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I draw my wand through it, the pearlescent mess of it.  Make thin circles around his navel, coaxing some into a delicate curl.  I lick him clean and sigh, “Manna,” against his hip, then I take his cock in my hand and start again.

I push an insistent thumb under the crown of him and strokestrokestroke.  His legs are shameless and open right up, begging for me in the deep dark of him, a hand around his little prick and some fingers thrust up inside.

I point my wand at him and whisper, and he feels the invisible bulk yawning him open and then fucking him, nine fat inches of magic.  I watch the small pucker stretch around nothing.  He is “Fullfullfull”, he keens, rocking.  I tease his slit with the wand and he shakes on the spike of it.  He’s on the verge, and he gives me that “Sirius no” that he knows I love, and so I ignore it like I know he loves and tease it out of him anyway.  And it splatters, it arcs, it is soft and strong and it puddles and it flings.  As ever, it delights me.

I start to play with it again.  I write my name across his tensing stomach with it, trailing my wand through the evidence that I own his every orgasm, his every illicit sigh.  The sticky juice of him, refulgent under the candlelight.

Oh, how I rejoice in it!  The ribbons of my boy’s come.