‘Voyeur’ is such an ugly word.
I prefer to think of myself as an observer of the wicked, an eyewitness to naughtiness… a collector of other people's secrets.
But I've never considered creating any of my own silent controversies, content to sit on the sidelines and live vicariously through others… until I watched the perfect man become ensnared by his own darkness. Then, everything changed.
He's perfected the art of sexy fucking.
It’s a ridiculous thing to think, but it’s the truth: Charlie Weasley really knows how to work a woman over.
I’ve seen my share of sweating, pounding bodies over the years while watching in secret, but I have to say, I’ve never seen something this deeply sensual before. I’m so turned on my panties are literally damp and I can smell my own arousal as a strong perfume in the air.
It isn’t the cut of Uncle Charlie’s prick that has me quietly panting. He’s decently sized at what looks to be about six inches, but frankly, I’ve seen bigger (cousin Freddie’s packing at least an eight in his trousers, and Professor Longbottom’s not far behind that). No, it’s the way that Charlie moves his hips with this rocking, swaying motion that’s slow and deceptively lazy, and how his sun-bronzed skin ripples over his powerful muscles as he flexes and releases. It is how he looks into his lover’s eyes with those intense baby blues as he thrusts into her soaking wet cunt that has sweat beading upon my upper lip and my attention riveted.
He’s beautiful, and I've just now realised it… and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at him the same way.
A low groan emits from between his kiss-swollen lips and his lashes flutter when his partner comes under him, but he doesn’t stop or speed up even then. He keeps moving at that same insistent, devastating pace. Aunt Fleur weakly protests, as if she can’t take what Charlie’s doing to her any longer, but I notice her hips rise to meet his downward strokes. She doesn’t seem to be too sincere in her objections.
A smile curves Charlie’s mouth as if he knows it, too.
When he’s ready to let go, he pulls out of her body and comes all over her belly with an extended hiss and a satisfied gasp. He throws his head back as explosions of white, creamy seed spurt from his cock, and as he dies a ‘little death’, I feel as if I do, too.
“Tinworth’s seaside is lovely this time of year, isn’t it?”
Aunt Fleur pauses in chopping carrots at the cutting board, and quickly glances over at me with wary apprehension. Everyone in my family has looked at me just like that since the year I was sorted into Slytherin, so I’m used to it by now. They all treat me like they do Cousin Teddy, like a viper or a stem of nightshade—a thing to be cautiously handled. Their fear amuses me.
I continue on as if I don’t notice her scrutiny and ignoring her rudeness in not greeting me, walking right up to her and standing at her side. She smells like the modestly sweet, perfumy sea lavender that grows just outside the front door, I notice. It’s a bit cloying, actually. “I just love the ocean, don’t you?” I ask, inspecting her work. Like a long-time housewife, she dices veg perfectly. Figures. “It seems to stretch to the ends of the world, falling into the sun when it touches the horizon... at dusk.”
She puts the knife down and dries her nervous hands upon her apron. “O-oui,” she admits with a tremble in her voice and glances around to make sure we’re alone in her kitchen. “I suppose eet does.”
Really, what is it about this woman that every male finds fascinating? I can’t see it. To me, she looks like a has-been, well past her youthful prime. Hell, from the crow’s feet and the way her breasts sag, she seems more like she’s steamrolling fast down the hill towards her twilight years. I’ve seen the stretch marks across her belly and hips, and that little fatty pooch in her lower belly that jiggles when she moves, and the veins in her ankles becoming more prominent with each passing year—she’s no diva turning forty-five into the new twenty. Not even. So, what did Uncle Charlie see in her that made her worthy enough to shag like that?
“The beach is so quiet,” I continue, relentless in my intention now that the momentum is building. “It feels magical… like anything could happen there—anything at all. You know what I mean?”
“I especially love the area behind the big dunes. It feels so isolated over there, so overlooked.”
…Which is why we both know she chose it for her liaison with Uncle Charlie yesterday.
I can practically feel the mixture of terror and fury warping the space between us. I smile, enjoying play cat to this mouse.
“C’est magnifique,” my aunt admits, her demeanour turning brisk, no-nonsense. She’s getting her back up. It’s the Veela within her, no doubt—it doesn’t like to be threatened.
But here’s the thing: I’m not afraid of the harpy slut. She cheated on Uncle Bill, who is kind and loves her like she’s his whole world, and he doesn’t deserve her unfaithfulness. And from the way she looked and sounded the evening before, when the sex was over and she didn’t blush with shame but giggled instead at having gotten away with her infidelity, I truly believe Uncle Charlie wasn’t the first man to succumb to her Veela pheromones, nor to temporarily help her forget her marriage vows, either.
She doesn’t deserve a second chance with Bill, but I’ll give it to her if she goes meekly into that dark night. However, she can’t have Charlie again. That’s not negotiable.
I give her my best impression of Jamie when he’s up to his shenanigans—innocently confused expression, head tilted to the side, hands open and down indicating sincerity. “Sorry, I don’t speak French.”
I do, thanks to Scorpius’ tutelage, but she doesn’t need to know that.
She gives me a narrow-eyed stare that screams, Liar!
I circle around behind her and pick up a partially sliced carrot from the chopping board, tasting her rage-slash-dread on the back of my tongue as I take a bite. The crunch of my teeth sheering through the root is loud in the silence, and I revel in my power.
In the small living room off the kitchen, I can hear Uncle Bill talking to my father and mother. Uncle Charlie left this morning, as did Uncle Percy and his wife. Dominique’s in London, spending the night at Victoire’s flat. Hugo and Louis are upstairs in Louis’ room playing a magical version of a Muggle board game—something about killing a ‘Doctor Lucky’ character. That leaves Aunt Fleur and I to our own devices.
“I have a Samhain wish list,” I whisper to her, leaning in close to her ear. We’re almost the same height now that I’ve grown in another inch. I’m taller than mum, too. “It’s like a Christmas list only you can’t buy the things on it. Do you want to hear it?”
I can hear her back teeth gritting together as her spine goes positively rigid. “I am, as you English say, all ears.”
I place my finger over the golden band that decorates her left ring finger to make my point. “Uncle Bill in a happy relationship for the rest of his days, living alongside a devoted, faithful wife.”
Her throat convulses and I know there are tears in her eyes. I can hear them in her voice when she whispers, “How selfless you are.”
I smile and step away. “I’m glad we understand each other.”
With that, I turn and hop up the stairs to join Hugo and Louis, secure in the knowledge that Aunt Fleur won’t dare make the same mistake twice under my watch.
How Uncle Charlie manages to get himself into the most insane predicaments with women, I’ll never understand.
This time, I blame it on his partner being one of those rich, lonely trophy wives and his empathy for her tragic, sexless plight. It’s the only logical conclusion I can come up with for him having the balls to bang Astoria Malfoy in her husband’s stables when the man, himself, and his son are less than a quarter mile away, preparing to come out here later for a ride on the back of a juvenile Welsh Green they've rented for the afternoon.
It’s a lucky thing I happened to have been the only one dressed and ready to go on time for today’s excursion. When I last left him, Scorpius was busy changing his outfit for the fifth time, and his father was still a bit in his cups from this afternoon’s luncheon. Neither would be in any shape to arrive here for at least another half-hour—which means I get the show all to myself.
And, fuck, what a show!
Visualize this: he’s got Lady Malfoy pinned to the ladder that leads to the upper loft. Her face is pressed through the slats and her back is slightly arched like a horse getting mounted as he takes her from behind. Her long dirt-brown riding skirt has been tossed up and over her back, and her cap is perched precariously upon her head, its pins loosened from their rough play. Her knickers are around her knees and she’s gripping the rungs above her for a lifeline as Charlie's sliding into her slick cunt with that same, ravaging slowness as he gave to Fleur. This time, he’s watching the action down below, his hands gripping Lady Malfoy’s hips with a bruising pressure, leaving red fingerprints tattooed on her lily-white skin.
She’s moaning like a whore in heat, and I suddenly realise the noise isn’t carrying outside, but is contained wholly within. At least they’d had the sense to put up a Silencing Charm.
Charlie angles for deep penetration, bending his knees and thrusting upwards, and I can see every inch of him sliding in and out. I have to bite the back of my hand to keep from moaning at the sight of his wet stalk of flesh diving in and disappearing, only to reappear with a gentle roll of his hips, dripping with his lover’s essence.
It occurs to me right then and there that I want that. I want to know how that feels.
I watch Charlie withdraw, and to my surprise, he lifts his cock to Lady Malfoy’s other hole and pushes in with little resistance and no preparation. Clearly, the woman’s been buggered a time or two, as she doesn't scream or demand he stop like an anal virgin would. Her moan as he penetrates her is so loud it vibrates through me and makes me gush with arousal.
Oh, my God… how could I want to try that, too? It’s depraved and disgusting, and from the number of times I've watched others do it in secret, it seems quite painful. Yet, as I watch Charlie’s prick hitting to the hilt with each surge forward and his bollocks slapping Astoria’s arse, I realise I do want to try it. I really, really do.
Quietly, I stand back, covered by a Disillusionment Charm, and watch as Uncle Charlie leisurely steals Lady Malfoy’s breath with that same unhurried rhythm that is uniquely his, thrusting into her while the woman’s gloved fingers, kitted out in soft lambskin leather, move in mad circles against her clit. Her eyes close as eventually she tips over the edge with a scream, and Charlie does that thing where he quickly withdraws and tilts his head to the sky as he comes. His semen splashes all over Astoria’s fleshy bottom, covering her in thick, white pearls.
In the afters, he playfully slaps her arse and I swear I can feel the sting upon my own skin.
Merlin, Morgana, and Circe, today’s ride is going to be hard for me to get through! My panties are soaked and I'm wearing tight Muggle jeans that press hard against my clit with every step. I hope no one can smell my arousal through my clothing!
Shit, maybe I'll have to talk Scorpius into doing something about my virginity today. This kind of frustration can't go on. I desperately need to be shagged, and there's no better time than the present, right?
“You’re too quiet.”
I sigh. He’s a talker. I should have guessed.
“What should I say?”
“How about, ‘It was nice, Scor. Thanks for popping my cherry.’?” he suggests with a thread of anger in his voice.
Ah, there it is: the male ego. What a truly fragile thing.
I don’t reply right away just to be contrary, and Scorpius makes a tsk noise in defeat and throws an arm back, resting his hand under his head in a casual display of huffitude. His grey eyes bore into his bed’s canopy above us, as if he were concentrating on burning holes in it.
From this angle, for the first time, I notice the downy fluff under his arms is a light gold like his eyebrows and the neatly trimmed curls between his legs. It’s a shade or two darker than the hair on his head. I’d have thought it would be a perfect match, but it seems he’s just as flawed as the rest of us. Still, he’s so pale, isn’t he? He’s like a living vampire. Well, except for his rosy lips and cheeks, and his thick, black eyelashes, and the dark red tip of his cock. Those features stand out in stark contrast to everything else and make it clear he’s not, in fact, undead.
And, yes, I can attest to that fact as well, given how athletic he was just minutes ago while grinding away inside me, and how I could practically taste his heartbeat in my mouth as he came.
Truly, Scorpius isn’t a bad fellow. In fact, I rather like my Slytherin Housemate. His unique brand of mischievous charm has grown on me over the years, which is why we're such good friends. And I'm being a bitch to him now. He deserves better after what we just shared.
I turn into him and reach between his legs to start fondling my new favourite part of him. It’s sticky, soft and exhausted now, but it’s stirring in my palm, helpless but to answer my need.
The truth is, in trade for my virginity, I own him now… and he doesn’t even know it.
“It was brilliant, Scor. Thank you for making my first time so good for me,” I offer, and I realise I mean every word. It really was nice. Scorpius was an incredibly considerate lover. He didn’t pound me, didn’t fumble, and didn’t use profanity. He kissed me sweetly and moved gently, and he made sure I orgasmed. What more could I have wanted?
A set of wicked blue eyes and short, red hair flash through my mind, but I quickly file that fantasy away under: 'get real—not going to happen'.
Scorpius smirks at my praise, taking it as his due. “You’re welcome.” He reaches up and strokes over my cheek. “At least now you’ll never be able to forget me.”
God, he’s vain. Just like all the boys in Slytherin. Not that Scor doesn’t have a reason to be; he’s bloody sexy, with all the best features of both his parents and a snarky, bad-boy personality that draws girls in. I mean, he was definitely no virgin when he took me to his bed tonight, that much was obvious.
“I suppose that depends upon how well-pleased you keep me,” I counter and toss him a challenging smirk. He’s as hard as iron in my palm now.
He rolls me onto my back, coming over me like a hot wave, and pushes my knees aside to settle between my thighs again. “I’m going to fuck you so good, Rose. You’ll be begging for more.”
“Yeah? Prove it.”
He bloody well does, too. But no, I don’t beg.
Clearly the Muggle euphemisms about penis size that my cousins toss around are true: it’s not the size of the Cricket bat that matters, but how good it is at hitting and how often it scores.
That’s the only explanation I have for why Mistress Longbottom at the Leaky would have an affair with Uncle Charlie, because I’ve seen what’s packing in her husband’s pants (I like to observe the unaware, remember?), and there’s no way anyone could convince me that Professor Longbottom’s giant Tentacula isn’t satisfying the witch’s Devil’s Snare.
Then again, Charlie certainly seems to have a way with blondes. Married ones, at that. That he’s convinced one more easy-to-stray type with a wedding band to meet him in yet another dirty, dangerous place where cleanliness is in question and discovery almost assured, is beginning to become his trademark.
This time, I’ll give him props for guts, but not for originality. The men’s at the pub on a Thursday night is boilerplate for most wizarding affairs. You'd think he'd at least have tried for a room upstairs or the manager's office in the back. I wanted to march up to him and lecture him on class, but he was too busy making fuck-eyes with the proprietress as they hurried into the loo to notice me.
It doesn’t take much magical know-how to cast a Repulser Charm upon the loo and to cloak myself in invisibility once more to observe. It’s getting the door open without alerting anyone that’s going to take some skill. Thankfully, I was sorted into the right house for this kind of activity. A Silencing Charm on the hinges and my shoes, a Dimming Spell for the light in the hallway, a Disillusionment Charm about from head to toe, and I'm in like a shadow, blending into the ugly green and brown bathroom wall like a chameleon. I've got front row seats to the best show in the house tonight.
They've done this before. Either that, or she has and he's heard about it, because they're already in position and ready to go. She's on her knees, the towel she uses to wipe glasses behind the bar her cushion against the hard tile (Ewww! She'd better toss that rag into the wash hamper after being on this floor or I'm calling the Health Inspector!). He's sprung his cock and is feeding it into her greedy, lipstick-thick mouth. She takes every inch on the first, slow thrust, letting it into her throat, and my mouth goes dry.
He fucks her mouth like he does a woman's pussy, deliberate and intense. Every inch goes in and out, and he stares down at his partner with a strange kind of adoration, petting her hair and praising her skill with low groans of pleasure. Despite being a rotten slag, he really does appreciate his females, doesn't he?
I watch his hips sway forward and back to that deceptively gentle rhythm and soon I'm matching my breathing to the pace. My heart thumps out of control under my ribs as electric fingers of arousal tingle through me.
I want to try this, too. I want someone to hold my head as Charlie is holding Mrs. Longbottom's, and to fuck his prick over and over again across my tongue. I want to hear those same sexy gasps from him as I suck hard and fondle his balls, like she's doing. I want to see him tilt his head back, exposing his throat, enjoying my skills as I take him to bliss at last and drink him down.
His come drips from between her lips as he slides out and the proprietress uses her fingers to catch it and bring it back home. She swallows his essence and hums with satisfaction at the taste. Before he can put his cock away, she leans forward again and licks it from base to tip, sucking on the crown to get that last bit of release. Charlie moans and his eyelashes flutter as he looks down upon her through a half-lidded gaze, an odd little smile tilting his lips.
"Good girl," he says, and it's the first time I've heard him speak during or after a hook-up. His post-coital voice is heavy with exhaustion, but there's a hint of mischief in it that has the hairs on the back of my nape standing on end. When his gaze slants in my direction, it hits me:
He knows he's being watched.
I hold my breath and go as still as an owl on its perch until he's buttoned up, and they're both back on their feet and leaving.
Mrs. Longbottom steps out and away, but Charlie lingers in the doorway. He's facing outward, but he's talking to me when he says, "Haven't you noticed yet, Little Flower: redheads aren't my thing. I'm partial to blondes."
Bloody damnation, he knows I'm here, that I'm the one doing the observing! Has he always known? My heart is slamming now in my chest and tears waver before my eyes. What did I do to give myself away?
He turns his head and silently stares at me for a long while, as if he can see right through my disguise and into my soul. I feel naked, stripped of my defences by that knowing blue gaze.
Finally, he shakes his head. "Not going to happen," he promises me, "but see you next time."
As the door closes behind him, I slip down the wall and hug my arms around my frame.
I fucked up. I didn't think this through. I got in over my head and now… now I want something I shouldn't. I'm panting for it until I'm green with envy and stupid enough to get caught. I'm no better than the bitches he fucks, and he knows it. He's got me right where he wants me—a voyeur to his deviant conquests, a witness of his triumphant sexual history.
"I'm partial to blondes."
My mind pursues all of the perfect possibilities of those four words, much like a howling wind chases after dragons.
"It's definitely different," Scorpius comments.
His fingers slide through my hair, untangling the knots from our energetic afternoon activities. He's pleasantly sated, having rid me of the last of my innocence, and now he's doing that thing he likes to do post-fuck: talk. I let him, just so he'll think I care about what he has to say.
"It's a big change, but I like it on you," he says, holding strands up to the light and inspecting them.
"I didn't do it for you," I comment, sitting up and stiffly moving towards my shucked clothing at the side of his bed. My bottom hurts and my mouth and throat are sore from being used a little too roughly, so it's a bit of a struggle to get redressed. "I did it for myself. A post-graduation gift. Starting a new life, giving myself a new look, that sort of thing."
He doesn't know it yet, but that change will come with us breaking off this acquaintances-with-benefits thing. I've decided that I won't be wading in the kiddie pool any longer after today.
Scorpius is quiet for a long while, watching me move around his room, collecting my things.
"You didn't like it," he finally says with a sigh, and I can hear the nervous, disappointed tremor in his voice.
I shrug. No, I didn't. I thought it would be a little more glamorous, sensual. It wasn't. It was painful to be buggered, and I didn't like the taste of his come. I didn't orgasm once, either. I should have picked someone with more experience for these tasks, should have read up a little more on what to expect. Then, at least, I wouldn't have regrets.
No use crying over spilt milk, though. It's done, and now I know everything I need to know. I've become exactly the kind of woman he wants. There's no way he'll turn me down now. And when I'm done with him, I'll be the perfect fuck.
"I need to use the privacy," I make my excuse, and Scor nods. I can see he isn't happy with our experimental session, either, and I'm pretty sure he sees the writing on the wall in regards to our time together coming to a close. I can't make myself feel regret, though. He wasn't exactly faithful to us, even if he does seem to have a greater fondness for me than he does for the other slags that run to his bed at the crook of his finger.
His bathroom is immense, and the mirror hanging over the sink is huge. After cleaning myself up a bit, I glance into it, running my fingers through my newly dyed hair.
Yes, it's definitely a change, but I'm looking forward to it.
After all, blondes have more fun, right?
I was the watcher, the chameleon, the silent one who listened for the 'hush' and observed the sly.
Now, I play. I move through the shadows and draw others into my world, and I revel in my damnation.
I'll admit: I'm perfectly naughty about it, too.