Cunnilingus Totalus

Totalus

Smudged here with betel juice, burnished
there
with aloe paste, a splash of powder in one
corner,
and lacquer from footprints embroidered in
another,
with flowers from her hair strewn all over
its winding crumpled folds, the sheets
celebrate
the joy of making love to...

—"The Sheets," anonymous Sanskrit poem

The silence is long as Hermione rests and studies him.

His is a body she has watched grow up. Every stage, every age. Smooth cheeks, now angular and intent. Every emotion once raw and visible on his face, now capable of being shielded and Occluded.

What a journey: from a proud, mouthy prat strutting the halls, to a voice-cracked young teenager, to the tall, slender pile of limbs in her arms.

She grins guiltily. She did, indeed, cheat before coming to meet him. Her source material had been good. She runs her fingers along his face: cheeks and lips flushed from kissing. Eyebrows full and sharp, darker than his hair. Eyes surprisingly large and long-lashed. Attentive, calm, ready for her.

The ridges of his cheekbones. A splash of tiny, silver freckles on his nose, under his eyes. One under his eyelid that looks especially tender. Constellation Macula: the careless scattering of beauty.

Hair rumpled like silver fire. Strands loose along his forehead. The lovely curves of a hairline, wavy and irregular like a seashore or a cloud. Light evening fuzz coming in. His smooth neck gleaming out of his increasingly unbuttoned shirt.

On his mouth — now in a plaintive little pout — wonder, humor, and a helpless and singleminded question: please, miss, can I have some more.

By way of a hint, he presses his mouth slowly to her curls, his lips still wet from her.

"You're crying," he asks in a small voice. "Is that — good?"

It's true. She is still crying. Pieces of her scattered all over the bed, all over him, all over the library. Drifting across the valley of pleasure. A new map of experience. New and tingling territory.

Somewhere none of her books have spoken or even hinted about.

I feel stupid. He Stupefied me, she thinks. She's glad he did, and she's also afraid. Afraid that now that he's done it, he can take it away.

She needs defense against this dizziness. This intensity of desire.

Slowly she comes to herself. Collects her wits. Sits up. Then gives him a sly smile.

"A worthy attempt," she says casually, brushing her hair back to uncover her breasts. "But maybe next time you can give me a real orgasm."

He sits up immediately. "What?" he almost shrieks.

Then, more hungrily: "Next time?"

He's so distraught and confused and appalled that she bursts out laughing. Nuzzling his frowny face, she murmurs, "Got you."

"Ugh." He makes an impatient sound at being gotten, and despite himself, kisses her again. A long, falling star of a kiss as they fall back into the sheets.

She decides to reward him. "I feel like I understand," she says, blushing to her roots as she says it. Hearing it, he gives her a grin like he could swallow the whole library and all its books.

But he is soft in his victory. "Tell me what you understand," he murmurs, his fingers skimming her sides and stomach. She swallows as she absorbs the touch — he's exploring her as if she's a brand new being just arrived on earth. A live, delicate visitor from the clouds.