Lash and LeatherAuthor: inamacCharacters/Pairings:
flaggelation, touchOther Warnings:
genital shaving, leather fetish, corset, object insertion. Death-Eater-Orgy-ClichéWord Count:
Bellatrix prepares for a night of seduction as only a Death Eater can...Author's Notes:
One of the things about having alternate months is that sometimes one misses a really inspiring theme. So I apologise for the little bit of indulgence with last month's 'shaving' theme. And the lack of plot.Lash and Leather
Waiting is so difficult. Bellatrix has waited out years in Azkaban and now her Lord expects her to wait on his plans, with no clear idea of what they might be.
So she has found her own way of killing time, if not Muggles.
This suite, in her sister's house, has been turned over to her for her amusement, and she has lost no time in making it her sanctuary. She stands now, naked, in the centre of the bedroom, examining herself in the trio of full length mirrors, preparing, physically and mentally, for tonight's diversion.
Her preparation started last month, partly from boredom, partly as a way of enhancing her favourite sensations of touch and sight. She runs a hand down between her legs, revelling in the feel of the smooth hard curve of her mons veneris, and the sight of the pale triangle of untanned flesh. She had begun shaving, rather than using a depilatory charm and found, in the cold touch of metal on her most vulnerable parts, a kind of holy delight. Even as a child she had enjoyed anticipation and preparation for family treats perhaps more than the events themselves. First the round-ended scissors snipping away the coarse, dark hairs as they curled around her fingers, and then, when there was nothing but prickly fuzz left, the warm lather of soap and the sharp scrape of the long razor blade (purchased from her husband's barber and charmed against the letting of blood), over the stubbled flesh, across the insides of her thighs, and, eased not only by the dampness of the soap, but also the wetness of her own arousal, along the sensitive lips of her labia.
Thinking of it now makes her tingle.
But that was last month and now, shorn, she is preparing for greater delights.
She turns again before the glass, moving her hands over her body, over round breasts (not firm and high, not at her age, but certainly not sagging and scarred by child-rearing), over her stomach, equally smooth and unblemished (a little too rounded, but that can – and will – be taken care of), which flutters as she continues the caress, down strong thighs and calves ("My little nutcracker!", Rodolphus calls her – when she allows him the breath to do so), firm buttocks, and slim, but muscled arms. She stops with her right hand on her left wrist and examines her hands, broad and rather coarse – another legacy of Azkaban, where she learned skills of a sort that did not need the use of a wand.
And she had not been alone in that. Dammit, where was the woman?
As if in answer to her exclamation there is a sharp knock on the door and it is pushed open before she can make any response.
Alecto Carrow stands there, dark, plump and grinning. "You called, Ma'am?"
Well, Bella thinks, she is marginally better than a house elf. She nods and gestures to the things laid out on the bed. "I need some assistance with my wardrobe."
"Yes. I sees." The woman is terse, but her eyes are gleaming with anticipation of her own. 'Wardrobe' is a misnomer. There are only three things on the bed that might be classified as clothing, and only one with which a lady might require assistance.
The largest is a corset of butter-soft leather dyed a dark red, almost the colour of dried blood. Beside it lie a pair of kidskin evening gloves, of the same dark hue. The other objects are also leather; whips, floggers, cuffs and straps, each laid carefully in its place and ready for use.
This is not the first time Bella has called on her old schoolmate for such a service, and Alecto needs no further command. She lifts the gloves from the bed, draping one over her left forearm, rolling the other to allow her to present the opening to Bellatrix's outstretched hand.
Bella smiles, and folds her fingers together, making her hand slim enough to fit into the narrow opening before opening her fingers and inserting each into its separate place. She nods, and Alecto uses both her own hands to roll the glove up the slim arm with its writhing skull and snake tattoo. For Bella the sensation of the smooth, stretchy kidskin sliding up over her knuckles, wrist, forearm and elbow is like nothing else in nature. Sensuous, tight, warm. She pauses a moment after Alecto withdraws, allowing the leather to mould to her skin, before using her other hand to push each finger into its allotted place. The tiny stitches press hard into the webbing between digit. When this night is over she will be left with their impression on her hands for a while, showing how hard she has gripped and held.
The two women repeat their actions with the right glove, then Bella extends both arms, palms upward, in silent command.
Alecto grins. Standing in front of Bellatrix she reaches out to pull the gloves tight around her wrists, and to fasten the three tiny buttons that hold them in place. Bellatrix sighs as if she has been caressed by a lover. If Rodolphus had done this his lips would have brushed her wrists before that final action, sending a jolt of arousal from each pulse-point directly to her cunt, but she will not allow Alecto such licence. Not yet.
She gestures to the bed, and Alecto moves to lift up the corset, one piece in each hand, with the laces hanging loose between them, long enough for the ends of the silk cords to coil on the floor.
Bellatrix turns, allowing the other woman to fold the metal-stiffened leather around her torso. She needs the assistance. This is much longer than a normal corset, with a wide busk running from crotch to breast-bone, designed to titillate and tease as much as to confine. The rolled ridge of leather along the top rubs precisely against her nipples, the busk flattens her stomach, and the curved ends, emphasised by the double fold of enclosing leather push hard against her sex.
She breathes in as Alecto slips the hooks together, one by one, from crotch to bust, using her own gloved hands to lift and settle her cleavage into the corset's confines. She can feel the laces, still loose, hanging down over her naked buttocks, and dragging across her anus as she moves. The contrast, leather, flesh and silk, is delicious. She shivers. Alecto sees the movement, and apparently disapproves, for she lifts the laces away, and flicks the ends sharply across Bellatrix's thighs. Bella takes a quick breath, and, before she can release it, Alecto winds the ends of the upper laces around her hands and pulls.
Bella hisses as the corset closes around her breasts, dragging across her nipples. And again as the second pull on the lower laces flattens her stomach and constricts her waist. Not painfully; not yet. Even fully closed this garment is intended for titillation, not restraint.
"Again," she says, reaching out with both hands to grasp the bedpost and allow herself some stability. Behind her, Alecto grins, and repeats her actions, top laces first, then lower ones, closing the gap by another inch. Bella is breathing shallowly now, concentrating on the sensations coursing through her.
"Enough?" Alecto asks.
Bella nods. "For now," and catches her breath again as Alecto gives a last, confirmatory pull before lying the laces in a hard knot against the small of her back. She turns, very much in control of herself, and gestures to the remaining objects on the bed. "I think," she says, "I'll start with that."That
is a flogger. Alecto lifts it and hands it to her. The thongs are the same soft, red kidskin as the gloves, bound to a hard leather handle, the end shaped into the anatomically correct proportions of her husband's penis. Her fingers caress it, revelling in the warmth and texture of the material, trailing the long cords over her wrist, leather on leather, up the inside of her arm, where the glove obscures the Dark Mark, and higher, over the top of her breasts, thongs catching on the hard edge of the corset, across her shoulder, and down again, alternating over naked flesh, cinched leather and smooth kidskin: upper arm, waist, thigh, crotch, and back to catch and gather the thongs in her left hand.
"Yes," she whispers, arching her back as much as the corset will allow, raising her hand, and whipping it round, so that the thongs slash across her shoulder and back, before bringing it back down, across her body in a figure-of-eight movement and repeating the action across her left shoulder. The rhythm becomes hypnotic, the sound mesmerising. After six or seven repetitions Bella pauses. She would be breathing hard, if the corset allowed, but she is glowing, shoulders and back pink where the lashes have fallen, and eyes alive with arousal. She holds her hand to one side, handing the flogger to Alecto, and reaches again to grip the bedpost. She barely has a hold before the flogger falls again, this time across her buttocks, as her fellow Death Eater repeats the lazy, even strokes alternately, left and right, up and down.
After perhaps five minutes – perhaps half an hour – time here is irrelevant - Alecto stops, reluctantly, when ordered to do so in a breathy cry. She switches the flogger to her left hand, and reaches forward with her right to press her fingers between the folds of Bellatrix's sex. They come away wet with arousal. Bella groans, releasing one hand from the bedpost to feel down between her own legs and, encountering the barrier of the corset, presses the leather-clad metal down hard on her clit. She parts her legs, but not enough to provide the relief she needs.
"Damn you!" she groans, though it is unclear whether she refers to herself, the constricting corset, or her partner. Then: "Fuck me!".
The demand echoes in the room, the profanity shocking, even here in this den of profanity. Alecto smiles, tosses the flogger onto the bed and pushes Bellatrix forward, crushing her up against the bedpost and preventing all movement. A sharp, well practiced spell lashes her wrists, securing her in the position.
"Soon," she leans forward and whispers, dropping her hand to plunge her fingers again between Bellatrix's legs, finding her wet and open and ready. She removes her fingers, and reverses the flogger in her hand, gripping the fall of soft thongs to probe at Bella's cunt with the hard, rounded end of the handle. There is barely any resistance, and she drives the false phallus home with a twist that, were she not constricted by the corset, would make Bella scream.
Wholly concentrated on their activity neither woman hears the door open, or the soft tread of house-slippers across the polished floor, until a cold, long-fingered hand closes over Alecto's and forces her to relinquish her grip on the flogger, even as it increases the pace of the relentless reaming.
Alecto withdraws as the newcomer leans forward to whisper into Bellatrix's ear, a hissed command to retain her grip on the intruding leather as he removes his own hand.
She obeys. She has no choice in this, indeed, it is what she half-hoped when she arranged this meeting with Alecto. She holds her breath, muscles clenched to retain the flogger, and hears the door close on Alecto's departure, as the newcomer moves to the bed to inspect the instruments that she has laid out there. She does not turn her head to see what he chooses, and his return to her side is silent. Braced for the touch of a whip she is shocked when she feels the tip of a wand against the knot in the small of her back, and then the laces of the corset tighten once more in response to a wordless charm, closing the steel and leather to it's tightest.
It is only then that she knows he has chosen the riding crop, as the first of five bruisingly hard blows lands on her naked buttocks. Now, for the first time, she screams, and her bound fingers claw at the wood, holding her desperately upright against the onslaught.
It is only when she is on the cusp of her orgasm that her new assailant withdraws slightly, allowing her breath as the flogger is pulled from her body and discarded, to be replaced a moment later by his own, scarcely less hard, flesh.
And then Bellatrix is screaming and writing in breathless delight for nothing - nothing
makes her feel more alive than the cold, dead touch of her Master and Lord.