pleasure, but restraint is paramount, he reminds himself.
He pulls himself up to his full height. "Turn around," he says. She does as he says, and he can hear her exhale conspicuously as he unlaces her corset, which he tosses aside. "Don't you think," he begins, now sliding her crinoline and petticoats from her waist, "that all of these undergarments are an unnecessary burden for the contemporary woman? One would think that these trappings belong to a far less civilized world."
Ginny rubs her own arms. Suddenly, she is not the woman of a moment ago, not the woman who would dare to stand on her toes and kiss an aristocratic stranger. And Lucius -- he can understand her somewhat. There is kissing, and then there is somewhat more. This cannot be rushed.
"They are only a burden to men like you, who'd rather not bother with them at all," she retorts.
Lucius smiles at her comment and takes a step backwards, admiring his handiwork. "Does your dear Harry undress you like this?"
"My maid does that for me before I go to bed."
"So Harry sees you like this: in your shift."
She replies with a shrug.
"Does he take it off you?"
Her eyes widen momentarily, embarrassed, perhaps, that she is having such a conversation, but if she is not yet accustomed to saying such things, he will break her inhibitions in time. "He just -- leaves it around my waist, most of the time."
"Do you find yourself satisfied afterwards?"
"More or less."
"You don't ask for more?"
"Not of Harry."
She says it very slowly. Clearing his throat, Lucius nods. "Take it off, then."
"Take -- "
"Your shift, Ginny. Take it off."
Hesitating somewhat, she reaches for its hem. She lifts it with an unsteady deliberation until Lucius, breathing slowly, beholds her in the nude.
He approaches her from behind, his hands sculpting her flesh, rubbing his lust into her breasts, marking it along her spine. She is trying not to stir, as if to prove to him that, all along, their attraction was naught more than a stray product of the imagination, but there is a line of chilled saliva on her back now and he is on his knees. Kissing, licking, even biting on occasion, his mouth is pressed against the small of her back. As he begins to wonder why she remains so passive, he lowers his head further yet, his tongue pushing insistently.
She moans, the startled sound of it scraping against the air, and Lucius can restrain himself no longer He rises, locks his arms around her, carries her to the sofa, pinning her down against the seat cushions. He straddles her, kisses her neck glistening with sweat, but with a surprising amount of force, she pushes him back. Bemused, he stops and stands up.
"I can't do this," she murmurs.
"Oh? It is only when her clothes are scattered about the room that the virtuous Mrs. Potter objects."
"I can't -- " She breaks off, averting her eyes elsewhere.
"You can't what? You must know how you frustrate me when you do not finish your sentences."
"I can't do this."
"So you said."
"I'm not -- I'm not quite sure what I am supposed to say. It is only that -- well, I'm not supposed to be doing this, am I? We are not supposed to be doing this."
In a perversely gentle manner, he smoothes her hair and kisses her forehead. "How kind of you, to worry yourself so about my morality. Remember, however, that, between the two of us, it is I that has the most freedom to do as I please. Whether or not you wish to commit this unfaithful act is entirely your decision."
Biting her lip, she looks away.
"I concede that it is possible I judged you incorrectly," Lucius continues. "I thought, Ginny, that you were somewhat more than the prim, conventional married woman, content to be the source of your husband's limited pleasure and no more."
She shakes her head vigorously. "It isn't like that. Harry loves me."
"That I do not doubt. I also do not doubt that you love him, that you will live out the end of your happy days with him, that you will have many adorable Potters running about, and so forth. But you're not here because I love you." He pauses, then smirks. "Tell me, when your husband has your shift around your waist, what does he do next?"
"Well, he has me on my back," she says, very quickly.
"And he is on top of you, I presume?"
"Yes, something like it. Then he -- well, you know, until he -- " She breaks off.
"Reaches his climax?" Lucius offers. She blushes. "Do you do anything, dear Ginny?"
"I don't understand."
"For instance, do you take him in your mouth and suck him?"
"Do you take me for a common whore?"
He runs a hand through her curls, smiling to himself. "You don't suck him."
"Never," she flatly states. "I do not even know where you thought of such an idea."
"Has he ever asked you to suck him?"
"No."
"What a hopeless specimen your husband is. Do you ever touch him?"
She hesitates. "Sometimes, but only to guide him."
"Therefore, would I be correct in assuming that you never seek to be anything but the perfect receptacle for your husband's lust?"
"I suppose not."
"Does it irritate you at all, the repetitive nature of the act?"
"To be honest, I don't think about it very often. I thought about it more when we were first married, but it has been a number of years now. The affairs of the bedroom -- they are no longer important to me. Of course, we are still trying to conceive a child, but as you can see -- " Ginny looks down at her stomach " -- there has not been much progress."
"You were taught, I'm sure, by your dear mother and other society matrons that it would not do to appear excessively wanton before your husband, that your pleasure was secondary to being a child-bearing wife, and that you would be judged by how well you performed your spousal duties?"
"Isn't everyone taught that?"
"Ah, and that is the problem, isn't it? You are taught to view sex as just another duty. Even if you women do manage to find joy in it, you suppress it. Sex is wicked, immoral, and sinful, they cry! Men, of course, are allowed a little more liberty. If their wives do not make them happy enough -- well, that would be why whoring is such lucrative business. Tell me, Ginny, when you have finished pleasing Harry, does he ever ask you if you are satiated? Do you ever think about your own desires and how they might be satiated? Do you even believe that you have your own desires?"
She does not answer.
"Then let me speak to you of my own desires. Perhaps they will inspire you. As you can see, I am a bachelor with not an insignificant amount of money and status. I can walk into brothels as I please, I can buy all the whores I want, and why, I can even have many of them at the same time -- a thoroughly enjoyable endeavor, I might add. But there is a difference between the common prostitute and you, my dear Ginny. You are not so easily obtained. You are married, as we have established a number of times now, and I sense that you pride yourself on your propriety. When I saw you at the opera, however, I surmised that there was more to you than your bourgeois façade.
"You see, I want to destroy that façade, and I have already begun to do so. I am sure that Harry never kissed you as I have kissed you, but I am not done yet. No, Ginny, you are not merely different from the common prostitute: you are a far different class of woman. I do not even have to know your personal history and tribulations to understand that you are trapped -- trapped by the indoctrinations of your upbringing, by the insensitivity of your husband, and, until I approached you in the park, I do believe that you were entirely unaware of it."
"Then -- " She swallows. "Then what are you going to do to me?"
"To begin, you are already naked. I could do as Harry does to you, but that would be dull, wouldn't it? Instead, I would have you sit upright, if you can, and spread your legs."
"But how can a man and a woman, well, you know..."
"Alas, that the education of young women today should have descended to this state! I suppose it is now left up to me to correct it. This -- " Kneeling on the floor, he rubs a finger against the little nub of flesh above her cunt, and she cries aloud " -- is your clitoris. I imagine that Harry has never touched you there? Of course he hasn't. What would a man like him know about pleasing women when he only seeks to be pleased himself? And, when I think you are ready -- I have no doubt that you will be a quick study -- I will please you like this." He slips a finger into her, already slick with arousal. "This, of course, is your cunt. You are already familiar with it, naturally, but I imagine that, until now, you were under the impression that its only function was to aid in the processes of conceiving and birthing a child? Not an incorrect impression, but it is incomplete. Hopefully, you will have a better understanding of its many uses by the end of today."
"And?" she says between breaths.
"The good Mrs. Potter wants more?" He laughs quietly. "I shall preoccupy myself with that for a time, and then, perhaps, if you would like it -- " He touches a finger to her clitoris again, and she arches against the cushions " -- I will touch you right there. Do you think these are enough lessons for one day?"
"I -- "
He can see her mouthing the words, but she makes no sound.
"Ah, Ginny, I know that you have been trained to monitor what you say most carefully, but, in front of me, you should feel no such restraint."
She blushes. "I -- it's -- it's awfully difficult to unlearn something I have been taught for my entire life."
"I understand, Ginny. There was much that I needed to unlearn when my tyrant of a father passed away, such as the importance of personal ethics and social responsibility, for instance. It is a gradual process, this realizing that all we have ever believed to be true is, in fact, false, but it must begin somewhere, no?"
"I -- I want more," she finishes, looking away.
"I suspected that might be the case. Did you want to request anything in particular?" She shakes her head. He rises and kisses her on the mouth, his tongue languidly playing with hers. "Well, then I will have you kneel on all fours on the carpet there, and I will take you from behind while you make pretty noises. And you will, won't you?"
Again, she does not reply. Silence as agreement, he thinks, getting to his feet.
"Sit closer to the edge of the sofa, if you can," he says.
Hesitating only momentarily, she does as he orders. Her legs remained pressed together. "Are you going to take your clothes off?" she ventures.
"Eventually. But not today, I think."
"That isn't very fair, is it?"
Lucius lowers himself before her, his hands resting upon her knees. There is nothing erotic about the knees, he imagines, but, as he touches them, he senses that she is trembling. A hesitation, then he pushes her legs apart. Ginny makes a hissing noise. "There will be no need for me to take off my clothes today. Not all of them, anyway, unless Mrs. Potter would like to see me without them?"
He does not wait for her stammered response before he lowers his head and kisses her between the legs. Pausing, he allows the shudder to run through her, then proceeds, his tongue, languorous, probing the corners of flesh previously unknown, and, when she has settled down somewhat, he presses a little harder and with greater rapidity. It occurs to him, for a moment, that he has never pleasured a woman like this before -- with whores, he could not care less about their desires and is rather more concerned with his own -- but he wants to set this one loose, to see what she will do with her incipient liberty. She is wet with anticipation, a little sweet and a little salty. Above him, she is shaking, whispering his name, and, suddenly, he is struck by a potentially brilliant idea.
"Ginny, give me your hand," he says, looking up at her and extending his own.
She lays her limp fingers in his palm, and he cradles them gently. "Why?" she asks.
Saying nothing, he places her hand above her thicket of dark red curls. She is still, eyes wide and mouth parted, as he guides her fingers downward, pressing them against her clit, rubbing around it in circles and circles and circles; her head falls backwards against the sofa.
"What I am about to teach you is a very ancient art form that has unfortunately been lost among many women of modern times," Lucius says. "Masturbation is the formal term for it, although the name is hardly important. It is means by which a single individual can pleasure himself without the aid of another. May I ask, Ginny, if you've ever touched yourself before? Perhaps you were young, in the safety of the darkness of your own bedroom, your parents have already gone to bed, and you are thinking of some pretty boy has recently caught your fancy -- were you ever curious enough to try?"
"I -- I suppose I have thought about it before, although I'm not sure when, but, no, I've never tried."
"What stopped you?"
"Well, it isn't very proper, is it? There was always something rather -- rather dirty about the idea of it, isn't there?"
"But how do you know whether or not something is right or wrong, sinful or pure, if you have never experienced it for yourself?" With this challenge, he slides two of her own fingers into her, nestling them to the hilt. Smirking, he moves her fingers in and out of her with practiced fluidity until, of her own volition, she begins to fuck herself and does not stop as he releases her. Lucius stands up, and, bending over her, he whispers into her ear, "Tell me, Ginny, is this dirty?"
"Yes," she mumbles.
"And, now, tell me -- do you like it?"
Below him, she moans. "Yes."
So he backs away, allowing her to continue without his interference, and he observes the tilt of her face, a tendril of hair curling around her delicate chin, the careful motion of her arm as she grows comfortable with her boldness, and his hand plunges into his trousers. Taking himself in his fist, he closes her eyes and pictures her dainty lips encompassing the whole of it, running up and down its length as he thrusts into her mouth --
Ginny's voice shakes him from his fantasies. "Touch me," she mutters, her pitch wavering. "Please, now."
He cannot resist a laugh. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I didn't quite catch that. What is it that you wanted?"
"I said, touch me, touch me there." Her voice cracks.
"Ask me again."
"Please, Lucius, I can't -- "
"I said, ask me."
Her hand moves faster now, and she fights with the question in silence. "Will you touch me there?" she whispers.
Thus, he kneels before her, catches her wrist in his hand, and pins it to the sofa. When his tongue flickers against her, a tremble and a sigh run through the length of her body. But he is not finished yet.
"The floor, Ginny," he commands, his voice ragged.
Flushed, she peels herself away from the sofa, where her wetness has left a stain on the cushions. He debates reminding her of how she ought to arrange herself, but it seems she has not forgotten the details of his sordid plans. She props herself up onto her forearms and knees, her hair spilling over her back.
He stands up and unfastens his trousers, letting them fall to his knees. He takes his cock in his hand and presses it near her entrance, still wet with sweat and saliva and Ginny's own desires. "I would have you return to my house, if you would consent to such a thing." He pushes himself into her until he is buried inside her. She is tight around him, and he thinks that he could empty himself right now, before anything has even begun. "My servants are discreet, and our social circles hardly overlap, do they? There is no need to exchange any prior communication with me if you wish to visit, and I am certain you will agree with me that there is much that cannot be accomplished in a single afternoon."
His hands braced against her hips, he begins to move within her, thrusting to the tempo of a man whose patience has long since given way to incontinence. She pushes back against him, her neck arched and begging. What a selfish creature he has picked off the streets, asking for so much after so short an acquaintance, so he switches his hand against her skin, the crack of flesh against flesh giving Ginny pause, but Lucius want wants to see those broken streaks of red against her paleness. He hits her again, and again, and again, the percussive rhythm driving him towards his climax until he shudders into stillness, coming like a piston within her.
For a few moments, they do not move, he lodged with him her and stretched along the length of her back slick with exertion. Her forearms make no protest to his weight -- it is possible, he thinks, that she is too preoccupied with his hands now cupping and caressing her breasts.
"Very sweet," he whispers.
She shifts underneath him. "What was?"
He bites her gently on the shoulder, smiling as she quivers. "You, naturally."
They are silent for a few moments before Ginny says, in a rather deliciously ambiguous manner, "Harry goes to work every day, you know."
--
Part Two
Signing off, V.M. Bell
Author: V.M. Bell
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to JKR. Title borrowed from T.S. Eliot, who snitched it from Henry James, so, really, it's fair game for anyone.
Summary: Lucius will have her, no matter the price, no matter the consequence, simply because he can. AU, set in Victorian London.
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Lucius/Ginny, established Harry/Ginny
Word Count: 7,605 (14,479 total)
Author's Notes: Over three years ago, I posted this drabble and had always been tempted by the idea of expanding on it. I began tackling that particular endeavour during the summer of 2007, after being inspired by D.H. Lawrence's Lady Chatterly's Lover and a collection of Oscar Wilde plays, and, after many delays and refusals to write smut, even though the latter was rather necessary, it is finally complete. As mentioned above, this fic is entirely AU -- there are no potions, incantations, or any other evidence of magic. Many thanks to alexajohnson, who and especially curia_regis, whose feedback and suggestions were most invaluable in helping me pull this together at the end. All concrit, comments, and reviews are appreciated.
--
Women are a fascinatingly wilful sex. Every woman is a rebel and usually in wild revolt against herself. -- Oscar Wilde, A Woman of No Importance
Lucius Malfoy spots her first at the opera, located some distance away on the mezzanine level; a woman with hair that red cannot be easily overlooked. Intrigued, he eyes her slim waist, her attentive gaze, her poised carriage. His gaze lingers, and he cannot be bothered to listen to the soprano as she launches into her aria or to stand as the rest of the hall raises itself in a thunderous ovation at the music's conclusion. He watches only her, the gloved fingers wrapped around opera glasses, the movement of her mouth as she speaks to a dark-haired man beside her, the sweep of her dress as she exits her seat. His gaze follows it, and he knows with the lazy assurance of nobility that he will have her, no matter the price, no matter the consequence, simply because he can.
Later, Lucius finds her lingering near the doorway of the opera house. Her arm is resting upon the dark-haired man's. Lucius stands a handful of paces away, superficially interested in a nearby painting.
"I thought it was well worth an evening," he hears her say.
"Ginny, I just cannot understand what you like about opera. All of the screaming just leaves me with a headache."
" 'Screaming,' Harry?" Ginny laughs. "You've no grasp of culture whatsoever, and, besides, I can only go to so many of your friends' dinner parties before I practically drown in the boredom of it all."
"That is a debate we can have at a later point, no?" Lucius turns his head enough to see Harry grace the back of her hand with a kiss. Her attentions drift away from her husband, and she surveys the bustle around her. They trade glances, accidentally, but the moment is so brief as to be insignificant. "It is getting late, dear, and they're expecting me early at the office tomorrow. Shall we go home?"
"Of course," she says, laying a hand on his arm, and together, they exit.
Obscured by darkness, Lucius follows them. Their light, perfunctory conversation about next week's dinner, hosted by Mr. So-and-So who had enraged Mrs. So-and-So by having an affair with Mrs. This-and-That, does not interest him. Indeed, he does not hear anything of their conversation at all, only the low purr of her voice when she laughs, the brush of fabric against the ground as she walks with careful rhythm. They pause before a building that has become typical of London's well endowed middle class. Lucius retreats to the street corner and hides behind a similar building, waiting until they were safely indoors and the night uttered not a sound.
Lucius returns to their front door and commits their address to memory. Standing there, he allows himself to wonder: what would that skin, stripped of its cumbersome clothing, feel like under his running hands? Would she remain silent, demure in her sensuality, viewing his lust as simply an obligation to be met, or would a greater passion lurk beneath? Does that perfectly composed exterior hide something voluptuous, something shameless?
Such questions, he thinks, could only be answered through experimentation, just as the current obsession with progress dictated.
--
All experiments must begin with a careful regimen of empirical observation, for it the foremost means of ascertaining existing conditions and circumstances. The observation must be both methodical and regular, then rigorously evaluated before the experimenter determines how best to proceed.
He has already learned some basic facts about the Potters' existence. Ginny's husband, Harry, is a lawyer. He has heard them referencing the profession when she walks him to the front door at eight in the morning and bids him goodbye with a brief kiss on the cheek. He does not return until the early evening, sometimes later, but Ginny always seems to be waiting by the door when he enters. She kisses him on the cheek again and unfailingly asks him how his day at the office was. He unfailingly replies that it was good, devolves some meaningless details, and asks if dinner is ready. Ginny says that she has been waiting for him, for which he offhandedly apologizes, and then she links her arm in his and leads him into the house.
In the hours she has to herself, Ginny appears to keep herself occupied with a constant stream of callers. Even from a distance, he can understand why she is a popular hostess: she is greets her guests with magnanimity, asking after their child, ailing relative, or some other worthy cause, and they respond enthusiastically to her concern as she guides them into the house and shuts the door behind them. If Lucius were a less attentive man, he would have dismissed her life as the paragon of all that this era strives to achieve: a prosperous household, a suitable husband, and a dimpled wife with naught but grace to her personage.
As usual, the key to understanding a woman lies in the details often overlooked by others, intentionally or not; Lucius prides himself on knowing how to detect and exploit them. Ginny Potter is not such a difficult puzzle to solve, in the end. The greater the insincerity of a woman, the higher her voice is, and Ginny's is comparable to the little silver flute of the orchestra, twittering ascending and descending scales without pausing for breath but veering off key with the effort. Although she carries herself with unshakeable posture, her back as stiff as a rod, her hands are restless, often clasped together, kneading each other. Lucius understands that it is fashionable for ladies to act nervously in the company of others, but there is something about Ginny, he realizes, that does not fit with everything else around her.
He must know more.
Thus, Lucius is quite pleased with himself when he slips undetected into the Potters' modest garden, where he now stands with his back against the wall, his ears attuned to any signs of talking from within. It is his fifth visit to their residence since the night of the opera, although it is the first time he has dared to trespass onto their property. It is the necessary next step: only so much can be gleaned from his usual haunt by the street corner. He hears the bustling of a maid, offering butter or jam to her employers, followed by the clinking of silverware as the Potters enjoy their breakfast on a fine London morning. There are a few minutes of silence, and, then, Ginny speaks, her words barely discernable.
"Did you sleep well last night, Harry?"
"All right, and you, Ginny?"
"Quite well, thank you."
"I don't seem to remember you turning off the light. Had I already fallen asleep by then?"
"Yes, you did -- you had even forgotten to take off your glasses."
Harry laughs. "Did I? I ought to thank you for removing them; otherwise, I imagine I would have slept on them at some point during the night. Why were you up so late, anyway, Ginny?"
"I was reading."
"It must have been good."
"It was George Eliot's new novel, Daniel Deronda. I could hardly put it down. You ought to read it at some point, Harry. Did you see that I left it on your nightstand? I was -- I thought we might both read it and perhaps discuss it."
"Yes, perhaps one day, but you know how these things are, dear. I have been working toward this promotion for over a year, and, if our clients aren't completely satisfied with the services I provide to them, then they can simply take their case to another firm, and we are left without any business whatsoever."
"I know your work is important to you, Harry. I know you have been busy. It is -- it is just that I remember you enjoy George Eliot's work, which is why I picked up Daniel Deronda the other day at all."
"I'm sorry, dear, but I just haven't the time right now. This pastry is quite delicious, though, I must say."
There is a lull in the conversation, and Lucius can only imagine the crestfallen expression on Ginny's face as her loving husband tells her, apparently not for the first time, that there is something he values more highly than her. But he can also imagine a frustration, long silent, festering within her, and it is not long before she speaks again.
"You always say that."
"Excuse me?"
"That you don't have time for me."
"Ginny, I did not say that I didn't have time for you, in particular -- rather, I do not have time for much of anything."
"But am I not important to you?"
"We have discussed this before. Of course you are important to me -- you are the most important person in the world to me, and I cannot begin to conceive of my life without you. You know I love you, don't you?"
"I love you too, Harry."
"And you know that, every day, I am getting closer to the promotion? Just think about how much more pleasant life will be after it. Moving ever upward, you and I."
"That is all you ever talk about."
"Now, dear, there is no need to take that tone with me." Harry sighs. "I understand this has not been easy for you, but it will only be for a little while longer, I promise. You believe me, don't you?"
"Yes, of course."
"That's the spirit, Ginny! I hope you understand that it has been difficult for me too, not being able to spend the same amount of time with you as I once did. Oh, I had wanted to surprise you with this at a later date, but now is as good a time as any to tell you. My superiors at the firm have told me that they are quite impressed with my performance lately, and so they have seen fit to give me a very long break from work in about a month and a half's time. I thought that we might tour the Continent together, just as we had always planned to."
"Well, I suppose I have always wanted to go to France..."
"There, you see? That is something for you to look forward to while I am gone during the days. Speaking of which, I've only just noticed the time, and -- "
"Ah, you're going to be late for work?"
"Indeed, if I do not hurry up."
"Then let us walk to the door together."
Their footsteps grow distant as they leave the dining area, and Lucius thinks that this will be easier than he originally planned.
--
Two weeks later, Lucius is spending his morning at the local park, occupied with a newspaper. He reads the articles without much interest, but there is little else to be done. He has already walked by her house this morning, hoping to catch a glimpse of her silhouette in the window, but he cursed to himself when he found it empty of residents. He has grown bored of inaction, and the prospect of simply seducing her in her own home grows increasingly tempting. Of course, he is not idiotic enough to do that -- the entire affair must be conducted on his terms alone. There is an opportune moment for everything, and he is still waiting for his.
When he next lowers his newspaper, he inhales sharply. Quite simply and quite alone, she is sitting at a bench across from him, engrossed in a book. Her eyes dart across the text, and he fights the urge to rip the volume from her hands. Instead, he folds the newspaper and simply stares at her as she progresses from page to page to page, waiting, waiting for her to set the book aside, possibly chance a yawn --
And this is exactly what Ginny does, daintily covering her mouth in the meanwhile. As she reaches for her book to resume reading, she suddenly stops, her fingers hovering inches above the bench. She blinks, lifts her head. Her eyes widen, and he summons a most debonair smile while she studies him. Lucius thinks that, if he were an unguarded woman subject to a stranger's attentions, he would certainly run. But she does not run. She does not seem to acknowledge anything or anyone around her but him, so Lucius folds his newspaper and walks over to her.
She looks up at him. Her speech is blunt. Instantly, he recognizes this as the Ginny that he witnessed that morning in the dining area: this is the Ginny that surfaces when she is overwhelmed by the insensitivity and condescension of her husband. "Do I know you, sir?"
"I do believe we ran into one another at the opera a number of weeks ago, madam." He inclines his head. "Perhaps you remember me now?"
"I ran into no one at the opera." Her stare narrows. "I was there with my husband. Only my husband," she adds.
"Your husband Harry?" Chuckling, he can see that she is disconcerted by his knowledge of her. "And you -- you are Ginny, correct?"
Her scowl deepens. "Ginny Potter."
"Potter. A delightfully plebeian name, I see."
"And you are?" she demands.
"Lucius Malfoy, madam."
He reaches for her hand, as all civilized gentlemen must, and plants a kiss upon its warmth. She smells of disarming innocence -- he recognizes her perfume, which is all the rage among London's matrons -- but there is somewhat else. His lips remain pressed to her as he identifies this new scent: it is the musk of woman as the flush rises to the skin, the hurry of the blood as expectations tremble. He must have her splayed before him, he decides, and perhaps Mrs. Potter need it too. With such a thought in mind, his smile widens.
He is not able to entertain this thought for long, however, before she withdraws her hand and, wrinkling her nose, rubs it against her gown.
"Lucius Malfoy? I know who you are."
"Ah, it pleases me to see that you are already acquainted with me."
"Yes, and I want nothing to do with you, Mr. Malfoy."
"You may call me Lucius, Ginny. We've no need for formalities between us."
"Why should that be? I did not realize that men of such stature --" Her voice is all derision " -- consorted with people like me."
"As a rule, it is true that men like me try to keep our social contacts within the right circles. The Malfoy name, as you know, is attached to quite a fortune. My late father -- God rest his soul -- was a wealthy man, well known throughout London for his philanthropic contributions and such things. I am afraid I cannot say the same for myself, but, then, I have no desire to."
"And I have no desire to continue this conversation with you any longer. Please leave me, Mr. Malfoy."
"Let us imagine that I do not. What will you do then?"
Ginny sits down. Plucking at her skirts, she seems distinctly ill at ease, though her grimace is as unshakeable as ever. "I will ignore you."
Picking up the book, she flips it open and studies the page intently. Noticing that her eyes remain fixed on the same point, Lucius permits her a minute's peace. During that time, he studies the grass, the trees, the sky, the two little boys chasing each other around a tree, and, when he looks at her again, he finds that her gaze has not stirred in the least bit.
He lowers himself onto the bench, occupying the empty seat beside her. "Ginny, you are aware that your eyes alone will not bore a hole through the middle of that book, no matter how much you glare at it."
She shuts the book with enough ferocity to stun even him, albeit only momentarily. "If you are not going to leave, then I will."
"Then leave," he says lightly.
Eyeing him for a moment, a contemptuous hmph escapes from her lips as she motions to stand up, but, before she can push herself up from the bench, he snakes a hand around her waist, pulling her back and crushing her to his side. She fights against his grip, but he does not relent.
"I have been watching you, you know."
"Have you?" she says. "What a lucky woman that makes me -- I am sure that every wife in London wants a serial womanizer lurking right outside her door."
"Ah, but we serial womanizers would be far less successful in our art if the women we sought did not willingly comply with our desires and their own. This particular one has been lurking outside your door rather often since the night of the opera, in fact. I must admit that, even in this city of abundant entertainment, it has become a favorite pastime of mine."
She squirms, and he holds her yet tighter. A gasp of pain tumbles, unbidden, from her mouth; his loins twitch at the sound, but he wills himself to remain calm.
"What do you want with me?"
"Why, my dear, that should be quite obvious, shouldn't it? I want you." She freezes, her mouth parted ever so slightly as she considers the revelation. "And I will have you, you see," he whispers.
Her eyes dart around the park, where urban denizens are practicing their daily routines. "Please leave me alone, Mr. Malfoy."
"I will have you," he whispers.
"I said, please leave me alone," she repeats, this time with force.
"Say yes, Mrs. Potter."
A pause. "And if I do not?"
Toward him, she directs nothing but simple hatred, her brown eyes catching the sunlight as they challenge him. Lucius dismisses it, his free hand rising to trace the contours of her chin as the other clings tighter to her waist. There are no lines to crease her youth, no experience to dampen her apparent naïveté. She believes she is resisting him with her caustic repartee when, really, resistance was never an option he was willing to offer. The experiment, he thinks, begins here. He lowers his face to hers, an even, calibrated descent, but it is only when his lips cover the whole of her mouth, his tongue slipping into that dark pink cavern, that she begins struggling in earnest. How sweet, how very sweet -- her entire body twists against his, and she whimpers. He clenches her, swallowing her cries.
Of course she has been kissed before, and, of course, she has lain with man between her legs. It is a wife's duty, after all, to provide her husband with a child, and intercourse is the necessary and singular means to that end. But she cannot ever have felt this, sheer ardor gnawing through her gentility and rooting itself deeply in untouched lands.
When he pulls away, she looks devastated.
"I -- I have a husband," she protests. Lucius quirks an eyebrow and lays two fingers flat against her wrist. Beneath his pressure, he feels her pulse racing and chuckles, much to her seeming chagrin. "What? What are you laughing at?"
"So you have a husband, and you say it with such poise. Well done. Now, I am supposed to think that you are strong enough to control your own impulses, or perhaps I am supposed to believe that you do not even have impulses, that I have not affected you at all." He leans in, his mouth a breath away from her ear. He holds himself quite still, and she is still. He waits -- and, almost imperceptibly, she shivers. "You see, Mrs. Potter, you are quite mistaken. You're shaking."
"You don't scare me."
Her words are rough.
"Oh, I know." From his pocket, Lucius extracts a folded scrap of paper and places it in her hand. Retreating, Lucius lets her go, gathers his things, and stands up. "I've known women like you. You're never afraid, really, but it isn't fear you're trembling with."
--
It is a risk that could easily jeopardize the entire venture. It is possible that she will forget the thrill of wrongness that surged through her when she did something that is expressively forbidden by society -- that is, when she, a married woman, kissed a man, not her husband, in a public place. It is possible that he has overestimated the extent of her desire. It is possible that she tossed that paper into a waste heap, having never given it a single glance.
But Lucius despises regrets. He will not abandon his original method. He will not lurk by her window. He will not seek her out again. She must come to him of her own volition.
Exactly sixteen days elapse between the rendezvous in the park and the tepid echo of doorknocker. A servant moves towards the door, but Lucius dismisses him. He mimics surprise upon discovering her standing before him, but he has to remind himself to effect impeccable normalcy in her presence. "Why, Ginny, how lovely it is to see you again."
"Oh, spare me your theatrics."
She is wearing a hat of dark green and a dress of an identical color. A length of buttons runs from her neck to her navel, and the dress is gathered in a bustle at the back.
"Please," he says, "step inside. Would you like some tea, perhaps?"
She walks into the shade of his house, removing her hat. "I suppose."
"Alfred," Lucius calls out, "some tea for my guest and myself in the parlor, please."
An isolated sound of assent from somewhere inside the house. Lucius returns to Ginny. "This way, Ginny."
He does not need to look at her to know that she is gaping at every inch of his house. The Potters, he surmises, must be wealthy people to live in the neighborhood that they do, but wealth is not a uniform term. Money is ever an admirable thing, but it is too easily obtained in this day and age. Money coupled with the prestige of aristocratic lineage, however, is an uncommon occurrence and an utterly seductive one. Gold can be earned by the basest of laborers for a day's work; prestige is the accumulation of greatness.
The tea set, imported from the Orient, is already awaiting them in the parlor. The room is truly the heart of the Malfoy residence -- Lucius remembers his father spending his evenings in this very room, drinking and smoking with his friends into the late hours of the night. Draped with portraits, the walls bear evidence of the family's illustrious history; heavy curtains prevent the light from discoloring the paints.
"It's a very nice house," Ginny remarks flatly.
"So I have heard." He gestures to a pair of sofas. "Do sit. I would hate for my guest to feel any sort of discomfort."
She does as she is told, and Lucius pours two cups of tea. He pushes one of them towards her. "Milk, sugar, or both?"
"Neither."
"I see. As for myself, I have always found tea to be a tad too bitter for my liking. I need at least a touch of sugar to, shall we say, rein in the bitterness. You do not find this to be so?"
She lifts the cup to her mouth. "I will drink it however I wish to drink it."
He reaches for the sugar bowl. "May you drink to your heart's content, then."
To be alone in a locked room with only one other person is never a particularly comfortable situation. To pretend to be intensely interested in one's tea in lieu of speaking to the other can only exacerbate this situation. In the silence, the two protagonists grapple with one another. Who will be the first to admit defeat and subsequently initiate conversation, or are they both too headstrong to concede a word?
What Ginny does not know is that Lucius has already removed himself from this conflict. He is watching her, trying to harvest from the details the very essence of her. She purses her lips before every sip of tea, and the liquid flows through the small o of her mouth. Every so often, she wipes it with the back of her hand and looks away -- discreetly, always. She never returns the cup to its saucer, even when she is not drinking from it. She prefers to hold it beneath her chin, her hand only lightly grasping its handle. It is in the course of this routine that he notices the slanted glance in his direction, and Lucius knows that he has guessed her correctly.
Perhaps purposefully, he lets slip a quiet laugh. Ginny throws down her teacup with enough force to crack both it and the unfortunate saucer upon which it lands. Lucius laughs harder as she turns red. What a poor, mistaken girl she is to believe that he is mocking her -- no, he is laughing as only men who have achieved something grand can laugh.
All the same, he cannot help but goad her on. "Oh, my servants will not like that, no, not at all. I promise you that these cups probably cost more than your entire house -- "
"Damn your teacups." She rises, her fingers balled into fists. "You and I both know why I am here, yet you -- "
"Then why are you here?" he asks.
There is stillness as her mouth pleads for an answer. "Because..."
From across the table, Lucius reaches for her. He unbuttons the cuffs on her sleeves and pushes them back. His hands encircle her wrists, caressing the bones beneath. When their eyes meet, he knows that he has her. He raises an eyebrow. "Because?"
She does not resist him when he pulls her to his side and presses the length of his body against hers, but he does not kiss her: she kisses him in that desperate manner of a woman whose true desires have been muted for too long. Oh, he knows that, today, they will do far more than kiss, but, even to one as jaded as Lucius Malfoy, veteran of the great brothels of Europe, the intimacy of two mouths and their mingled tastes is impetus enough. His hands seek her throat, where the buttons begin, and they surrender to his insistent pull. Downward, downward they travel until the gown pools at her feet.
He slides a hand underneath her hoops and petticoats and shift, teasing and tickling until they graze the folds of her cunt. Ginny clutches his shoulders, turning rigid above his touch, and, for a moment, he contemplates thrusting his fingers into her until she buckles against the pleasure, but restraint is paramount, he reminds himself.
He pulls himself up to his full height. "Turn around," he says. She does as he says, and he can hear her exhale conspicuously as he unlaces her corset, which he tosses aside. "Don't you think," he begins, now sliding her crinoline and petticoats from her waist, "that all of these undergarments are an unnecessary burden for the contemporary woman? One would think that these trappings belong to a far less civilized world."
Ginny rubs her own arms. Suddenly, she is not the woman of a moment ago, not the woman who would dare to stand on her toes and kiss an aristocratic stranger. And Lucius -- he can understand her somewhat. There is kissing, and then there is somewhat more. This cannot be rushed.
"They are only a burden to men like you, who'd rather not bother with them at all," she retorts.
Lucius smiles at her comment and takes a step backwards, admiring his handiwork. "Does your dear Harry undress you like this?"
"My maid does that for me before I go to bed."
"So Harry sees you like this: in your shift."
She replies with a shrug.
"Does he take it off you?"
Her eyes widen momentarily, embarrassed, perhaps, that she is having such a conversation, but if she is not yet accustomed to saying such things, he will break her inhibitions in time. "He just -- leaves it around my waist, most of the time."
"Do you find yourself satisfied afterwards?"
"More or less."
"You don't ask for more?"
"Not of Harry."
She says it very slowly. Clearing his throat, Lucius nods. "Take it off, then."
"Take -- "
"Your shift, Ginny. Take it off."
Hesitating somewhat, she reaches for its hem. She lifts it with an unsteady deliberation until Lucius, breathing slowly, beholds her in the nude.
He approaches her from behind, his hands sculpting her flesh, rubbing his lust into her breasts, marking it along her spine. She is trying not to stir, as if to prove to him that, all along, their attraction was naught more than a stray product of the imagination, but there is a line of chilled saliva on her back now and he is on his knees. Kissing, licking, even biting on occasion, his mouth is pressed against the small of her back. As he begins to wonder why she remains so passive, he lowers his head further yet, his tongue pushing insistently.
She moans, the startled sound of it scraping against the air, and Lucius can restrain himself no longer He rises, locks his arms around her, carries her to the sofa, pinning her down against the seat cushions. He straddles her, kisses her neck glistening with sweat, but with a surprising amount of force, she pushes him back. Bemused, he stops and stands up.
"I can't do this," she murmurs.
"Oh? It is only when her clothes are scattered about the room that the virtuous Mrs. Potter objects."
"I can't -- " She breaks off, averting her eyes elsewhere.
"You can't what? You must know how you frustrate me when you do not finish your sentences."
"I can't do this."
"So you said."
"I'm not -- I'm not quite sure what I am supposed to say. It is only that -- well, I'm not supposed to be doing this, am I? We are not supposed to be doing this."
In a perversely gentle manner, he smoothes her hair and kisses her forehead. "How kind of you, to worry yourself so about my morality. Remember, however, that, between the two of us, it is I that has the most freedom to do as I please. Whether or not you wish to commit this unfaithful act is entirely your decision."
Biting her lip, she looks away.
"I concede that it is possible I judged you incorrectly," Lucius continues. "I thought, Ginny, that you were somewhat more than the prim, conventional married woman, content to be the source of your husband's limited pleasure and no more."
She shakes her head vigorously. "It isn't like that. Harry loves me."
"That I do not doubt. I also do not doubt that you love him, that you will live out the end of your happy days with him, that you will have many adorable Potters running about, and so forth. But you're not here because I love you." He pauses, then smirks. "Tell me, when your husband has your shift around your waist, what does he do next?"
"Well, he has me on my back," she says, very quickly.
"And he is on top of you, I presume?"
"Yes, something like it. Then he -- well, you know, until he -- " She breaks off.
"Reaches his climax?" Lucius offers. She blushes. "Do you do anything, dear Ginny?"
"I don't understand."
"For instance, do you take him in your mouth and suck him?"
"Do you take me for a common whore?"
He runs a hand through her curls, smiling to himself. "You don't suck him."
"Never," she flatly states. "I do not even know where you thought of such an idea."
"Has he ever asked you to suck him?"
"No."
"What a hopeless specimen your husband is. Do you ever touch him?"
She hesitates. "Sometimes, but only to guide him."
"Therefore, would I be correct in assuming that you never seek to be anything but the perfect receptacle for your husband's lust?"
"I suppose not."
"Does it irritate you at all, the repetitive nature of the act?"
"To be honest, I don't think about it very often. I thought about it more when we were first married, but it has been a number of years now. The affairs of the bedroom -- they are no longer important to me. Of course, we are still trying to conceive a child, but as you can see -- " Ginny looks down at her stomach " -- there has not been much progress."
"You were taught, I'm sure, by your dear mother and other society matrons that it would not do to appear excessively wanton before your husband, that your pleasure was secondary to being a child-bearing wife, and that you would be judged by how well you performed your spousal duties?"
"Isn't everyone taught that?"
"Ah, and that is the problem, isn't it? You are taught to view sex as just another duty. Even if you women do manage to find joy in it, you suppress it. Sex is wicked, immoral, and sinful, they cry! Men, of course, are allowed a little more liberty. If their wives do not make them happy enough -- well, that would be why whoring is such lucrative business. Tell me, Ginny, when you have finished pleasing Harry, does he ever ask you if you are satiated? Do you ever think about your own desires and how they might be satiated? Do you even believe that you have your own desires?"
She does not answer.
"Then let me speak to you of my own desires. Perhaps they will inspire you. As you can see, I am a bachelor with not an insignificant amount of money and status. I can walk into brothels as I please, I can buy all the whores I want, and why, I can even have many of them at the same time -- a thoroughly enjoyable endeavor, I might add. But there is a difference between the common prostitute and you, my dear Ginny. You are not so easily obtained. You are married, as we have established a number of times now, and I sense that you pride yourself on your propriety. When I saw you at the opera, however, I surmised that there was more to you than your bourgeois façade.
"You see, I want to destroy that façade, and I have already begun to do so. I am sure that Harry never kissed you as I have kissed you, but I am not done yet. No, Ginny, you are not merely different from the common prostitute: you are a far different class of woman. I do not even have to know your personal history and tribulations to understand that you are trapped -- trapped by the indoctrinations of your upbringing, by the insensitivity of your husband, and, until I approached you in the park, I do believe that you were entirely unaware of it."
"Then -- " She swallows. "Then what are you going to do to me?"
"To begin, you are already naked. I could do as Harry does to you, but that would be dull, wouldn't it? Instead, I would have you sit upright, if you can, and spread your legs."
"But how can a man and a woman, well, you know..."
"Alas, that the education of young women today should have descended to this state! I suppose it is now left up to me to correct it. This -- " Kneeling on the floor, he rubs a finger against the little nub of flesh above her cunt, and she cries aloud " -- is your clitoris. I imagine that Harry has never touched you there? Of course he hasn't. What would a man like him know about pleasing women when he only seeks to be pleased himself? And, when I think you are ready -- I have no doubt that you will be a quick study -- I will please you like this." He slips a finger into her, already slick with arousal. "This, of course, is your cunt. You are already familiar with it, naturally, but I imagine that, until now, you were under the impression that its only function was to aid in the processes of conceiving and birthing a child? Not an incorrect impression, but it is incomplete. Hopefully, you will have a better understanding of its many uses by the end of today."
"And?" she says between breaths.
"The good Mrs. Potter wants more?" He laughs quietly. "I shall preoccupy myself with that for a time, and then, perhaps, if you would like it -- " He touches a finger to her clitoris again, and she arches against the cushions " -- I will touch you right there. Do you think these are enough lessons for one day?"
"I -- "
He can see her mouthing the words, but she makes no sound.
"Ah, Ginny, I know that you have been trained to monitor what you say most carefully, but, in front of me, you should feel no such restraint."
She blushes. "I -- it's -- it's awfully difficult to unlearn something I have been taught for my entire life."
"I understand, Ginny. There was much that I needed to unlearn when my tyrant of a father passed away, such as the importance of personal ethics and social responsibility, for instance. It is a gradual process, this realizing that all we have ever believed to be true is, in fact, false, but it must begin somewhere, no?"
"I -- I want more," she finishes, looking away.
"I suspected that might be the case. Did you want to request anything in particular?" She shakes her head. He rises and kisses her on the mouth, his tongue languidly playing with hers. "Well, then I will have you kneel on all fours on the carpet there, and I will take you from behind while you make pretty noises. And you will, won't you?"
Again, she does not reply. Silence as agreement, he thinks, getting to his feet.
"Sit closer to the edge of the sofa, if you can," he says.
Hesitating only momentarily, she does as he orders. Her legs remained pressed together. "Are you going to take your clothes off?" she ventures.
"Eventually. But not today, I think."
"That isn't very fair, is it?"
Lucius lowers himself before her, his hands resting upon her knees. There is nothing erotic about the knees, he imagines, but, as he touches them, he senses that she is trembling. A hesitation, then he pushes her legs apart. Ginny makes a hissing noise. "There will be no need for me to take off my clothes today. Not all of them, anyway, unless Mrs. Potter would like to see me without them?"
He does not wait for her stammered response before he lowers his head and kisses her between the legs. Pausing, he allows the shudder to run through her, then proceeds, his tongue, languorous, probing the corners of flesh previously unknown, and, when she has settled down somewhat, he presses a little harder and with greater rapidity. It occurs to him, for a moment, that he has never pleasured a woman like this before -- with whores, he could not care less about their desires and is rather more concerned with his own -- but he wants to set this one loose, to see what she will do with her incipient liberty. She is wet with anticipation, a little sweet and a little salty. Above him, she is shaking, whispering his name, and, suddenly, he is struck by a potentially brilliant idea.
"Ginny, give me your hand," he says, looking up at her and extending his own.
She lays her limp fingers in his palm, and he cradles them gently. "Why?" she asks.
Saying nothing, he places her hand above her thicket of dark red curls. She is still, eyes wide and mouth parted, as he guides her fingers downward, pressing them against her clit, rubbing around it in circles and circles and circles; her head falls backwards against the sofa.
"What I am about to teach you is a very ancient art form that has unfortunately been lost among many women of modern times," Lucius says. "Masturbation is the formal term for it, although the name is hardly important. It is means by which a single individual can pleasure himself without the aid of another. May I ask, Ginny, if you've ever touched yourself before? Perhaps you were young, in the safety of the darkness of your own bedroom, your parents have already gone to bed, and you are thinking of some pretty boy has recently caught your fancy -- were you ever curious enough to try?"
"I -- I suppose I have thought about it before, although I'm not sure when, but, no, I've never tried."
"What stopped you?"
"Well, it isn't very proper, is it? There was always something rather -- rather dirty about the idea of it, isn't there?"
"But how do you know whether or not something is right or wrong, sinful or pure, if you have never experienced it for yourself?" With this challenge, he slides two of her own fingers into her, nestling them to the hilt. Smirking, he moves her fingers in and out of her with practiced fluidity until, of her own volition, she begins to fuck herself and does not stop as he releases her. Lucius stands up, and, bending over her, he whispers into her ear, "Tell me, Ginny, is this dirty?"
"Yes," she mumbles.
"And, now, tell me -- do you like it?"
Below him, she moans. "Yes."
So he backs away, allowing her to continue without his interference, and he observes the tilt of her face, a tendril of hair curling around her delicate chin, the careful motion of her arm as she grows comfortable with her boldness, and his hand plunges into his trousers. Taking himself in his fist, he closes her eyes and pictures her dainty lips encompassing the whole of it, running up and down its length as he thrusts into her mouth --
Ginny's voice shakes him from his fantasies. "Touch me," she mutters, her pitch wavering. "Please, now."
He cannot resist a laugh. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I didn't quite catch that. What is it that you wanted?"
"I said, touch me, touch me there." Her voice cracks.
"Ask me again."
"Please, Lucius, I can't -- "
"I said, ask me."
Her hand moves faster now, and she fights with the question in silence. "Will you touch me there?" she whispers.
Thus, he kneels before her, catches her wrist in his hand, and pins it to the sofa. When his tongue flickers against her, a tremble and a sigh run through the length of her body. But he is not finished yet.
"The floor, Ginny," he commands, his voice ragged.
Flushed, she peels herself away from the sofa, where her wetness has left a stain on the cushions. He debates reminding her of how she ought to arrange herself, but it seems she has not forgotten the details of his sordid plans. She props herself up onto her forearms and knees, her hair spilling over her back.
He stands up and unfastens his trousers, letting them fall to his knees. He takes his cock in his hand and presses it near her entrance, still wet with sweat and saliva and Ginny's own desires. "I would have you return to my house, if you would consent to such a thing." He pushes himself into her until he is buried inside her. She is tight around him, and he thinks that he could empty himself right now, before anything has even begun. "My servants are discreet, and our social circles hardly overlap, do they? There is no need to exchange any prior communication with me if you wish to visit, and I am certain you will agree with me that there is much that cannot be accomplished in a single afternoon."
His hands braced against her hips, he begins to move within her, thrusting to the tempo of a man whose patience has long since given way to incontinence. She pushes back against him, her neck arched and begging. What a selfish creature he has picked off the streets, asking for so much after so short an acquaintance, so he switches his hand against her skin, the crack of flesh against flesh giving Ginny pause, but Lucius want wants to see those broken streaks of red against her paleness. He hits her again, and again, and again, the percussive rhythm driving him towards his climax until he shudders into stillness, coming like a piston within her.
For a few moments, they do not move, he lodged with him her and stretched along the length of her back slick with exertion. Her forearms make no protest to his weight -- it is possible, he thinks, that she is too preoccupied with his hands now cupping and caressing her breasts.
"Very sweet," he whispers.
She shifts underneath him. "What was?"
He bites her gently on the shoulder, smiling as she quivers. "You, naturally."
They are silent for a few moments before Ginny says, in a rather deliciously ambiguous manner, "Harry goes to work every day, you know."
--
Part Two
Signing off, V.M. Bell