Onward chapter two -- smutly kisses ahoy!
A Troubled Boy
Chapter Two: Strumpet
By Little Needle
This boy, I think, will be the end of me. He consumes me always; in my sleep and in my work. I have tried to shut him out. I have tried and failed to discipline the boy (and myself) and now it is time for me to admit my defeat.
I reach the top of the stair that blistering day and my world comes down around my shoulders in little more than a thud. For there, in all of his graceless glory, stands my Harry; bent over his suitcase, scrawny, scuffed knees knocking, his bottom arched just so, a tiny white triangle of material displayed between his straining thighs, and his skirt... his skirt, already much too small to be worn in public, pleated and perched over his hips in a fringe of coarse gray wool. It occurs to me then that nothing coarse ever need touch that flawless skin again if I have any say in the matter.
He turns to me upon hearing my audible thud in the archway and stands up proper to face me. His cheeks flush as his eyes meet mine and I realize I must look the fool leaning in the doorway, gaping, arms crossed over my chest, hat still in hand. I stand as proper as he, looking down upon his little dark head and for the life of me I cannot keep my eyes from roaming up the length off those endless stems and to that skirt.
He wears the same shirt he did with the matching shorts but untucked now and slightly rumpled around the hem. I note that the waist line in cinched to the furthest button and would be pinching his frail form had he any flesh to spare. The boy is in dire need of new clothing. I will have to remedy that immediately. My mind drifts to the clothes I will dress him in and lingers much too long on his undergarments for my own liking. I frown distastefully and to my surprise his little mouth droops, straight lashes laced suddenly with bright, glittering tears. The breath rushes from my chest as if I had been struck there. The boy is crying and it is because of something I have done. Those tears are my doing.
His lip trembles and he sucks it quickly into his mouth. He is fidgeting with the pleats in the wool, trying to smooth a few ruffled ones around his thighs, not looking up at me, not daring, his achingly narrow chest hitching and stuttering beneath his thin white shirt. I take a step forward and he bolts into activity, head down, rummaging through his dresser drawers. I look on somewhat bemused as he has still not let on to what has upset him.
He pulls a bundle of creamy material into his hands, unfolding it. Another skirt. Pleated and very, very white. He holds it out for me, fingers bunched tightly into thick folds. I take it from his hand without any resistance and look back at him. 'Aunty t-told me I was to wear my Sunday skirt and I didn't listen. N-now you are displeased. Please don't be angry, Sir. Don't leave me here with her. I promise I won't do it again.'
He looks up at me as if waiting for me to strike, shame faced, his teeth still tugging and his glistening lip. I have to force myself not to smile. Instead I frown, brow sinister, crossing my arms thickly over my chest. A tiny gasp breaks from his lips and he looks down at his shoes, barely bothering to feign interest in the contrast of polished black and white leather.
Slowly, he raises his eyes back to meet mine. 'Please, Sir.' Gently I nod my approval, secretly disturbed at his reaction to the very thought of my displeasure. This look does not fair well on such a pretty face. I tell him so chidingly.
'Now, now boy. Tears do not fair well on such a pretty face.'
It appears as if I really have struck him now with the jolt his little form receives it as. His eyes widen, if that is possible, and then I watch as the most delicate flush feathers its way across the ridge of his collar, down his neck and finally vanishing under his neck line. He smiles shyly at the floor, fingers toying playfully with the hem of his skirt, accidentally exposing the smooth area between his thighs.
I force myself to look away. I must not do this.
I step back toward him, my expression grim and determined as I tug him toward me and begin tidying his appearance, (and if I must admit it) a little too roughly, jerking him this way and that until his shirt is tucked neatly beneath his miniscule waist line. He doesn't protest for even a moment the way I would have expected after having seen him with his aunt just minutes before. In fact, if I did not know otherwise, I would start to think that he had enjoyed being handled in such a gruff way. I smile at this.
The little strumpet.
He does not preen or go to look over himself in the mirror but I cannot help but notice the way he very deliberately smoothes the flats of his pink little palms from the swell of his ribcage and down to reach the narrow arch of his tiny hips. Satisfied that all is in order he looks back to me, his expression quizzical, almost bewildered. I stare at him unblinkingly for a moment and then realize what he must be waiting for. 'Well. Don't just stand there, dear boy. Gather your belongings, you are to come with me earlier than expected.'
I have learned over our short time spent together to simply expect the boys sudden moods, so it is no surprise to me when he shrieks with laughter before very quickly remembering himself, clapping his hand over his mouth. I look at him just as sternly as ever but I'm not sure he minds my stern face as much as I had hoped for. He drops a clutch bag from his grasp, face red but eyes bright behind little round spectacles before taking one step, then two toward me. Rocking up onto his round-toed feet, his hands held tightly behind his back and pressing the hot little line of his mouth to my cold, stale lips.
I want to scream. I want to hit the boy. I want to push him down on his trembling little bed and just split his wet little mouth open with my tongue. He pulls away, tongue lapping over his lips, finding a steady footing before turning from me and tearing from the room, skirt flaring and giving me one last glimpse of the little scrap of material beneath.
I want to die.
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