Luna's Cycle

Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series or its characters. This story has not been written for profit of any kind and the characters used in this fiction are the sole property of their owners.

IMPORTANT Author’s Note: I had to get a smut-fic off my chest. This short little fic deals with one sexual taboo in particular. I’m very proud of this piece (of shite) and encourage those of you with open minds to read on. If you are easily offended or disgusted, I advise you to hit that li’l back button up there and pick something else. This story is for ADULTS only, and may offend many (let’s be realistic, here) readers. I make no apologies and will not respond to any insulting or degrading reviews. For those of you who read this and appreciate it for what it is: thank you in advance.

Luna Cycle

I’m not like other girls.

Every woman is different. There are short women, tall women, white women, brown women, purple women, fat women, skinny women, smart women and stupid women. So many differences, too many to list, yet I am made to feel the strangest of all. Every day I feel like an alien, stepping out of a glowing flying saucer and announcing that I come in peace.

When I’m here, when I’m doing what I’m doing now I feel so utterly foreign. Everything I have been taught since my long dead mother cooked up a special brew to heal my very first cramps (barring diarrhea and bad food choices) tells me so.

And yet I cannot help this feeling of exhilaration, this excitement that encompasses me. It’s so potent that I forget for a few moments that what I’m doing is dirty and repellant.

I like to sit on the bed that my lover and I share and spread my legs wide. I always look, because looking at it makes it that much more glorious for me. I love to see the delicious red that stains my pink skin surrounded by the amber hue of my crisp hair. It’s a myriad of colors and it takes my breath away. It makes my heart beat faster, because I’ve always been told that this is wrong. I’m afraid that someone will catch me. I always spread out an old towel. I don’t want everything to leak all over and stain the pretty sheets that I picked out. I don’t want him to notice the brownish stains later and ask me what they are.

The other girls used to complain about it. They used to say that they just wanted chocolate and pretzels and they were always angry and couldn’t stand looking at a man. They used to bitch about the cramps and the pain and how they had to scrub it clean three times a day. But I don’t do any of those things.

When I’m deep into my menses, I just want to be fucked.

I know what you’re thinking right now. You’re thinking My God, you can’t be serious. It’s dirty and disgusting and smelly and—

But the heart wants what it wants. I have never had the courage to ask him to touch me in all my bloody glory. I know instinctively that I will be refused, sneered at, etc. So I do what I always do. I sit on this bed and I watch my blood drip out of me and spread it around with my fingers. Please don’t misunderstand me. It’s not the blood that gets me off. It’s not the sight, the smell, the texture, the feel or the (gasp!) taste of it.

It’s just so damn forbidden; that one taboo that no woman speaks of. They’ve written books about incest, sodomy and everything else. But fucking a woman on her period? You won’t find that in a bookstore on Diagon Alley.

My musings are interrupted when a throat is cleared across the room.

I didn’t hear him come in, didn’t hear the creaking of the door opening. I cover myself with lightning speed, wrapping that damn towel around my hips and covering my breasts with my arm. I smear blood onto my shoulder in the process.

Ashamed. Embarrassed. Mostly ashamed. I can only imagine the thoughts running through his head and I look away from him, afraid of what he’s going to say next. I can feel tears forming in my eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks. It isn’t what I’m expecting and my brain is numb for a moment.

“T-tell? Because—because I’m not supposed to. Not supposed to do these things,” I try to explain, at a loss for words to describe my thought process in the whole thing. I still cannot decipher whether he is angry, sickened, sad, or just plain dumbfounded. He is unreadable right now, unusual for him.

He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he steps closer to the bed. His arms are hanging limply at his sides and his steps are so slow. Now he seems—curious.

“What aren’t you supposed to do?” he asks me this time, his eyes finally leaving my face to travel downward and take in my breasts and the shoulder that now has two bloody parallel lines. His breathing seems shallow and fast. I look down and see that his cock is straining against his pants. My heart is starting to beat faster and sends the blood rushing downward again. My cunt pulses with the excitement, with the need for human touch again.

My body takes over for my mind. I reach down and sweep aside my towel. My legs that I had closed scant moments before now spread open again. I show him what he has seen before and yet it is so wonderfully new and different. I look down so that I can see what he sees. My clitoris is engorged now, and I reach down to soothe it with my fingers. The ache leaves, only to be replaced with a new one. My other hand reaches down to spread apart my labia while my right hand works at the amazingly sensitive flesh of my womanhood. I look up and watch his face while I pleasure myself. He is enraptured, his eyes wide with wonder.

“Does this—disgust you?” I ask him, the constanants are hard to form because all my mouth wants to produce are vowels. His eyes do not move even as he answers me.

“No. It’s different. I never thought you wanted this, never ever guessed. You are so beautiful when you’re doing that,” he says this all so easily, even as he reaches down to touch himself. Something takes over my mind and body and I want him. Want him so badly that my entire body aches with it.

I recline and rest the upper half of my body against the headboard of the bed. I spread my legs as wide as they will go and beckon him to join me.

“Come and feel it. Fuck me,” I whisper to him and no sooner are the words out of my mouth than he is beside me, plunging his fingers into my depths.

We’ve never had intercourse before. We always come so close, wanting each other so badly. But every time his dick comes near me, prods my entrance, I become so afraid. I tense up so badly that the pleasure turns to pain and he has to stop because there are tears of anguish in my eyes. He always moves the hair out of my eyes gently and whispers “another time. Don’t cry--I’m not mad” and then we fall asleep together and try again the next night.

But now there is no pain, only a fiery joy that starts in the pit of my stomach and rushes through the rest of me until my entire body is humming. My cunt clenches around his fingers as I come, and his hand is covered in so many of my fluids that I almost laugh. I look down and see his cock is still straining against the fabric of his pants, even more so now than before. His eyes are shut tight but they spring wide open when I unzip his trousers and take him out. I engulf him with my hand, as he did with me. My fingers are slick with blood so they move easily over his warm and pulsing cock. I am fascinated when it twitches on its own, and joke with him that it’s waving hello. He doesn’t laugh, and I don’t blame him.

I can see a clear droplet form at the tip and know that he’s readying himself. For me. The thought of it is so wonderful and poignant that I bend my head and lick up the tiny bit of fluid. I can hear his moans, so loud and melodious, like a symphony or a choir of angels. My mouth covers him, swirling him around inside my mouth and moving my lips and tongue and throat muscles so quickly that everything aches.

His hand comes down to push my jaw away desperately. At first I don’t know what he’s doing and take it to mean that he wants it harder and faster but he groans and nearly shouts for me to stop.

“S-stop. I need you. I need you around me,” he explains, even as his fingers firmly grasp my hips and lift me up to hover above his cock. It’s standing so straight and true, the sight of it sends me reeling. I can feel the familiar tears again. He sees them and breathes deeply.

“We don’t have to. I know you’re afraid of it,” he says, starting to move away.

“No. I’m happy. I’m crying because I love you, because you love me and no one has ever made me feel so much at once,” at the word “feel” I lower myself onto his stiff cock and embrace it so completely and wholly that I can’t believe how lucky I am to be a woman and how goddamn stupid and ungrateful those other girls are to complain about this and call it a curse because it’s so fucking wonderful and we’re almost one person and those romance books I’ve read before can’t ever describe this feeling.

It ends so perfectly and beautifully and it’s all so glorious. Our tears blend together and we laugh at ourselves for being so damn dramatic about it but we just can’t get over it. My blood is smeared all over his cock and his thick white fluid is smeared all over my pink folds. The smells are so rich and elemental and we fall asleep during the day with the windows open.

“I love you, Ronald,” I whisper.

“I love you, Luna,” he mumbles before finally closing his eyes.