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Fleur Delacour

Regimental (NC-17)

Fleur Delacour

Blue Fleur

Regimental (NC-17)

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Bill and Fleur Kiss
I left him alone, to his own devices earlier this afternoon. He still has a number of boxes remaining to unpack, boxes that have been in our guest room since early February. Far be it from me to intrude on his unpacking as I do not wish to see, perhaps, something that I am not supposed to see, something that he does not want me to see. After all, when we divorced I know he was a free Wizard, free to fraternize with whomever he pleased. Oh, and I am quite sure he participated in more than his share of collaborative involvement. It is his way of doing things; he has always been a randy hybride. In the end he is a beast, an animal, but that is not necessarily a bad thing. No, it is réellement a very good thing. Even before he became the feral creature he now is he was often ruled by his more carnal needs, especially whenever he was around me, but I cannot fault him for that. I am simply thankful that he possesses the stamina to keep up with me when it comes to intimate matters.

“Fleur, Fleur?” he calls from the guest room.

“Oui Bill?” I respond pleasantly from the sofa in our lounge.

“Stay there,” he directs me, “And close your eyes. I have a surprise for you.”

“You ‘ave given me enough of ze surprises, cher,” I reply.

“Just promise me you’ll keep your eyes closed until I say so.”

“Oh, alright zen!” I hear Bill’s soft footfalls on the floor as he emerges from the guest room. I can feel the air pressure in the lounge adjust as it accommodates to the intrusion of his body. With my eyes closed my other senses take over all thought and I feel as if it is I who am stalking my prey as I imagine my lover enter the room, move slowly toward me, and settle in a standing positions as he nudges my knees apart. For a brief moment the feel of his bare legs startles me and I nearly open my eyes before I hear his voice.

“Uh-uh, no peeking yet,” he insists as I move forward in an attempt to grab his hips. His large hands stop me mid-reach and in the next instant I am met with two very different physical sensations. As Bill pulls my hands toward him, the edge of a coarse cloth brushes across the tops of my knees. I know the material is common wool, a favorite of the silly English types during colder weather. The second thing I touch is Bill’s bare stomach, covered on one side with this same wool. Even though he is getting older, he is aging very nicely, and his smooth stomach proves just this. He releases my hands and I splay my fingers over his belly and hips. His smell mixes with the scent of the wool and the dye of the cloth. I begin to inch my hands lower and my fingertips meet the waistline of some type of garment, made of the same cloth that is now scraping my upper thighs. Bill bends slightly forward and whispers, “You can open your eyes now.”

When I do I look up into his face and see the dark relief of the last rays of the day’s sun shadow the surface of his skin. A long gathering of dark blue and green tartan wool hangs from his shoulder diagonally across his bare chest, and is tucked into the waistband of a kilt constructed of the same material. The deep blue and green illuminate his skin, amplify every freckle; the intense hues of a hidden sea magnify the red of his long hair as it falls forward and he gazes down at me. He is nearly as beautiful as I. His eyes, his eyes pierce my heart with their striking power, carving his name into the hidden flesh of my soul.

“Tonight is the full,” he says simply.

“Oui, naturellement, je sais ceci,” (“Yes, of course, I know this”) I answer in a gasp as I look at the collected wool wrapped and pleated around his waist. “Ma Déesse, vous êtes la chose la plus sexy que j'ai jamais vue dans mon vie entière.” (“My Goddess, you are the sexiest thing I have ever seen in my entire life.”) His slender fingers sink into my flaxen hair and his force tilts my head up to meet his.

“Do you think so?” he asks.

I close my eyes and nod my head, “Oui.”

“Good.” His lips crush mine in a bruising kiss, desperate, wild. But he composes himself quickly to pull back, just breaking our connection. Our foreheads touch as his warm breath glides over the surface of my lips and cheek. “Want you so much. All the time now. More than before.”

“Good.” I smile into him and feel him chuckle in response to my jest. As our faces touch I look toward the mass of plaid between myself and his…



“Mon loup, what do you wear beneath your kilt?” I ask demurely. “Do you wear it in ze regimental style, or are you more conservative zen zat?”

“Why don’t you see for yourself?” he replies brazenly and stands straight again, as if daring me to go on. Scooting forward to the edge of the sofa, I shift my hands until they have traveled around to the small of Bill’s back. This is a strange yet extremely erotic sensation, the feel of smooth flesh and crude wool on the planes and arcs of his body. I slide my hands down, caressing his bottom as I go.

“Ma Déesse, j'aime votre âne,” (“My Goddess, I love your ass,”) I gasp as I place the side of my cheek against his half-covered belly. The wool and skin contrast and compliment each other simultaneously…the heat of his body…the cool of my skin. When my hands reach the hem of the back of the kilt they dive beneath the cloth to meet the muscles of his thighs, delicate hair peppering the surface. After I appraise the strength of his legs I slowly torment him when I move toward the curve of his backside. I find it bare. “Bon,” I whisper once I feel his hands pet the top of my head. I cannot see his face but I know his eyes are closed in delight, his mouth slack with want, his head tilted back like the wolf yearning to howl in ecstasy. This is the night I wait patiently for every month so I can be with my lover in his true form in all its pleasure and pain.

“Ah, ma Fleur,” he growls. His voice has already deepened, coarsened on its own accord. His breathing becomes more rapid when I drag my hands along his hips and âne, feeling his muscles clench in anticipation. “Fleur,” he breathes as soon as my hands finally reach his straining cock, “Yessssss.” I wrap my fingers around the length of his shaft and decide to look up to him. At last our eyes meet in the twilight. The heat radiating from his hardness relieves my anticipation. With one of my hands I leave go of his cock and my newly freed fingers quickly gather the heavy cloth hanging from his waist. His pénis pops out from under the cloth now drawn up to his lower stomach. “Sucez-le, s'il vous plait,” (“Suck it, please,”) he begs, demands; and I oblige by licking my lips and sliding them over his cock. I love the way he tastes, the way he smells.

I slither to the edge of the settee and while I do so the movement causes my legs to clench, sending sparks of satisfaction through my folds. My reacting hum triggers a powerful groan from my lover as I kneel in front of him. I moan around his flesh and feel his hands clench at my hair in response. I glide my lips, teeth, and tongue as far down his shaft as I can, bobbing my head forward and back again. Then I decide to pull back and release him from my mouth to look up to him. “Let go mon loup, you will not ‘urt me,” I beckon before returning my gaze to his cock and lapping playfully at the tip. Let go, let go, I dare you to let go. Consequently, Bill sweeps my hair up and gathers it at the base of my skull, obviously so I do not catch it during my ministrations. He grows more feral by the second but I know that his last semblance of propriety clings to reality. It is at this point that I cover him with my mouth again and apply a moderate sucking motion as I open the back of my throat and he very nearly roars my name in response. The weaker sex is not so weak…

And so he lets go…

…and shoves his entire length into my mouth. He pauses, holding my head still, savoring the moment before he pulls his hips back only to recklessly thrust again and again. He thinks he is controlling me. He will be mortified that he succumbed to such vile actions, such aggressiveness, once our coupling has come to an end, but it will only be a matter of time before I make him lose himself once more.

“Oh God Fleur, you’re my undoing,” he groans before I feel the pain of his hand constricting in my hair and pulling me up to a standing position. Our eyes find each other in the amethyst darkness. The hand tangled at the nape of my neck turns my face up toward him as he plunders my mouth and I open to him once more. In the haze of my own excitement I vaguely sense his free hand tearing the front of my dress down my body, exposing my breasts to cool air. He yanks my head back and soon his mouth is eagerly traveling downward to find one of my perfect and taut nipples before he drinks to quench his thirst like a man too long in the desert. He releases the tatters of my dress and advances to paw and rip at the lace of my underwear.

“Baisez-moi en ce moment,” I demand. And I know he will do it. He seizes my hips and pulls me flush against him and we stand still for a few moments, me with my dress completely ripped down its front, him still in the kilt that has now fallen back between us. His rabid erection strains against the material as he presses to me and turns us both around until the backs of his legs touch the settee. He releases my hair and his fingers slip away from me when I abruptly push him down onto the sofa where he lands and stares wildly up at me. I know he will be beaten with my next move. With half-lidded eyes I look down at him while I let my head loll lazily to the side. One lick of my lips will do nicely. One caress across my neck and upper chest will be all that it takes to make him twenty-five once more, with an eighteen year old Goddess standing before him for the first time, naked, at his bidding. He belongs to me and I am not my own, but his. With a brush of my fingertips the tatters of my dress are a puddle on the floor and it is now I who stand in the dark relief of the last rays of the day’s sun with shadows dancing across the surface of my porcelain skin. With a yearning grasp he summons me to him and I straddle his lap as he gathers the front of his kilt to his waist.

His hardness reaches up for me as I mount him and settle down onto his waiting lap.

“Gods, how I love you,” he struggles as he untangles the flash draped across his chest, wrapping it over my shoulders before he crushes me to him. “So much.”

“Je t'aime, ma bête,” ("I love you, my beast,") I whisper as I fold my arms around his shoulders and neck.

Then we begin to move against one another. He surges up as I roll my hips. “Touch yourself,” he hisses, “Down there. Play with yourself.” In answer I wedge my hand between us amid his brutal drives up into my body. The pads of my fingers find my clit and I twirl them over it, amplifying my already desperate state. I cling to him as he rocks us back and forth, every plunge pressing my hand deeper into my folds. Bill murmurs words of affection, adoration, into the skin of my neck, nuzzling the tender spot only he knows exists. I continue to gasp and purr against his ear as he rocks us in unison and in a blinding flash I instantaneously melt and explode as my orgasm rips through me. I cry out and scream his name and he answers, answers with a bellowing cry of his own as he mercilessly hammers up into me and his body seizes. The keen and snarl that escape him as he crushes me to him heighten my own rapture before I collapse on him, both of us panting and heaving for air.

It feels as if I will never be able to catch my breath. Bill’s chest heaves below me as he fights for air as well. So I wait, concentrating on calming down as our breathing falls into cadence and suddenly the cool air hits my skin and I realize how much I am sweating. Bill too, he is nearly soaking wet. I smile against his lips as I kiss him softly. He lays his head against the back of the sofa, still watching me as I adjust the cloth over my shoulders. I watch him in return and smile my irresistibly coy smile for him as he breathes in deep with relief.

“Zese kilts, zey are sexy, non?” I whisper through my mischievous grin.
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