Will she make me burn like a dry log?
I'm a dangerous demented...Hermione is fatuous fire, dereliction.
Walk, Hermione, walk; she's the blinded fire that makes myself be scorched in ardorous calenture: toward an unknow, mystical destination; Hermione walks...
Hermione is rejection and attraction, she's strong and weak; insecure as iron; Hermione.
And the loneliness of a wolf Hermione has; but she's a girl.
How many times my eyes sought yours, Hermione?
How many times I passed by, close to you, begging for a look?
Because I just wanted to lick and caress your white, muscular calves, your soft tummy, your forbidden buttocks smelling like oranges.
And make love to you, make you mine; suffocate this fury between your milky breasts, to be your male, loving you during a white, endless night. Fucking you without any check or restrain; loving and loving and loving you. To show what I feel: ardour, fury.
Because I love you Hermione.
Who cares?
