Title: Punishment or Pleasure
Writer iamisaac
Characters: Argus Filch/Melinda Bobbin
Rating: NC17
Warnings: Filch sex, BDSM
Themes/kinks chosen: See pairing.
Word Count: just over 1000
Author's notes: I’m given the possibility of ‘romantic marriage’ but turn it down to write Filch? Good job this is daily deviant...



Of course, Melinda knew that it was inappropriate. Inappropriate? Just Plain Wrong (which made it more erotic than ever). But ever since that time in her third year, when Filch had caught her “desecrating the corridor” (in fact, dripping blood on the floor as she hurried to Madame Pomfrey to have a long cut on her arm healed), and had dragged her forcibly into his office, she couldn’t stop thinking (stop dreaming) about him. About him and his... equipment.

“You know what those are, don’t you?” he had whispered menacingly in her ear that time, pointing with a grubby hand at some metal manacles which hung from the ceiling.

Melinda had shaken her head, eyes wide with fascination.

“They’re just the thing for revolting students like you. Strap you up in them, give you a few lashes of the whip, and you’ll know better than to besmirch your surroundings. It’d be a lesson you’d never forget. Oh yes.”

Melinda had looked from the handcuffs to the thick leather whip he had picked up from his desk, and watched him caressing it with breathless fascination. He wouldn’t really... would he? Her mind spun on, imagining the feel of the whip against her body. Where would he beat her? Her back? Her legs? Her (her heart beat faster) arse? Would he fasten those cuffs in front of her or behind her? Fasten her to the wall or leave her loose? Would he thrash her through her robes or make her undress in front of him, so that he could leave marks on her skin?

Argus Filch caught the expression on her face and smiled nastily.

“Yes, that would teach you well, wouldn’t it, Miss? Do you like that thought, eh?”

Melinda instinctively took a step back from him. But... but he was a Squib, surely? She’d heard the rumour, and everyone had seemed fairly sure it wasn’t one of the Potter boy’s lies. That being so, he couldn’t be reading her mind, could he? So how could he possibly know how exciting she was finding his suggestions? Please let it not be showing so clearly.

“No, no,” she said hastily, catching a drip of blood from her left arm before she was accused of fouling Filch’s office as well as the corridor, and wiping it on her robes.

“Oh, the old days were the best,” Filch said wistfully. “When punishment really meant punishment. Isn’t that so, my dear?”

Startled by the loving tone of his last words, Melinda realised a second later that the endearment had not been aimed at her but at Mrs Norris, the ugly, scrawny cat which sat under the desk, her beady eyes fixed on Melinda as accusingly as her owner’s.

“Now, according to Professor Dumbledore, all we can do,” Filch continued, “is give lines. Lines. What do the little monsters care for lines? These modern ideas. Pain, pain is the way. Lines. Huh.” He looked back at Melinda. “But you’ll do them anyway,” he said abruptly. “Four hundred lines. And do you know what you’re going to write on every line? I will not be a dirty disgusting girl. You’ll do them in every moment of your spare time, so you can’t go out and make mess, and then you’ll bring them to me tonight.”

“And if I don’t?” Melinda could hardly believe that it was she – innocent, polite Melinda Bobbin – asking the question. But the content of Argus Filch’s threatened lines had once more made her think of all the more naughty, thrilling ways that she might be dirty and disgusting.

Filch leered at her.

“Then maybe it’ll be the thumb-screws and manacles after all, hmm?”

And he had pushed her out of the office to finish her aborted trip to the Hospital wing, her mind buzzing with new thoughts and ideas.

*

Melinda still wondered what might have happened if she hadn’t written the lines.

Sometimes when she touched herself at night she found her brain filling with images. She was naked, hands cuffed to a rope above her head. Argus Filch, that revolting sexual leer on his lips, stood behind her, wielding a whip with an experienced hand. Her skin burned under the flogging, but at the same time she felt a throbbing between her legs, so that she wasn’t sure in her imagination whether her cries were of pain and pleasure. Then there was always that moment in the fantasy when Filch realised the effect he was having on her. She heard him saying in her head “You dirty, disgusting girl,” but he sounded not angry but satisfied.

Then she would turn her head over her shoulder and see that he had his robes up around his waist, one hand stroking a short, thick cock as he continued to beat her with the whip. His cock was stiff and fat, a tiny bead of moisture at the tip. He would lower the crop and thrust it between her legs, rubbing it back and forth, just as her fingers moved to and fro now, in her bed. A sharp, hard, movement, and the whip pushed up inside her (Melinda’s fingers copied the motion), plunging in and out until she was screaming with ecstasy. Filch’s hand, too, moved harder and faster on his cock, and he was grunting with exertion, his face and cock getting redder in tandem as he wanked himself off. At last he would come, spurting his seed all over her back – and at this moment in her fantasy Melinda always came, too, muffling her cries in her pillow.

Always, as soon as she recovered from the orgasm, she was ashamed. Of course, she knew that fantasising was a normal thing, and nothing to be embarrassed about. But it was the nature of the fantasy; the dreadful humiliation of masturbating over Argus Filch that made her silent and withdrawn when the other girls in her dormitory discussed sexual fantasies. They all thought that she was repressed, too posh for sex.

But still, every time Melinda even passed Argus Filch in the corridor, there was a damp patch on her knickers.