The Unforgiving Minute

Note: Just a short drabble about our beloved Potions Master wondering what life would be like if he settled. It would be perfectly lovely of you to rate, but if not, I understand.


Sixty seconds.


Shower, hot, hand jerking rhythmically along flesh, steam curling up, tendrils of it rising from my skin. Tendrils of her hair between my fingers. That's where it would start. On her knees, silken tresses flowing through my fingers like water. Eyes like water, limpid and green. I am young, filled with promise, like her; supple flesh, she's effervescent, redolent of flowers. Eyes gazing up at me, red crescent mouth, an "O" around me, tongue laving me, loving me. She hums.


Forty-three seconds.


And we've been married, as it should be. She's giddy with the champagne, but afraid—like a canary caught by the cat. Bright eyes wide, frightened. And she should be, I suppose. Should be terrified. I grope at her bare flesh, dress pooling at her feet. Arms cross, my modest little mouse, but I wrest them apart, bury my face in her breasts. Sighs, sweet breathy exhalations on my neck, mouth petal-soft. Tentative touches, thighs pressed apart, a requiem for that lost thing, and I can hear her mourning it below me, no matter. I sink in.


Twenty-seven seconds.


She's pregnant. Stomach swells slightly, flesh tight, a delicious curve to her profile. I should be afraid, but I'm not. Half-sick with worry, anxious, but not frightened. Hypnotic, weighty breasts, pendulous things, heavy with milk, her areolae have darkened, but it's no matter. I love them the more for it. I press against her with my palm, feel her dampness turn to slickness turn to wetness turns to me and tells me good things. Whispers sweet, encouraging things. My finger dances along her pistil. She sings.


Fourteen seconds.


And she's dressed in a frowzy housedress, apron cinched around her waist, impeccably domestic but dull. Hair limp, corners of her mouth turned down, she's wilted, in a way. The coffee's stale, but I say nothing. Her scent is stale, but I say nothing. I brood, she says, but still I say nothing. I don't speak much these days. There's nothing to say. Never was a loquacious individual, never did like to talk. We never did talk. Mostly banal exchanges. The weather—sunny, mild—and whether or not I like the roast—I do. It was all about the carnage, never the confabulation, about the drilling, never the discourse. And she doesn't want to fuck any longer because she's got a headache and the baby's crying and she's crying because she's unhappy whatever the fuck that means and I've given all that I can. Never enough, of course. It's all about sacrifices. About the sacrifices and the giving and the little bits and pieces of me snipped away. I regret it.


Five seconds


Steam curling up from my skin, wrist jerking along flesh. Alone, like it should be, perfect solitude. But she's there, though I can't see her, a ghost, hanging over me, what would have been. Apparition apparent, phantom phalanges floating feather-like tangent flesh. Lurking amongst the steam and white tile, I can sense her, this shadow that won't let me be. She sucks away, a pariah. I can't escape her touch, hovering, half-there, but so sweet against my skin. All the promise of youth, a perfect life, quite conventional. Maddening, lurching, squirming, squelching, thrusting, thrumming, throbbing, fucking, fingers flicking along fraenulum. Tightening of my gut and groin. Nothing. I cum.


END