Azael's Chains

Interlude

She was a pretty little thing, slight as a flower in his arms despite the weeks of coaxing weight onto her slender form. He hadn't seen her bare since the night of her punishment, but he could see it in the way her hips rounded underneath her dresses, the skin over chest plump enough he couldn't count every little bump of her ribs. Still delightfully breakable, but with an added softness that made his mouth water.

Antonin shifted her drowsing figure to his chest, flicking down her bed dressing enough to slide his little kitten onto sheets nearly as cashmere soft as her skin. She stirred, toffee-sweet eyes squinting up at him. "Shh," he hushed, dipping to sit beside her, to run his fingers over her smooth cheek to trail down to that thimble waist. Sleep addled sense let her bat ineffectually, but he only chuckled.

She was too tempting like this, petal lips parted and doe brows pinched. He fumbled for his wand, boyish impotence cloying his fingers as he muttered the incantation to remove her gown. Hermione, sweet rose, curled in on herself, porcelain frail fingers fluttering over her breasts.

"Shush, kitten." He lowered himself beside her, along her, her warmly glowing skin magnetic through his layers. "I'm not going to fuck you tonight." He smoothed a thumb over her wrinkled brows until her breathing evened again. She'd had too much to drink, a pity for her, but a delight for him. He could view her perfect little form without consequence. Antonin allowed fingers to trail up and down her body, eyes flicking from her skin to her face. Gooseflesh followed his touch. But the line of her lashes was still.

There was no sight like that of a beautiful woman in vulnerable sleep. It was intimate. Antonin had not taken a lover in years, and never one serious. He'd waited decades, intent on being there should the one woman he'd fallen for in his youth change her mind.

Trembling cupid's bow, milky throat, midnight blue eyes filling up with tears.

He groaned and shook the memory from his head in favor of the living, breathing little doll reposing beside him. Antonin brushed one palm over her little breasts, dusky rose nipples pebbling in the amber firelight.

She was a goddess like this; wild curls splayed on the autumnal pillows, little breasts rounded so the curves of them were clear lines against her ribcage, limbs just imperfectly posed, suggesting innocence. The line of her stomach led to the sweet indent of her navel, drawing the eye to the swell of hips that set his blood aflame.

The warm light was kind to her, bathing her in shades of subtle gold and orange, velvet purple shadows hiding depths he regretted not plumbing to their fullest. She would be spring on his tongue, his blossoming deity brought to the underworld for his delight.

Antonin grew bolder with his touch, plucking and massaging those perfect palmfuls before finally tasting her lips with his own. The sour remnants of bitter wine could not disguise what was deeply her. He sucked each lip individually between his teeth to nip at them until they were swollen and red with his kisses, then he roved down to pay the same obeisance to her nipples.

As his tongue whirled over the flower-soft flesh Antonin could not help but moan against her, his hips seeking the pacific heat of her. He needed more and slung his knees to cage her thighs, then bent over her to continue ravishing her body. His hands clasped her hips and his cock twitched at the smallness of her beneath him. He could wrap his hands around her waist, could smother her little form with his own, could destroy her with one wrong blow.

His mouth came away with an obscene pop, spittle gleaming on her puffy nipple. He needed release.

Still leering over his little goddess, his sweet lioness, Antonin worked off his belt and loosened buttons until he could release himself. It took every breath of self-control not to part her thighs and dip into her tight cunt. He could see it overlaid like a picture before him, how her doe-y eyes would startle open, mouth forming an O of surprise before pain set in. And it would hurt.

Antonin stroked his length, brushing his underside against the coarse curls visible between closed thighs. It was not arrogance to say he was not a small man, satisfaction curled like smoke at how he stretched from her apex past the little button of her stomach. Every inch would be a fight between her tender walls and his greater strength.

Guttural sounds spilled from his lips as he jerked himself in earnest, imagining tears shining from her cheeks even as her hips started gyrating unwillingly against him. If she did not enjoy him at the start, well, he had a lifetime to train her. He would strum her clit and learn the patterns of her desire until she writhed beneath him. He would transform her from unwilling victim to eager masochist.

She would learn to beg for it, for him. She would be his, every sweet, golden, perfect drop of her. She would gaze at him with all the adoration of a sunflower at noon. She would--

He caught himself, one arm denting the mattress beside her as his seed issued over her smooth stomach. His chest still heaving with effort, Antonin spread it thinly across her. The sight of her gleaming with his spit and cum sparked another twitch from his cock and he laughed, wiping sweaty curls back from his face. He put himself away and gently extricated himself from over her, pulled the blankets to her chest, and brushed his lips across hers. "Soon," he promised.