Like A Good Book
"And I'm so sad
Like a good book, I can't put this day back."
-- Tori Amos, "A Sorta Fairytale"
You are thinking about unicorns. Not the factual reality of them, but the storybook presence you remember from long before you knew they actually existed. Sleek, graceful animals which glowed white on the page and could be tamed only by the touch of a virgin. The concept secretly made you proud, like your lack of experience was something to cherish rather than be ashamed of. You clung to the thought, deep inside yourself, when Lavender and Parvati started staying out late at night and returning with smug, knowing looks, while you tried harder than ever to ignore the increasingly pitying glances they threw your way. You had something they'd never be able to, could never get back, and that made you special, somehow. Or at least, that's what you told yourself.
Your eyes are squeezed shut, and you are thinking about unicorns, as you feel Ginny's mouth leave a wet trail down your neck. You want this, you tell yourself, and it is not entirely unexpected. You have been sneaking away to make out with her for weeks now, and mostly you can't get enough of it -- the warm, unfamiliar touch of skin on skin, and a pull deep in your belly when your tongue tangles with hers, and the sudden newness of yours. You have always been hungry for discovery, and this was just something new to explore. It was your curiosity led you to these illicit closet fumblings and it's the part of you that now lets you open your eyes and help her as she pulls your shirt off. You fight the urge to cover yourself, as she looks at you; you wonder if she is comparing your breasts to her own, which you think are probably better shaped. She bends over you again, and fastens her lips around your nipple and your mouth forms a silent, surprised o. It's a raw feeling, and it makes you feel ten times nakeder than you did a moment ago.
You roll her over and do the same to her, trying to regain equality in your nudity. She makes a little noise when your tongue flicks across her nipple, but all you can think of is that you must be doing this all wrong. You should be more in control. You are older, after all. Yet you can't be anything but clumsy, and she isn't much better, but she is quicker, so you let her do what she will.
She wriggles out from under you and looks at you with something that is more reluctant determination than lust. She reaches down to slip off your underwear, and you are shaking, trembling all over and trying not to. The little girl inside you, the other part, who isn't seduced by the brush of Ginny's hair across your collarbone is telling you to run, to get away, because this is all so strange. Strange and foreign and something you never want to have to be a part of.
Ginny reaches between your legs, her fingers pulling at the short hairs there. She finds your clit and starts to rub it, a hesitant look on her face, and you wince, because she is too rough, because it hurts, the press of fingers where you are so achingly sensitive, but you don't know how to tell her that it isn't right, that she should shift a little, that this isn't how you touch yourself. So you lie there instead, fighting the urge to press your knees together, and you make the little noises which make you feel embarrassed and awkward.
Her face is unreadable as she touches you, and you feel, strangely, utterly alone. This is Ginny, you tell yourself, of all-night sleepover conversations and long summer letters, the only girl who's as much an outsider as you are. But now you are irrevocably separated by the boundaries of your own skins, and the people you are in these unreal surroundings. All the things you for once can't find words for. You have always thought this would be her brother doing this to you -- with you. But it isn't, so it's her instead, the pull of a warm body drawing you both into this new dimension.
Her fingers move downward, and you almost cry with relief, but then they are probing at your entrance, and you think that this can't be right, you should be wetter than this for one thing. Her brow is furrowed in concentration, and you want to shout 'what are we doing?' because you suddenly both seem so young. But then she is pushing a finger - no, two - inside you, and you gasp sharply, feel a tearing pain, a stab of something irrevocable. She pauses for a moment and pulls out and then back in and you bite your lip against the hurt. Faster now, and her nails scratch against you, inside you, she is inside you, and your legs are spread, and your stomach twists, and you want to cry. She is watching you, carefully, expectantly.
"Do you think you want to ... are you going to --?" She stops, and you feel your face flush at what she can't put into words. And you're not, of course you're not, because you can't think of anything less sexy, but again you are afraid to say anything, so you close your eyes and toss your head back and make the noises, and try to think of what you must look like when you bring yourself off alone in the darkness. You somehow manage, because eventually, finally she stops and pulls her fingers out of you, and you gasp in relief at their leaving. She is still, looking at them, and you see the blood, red on her pale skin, and you feel sick, ashamed.
"I'll ... let me ..." you mutter, and grope for your wand, and clean her off. Her lips on yours are a surprise and for a moment you can't figure out why she's still kissing you.
You have made her come once before, rubbing against your thigh, and her soft, mewling cries were something you still think of. And you're feeling guilty already for all the ways you feel like you've failed tonight, so you only take one deep breath before you push her back onto the bed and reach for her underwear.
Her curls are dark red and matted and she looks at you with wide, surprised eyes when you bend to kiss them, trying to act like you do this all the time. You part her legs, pale, thin thighs, and she lies back and lets herself be spread before you. Such a different perspective, so -- odd to be looking from this angle, and she is shining and pink and open. You can smell her; she's wet, and you're glad of that, at least. You kiss the inside of her thigh, and flick your tongue across her clit. She is stiff, lying still and rigid as you press your mouth between her legs, and you try to find a rhythm. You have read about this, of course. You have read about everything, because that's what you do, you read things and then you can do them, and so this is nothing to be afraid of, nothing at all. She tastes strong, slightly bitter, and you try to keep breathing, even through her overpowering scent. Everything is different, and you can't figure out where to lick, and she is still so quiet, and your tongue is tired and your whole jaw aches. And it goes on and on for ages, before she finally begins to make soft noises and push against your mouth and then she comes, quietly, shuddering for a moment.
In the pause afterward you gasp for air, pull a wiry hair from your mouth. She sits up, pulling away from you, curling into herself. Part of you wants to lie spooned against her, for warmth and comfort, if only for a moment, but the rest of you wants to get away from all the strange newness she represents now, and it's a moot point anyway. You'll both be missed soon, and she remembers this too, struggling to find her clothes. You turn away, chilly and exposed, pulling on your own robes, and try to tame your hair into some semblance of neatness. You wipe your mouth on the back of your hand and realize, as she stands to brush past you, that she's not going to kiss you again today. She looks as lost as you feel.
"I've got to ... I'm late," she says, and then she's gone, the door slamming behind her, leaving you standing alone in the empty room. You know when you see each other in public, you'll smile and act normal, like you've been doing for weeks, but at this moment you can't imagine being able to keep up that facade, after all this. You feel torn and broken in ways that have nothing to do with the ache between your legs and you sink to sitting again. You press your hands into your eyes, trying not to cry, and watch as your imaginary unicorns run far, far from you.