Daily Deviant
- there is no such thing as 'too kinky'
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31st October 2011 08:32 - FIC: Bath Time (Petunia/Sirius, NC17)
Title: Bath Time
Author: [info]inamac
Characters/Pairings: Petunia Dursley/Sirius Black
Rating: NC17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: bathing/washing (with elements of a dangerous situation and silence)
Other Warnings: Bestiality
Word Count: 2300
Summary/Description: Harry is not the only one to encounter a black dog in Privet Drive.
Author's Notes: It was interesting being inside Petunia's head – she's really not that bad when you get to know her... (Thanks to [info]lil_shepherd for casting an eye over the SPAG and continuity of this, the peculiarity of style is entirely my fault.)

Bath Time


Petunia panicked.

She didn't often panic, Vernon didn't like it, and it scared Dudley, and she had learned, long since, to hide all her emotions, but Harry had just left, and she remembered the note – had never forgotten that threat/admonition in thirteen years – and thirteen was an unlucky number. Wasn't it? And lucky numbers mattered in their world, and anything could happen to him if he just wandered the streets...

So she had run out after her nephew, abandoning Vernon to deal with his bloated, bigoted sister (had she really called her a bitch? To her face? Why had she stood for it?) She hesitated at the end of the avenue. Harry couldn't have got far. Probably no further than the garden of Number Two, where the Wilsons lived in that common, pebbledashed thirties house, that should have been demolished when the new estate was built. Vernon was still shouting. Something about 'good riddance to bad rubbish', but he didn't realise how awful this was. If Harry went missing there would be... consequences. That boy had been very graphic about what happened to people who disobeyed the rules of the wizarding world. About... Dementors...

What was that? A shadow somewhere between the houses. She swallowed, terrified to go back, and equally scared to go on.

There was an enormous BANG! A noise that was almost a tangible force. She found herself clutching the fence of Number Two as if her life depended on it. A wooden fence. Touchwood. That was a charm, wasn't it? Maybe there was something magic about wood, even neat, planed overlapping larch panels (£5.99 in B&Q, and common as muck), that could protect her from whatever was lurking in the shadows.

There was definitely something there. It had reacted to the noise with a sound of its own, half howl, half whimper. A dog noise...

At first she wondered whether Margery's bulldog had run in fear from the blimp that had been his mistress and taken refuge here. But this animal was thinner, and much larger, a scraggy black mongrel halfway between a wolfhound and a wolf. It came slinking out of the dark, an expression of loss and despair in its eyes that she recognised all too well from her own mirror.

"Harry?" she whispered. The air seemed to be full of magic, and it was not impossible that the stupid boy had somehow transformed – or been transformed – into this animal.

Its ears pricked upright at the name, and it came and pushed its long muzzle into her skirts. She twitched them away. The creature was filthy, probably covered in fleas. But...

She heard the engine of a car start up along the street. It was their car. Vernon was forcing his sister into the too-small seats, abetted by Dudley and Ripper. Too embarrassed to call for an ambulance, she assumed. She watched as the overloaded vehicle pulled out of the driveway and turned up the road heading for the hospital. They would be waiting for at least four hours in A&E.

That meant the house would be empty.

The dog pawed at her skirts. She pushed it away and started walking back to the house. It followed. All the way up the path and into the porch. Again she tried to push it away, but it whined, and the brown eyes met hers in doggy entreaty. It was obviously as distressed as she was. Perhaps this was Harry. Transformed by that terrifying magic of his. Making a sudden decision, she retrieved the key from its hiding place (how like Vernon to forget that she might be locked out), opened the door and followed the dog into the hall.

It nosed at the door to the cupboard under the stairs, and whined again. Now that it was inside it looked bigger, and dirtier, than ever. She plunged a hand into the fur at the scruff of its neck, trying not to think about fleas, and led it upstairs.

"Whether you're Harry or not, you need a bath," she stated.

Oddly the animal did not object. In fact it seemed almost eager as she as it followed her to the bathroom. She looked around the small space. The mirror reflected pale green tiles ('Aqua' in the catalogue, but she always thought of them as green, in a small, unvoiced rebellion against Vernon who insisted that they were blue), the big black dog, and herself, dishevelled from the run and her panic.

The dog sat, tongue half-hanging from the long muzzle, eyes bright, watching as she stripped the room of anything that might be damaged. She spread the rubber shower mat in the bath, and looked thoughtfully at the shampoo. It was expensive. Should she go down to the kitchen for the washing up liquid? The dog thumped its tail on the floor, its eyes fixed on the bottle of shampoo. She made her decision and twisted off the lid and set it to one side. She would probably need the whole bottle. It was a big dog, much too big to really be a transformed Harry, and very very dirty.

She looked down at her frock, the expensive cotton crumpled and stained by the day's events, and decided that there was no point in trying to pretend that this situation was at all normal. She stripped off the dress, and her bra, and tossed them into the laundry basket. The dog was looking at her, head on one side with a peculiarly smug expression. But it was just a dog. A big, dirty dog. And she was going to give it a bath.

She hadn't given any thought to how to get such a large animal into the bath, but it seemed to want to co-operate and jumped in of its own volition, standing foursquare on the mat and watching as she unhooked the shower and turned it on.

Remembering her routine long ago when she had had to bath the boys, she waited until the water was warm before directing the spray over the dog's shoulders and back. It stretched a little, apparently used to being bathed, for which she was grateful, and they both watched the initial layer of dirt as it swirled away down the plug hole. Then she picked up the shampoo, poured it directly onto the wet fur, and started rubbing.

The action was very soothing, calming both herself and the dog. She half closed her eyes, concentrating on the sensation of her fingers moving through wet hair, and jumped as something cold and damp pushed itself into her crotch.

"Bad dog!" she admonished, pushing its nose away. The nose was replaced by an inquisitive paw dragging at her panties.

"No!" she said firmly but without heat. But it was too late, The nylon ripped under the animal's long claws. She put the shower back on its hook and bent to strip off the ruined garment. Before she could straighten up the black nose had returned, this time pushing between her exposed buttocks, and it was accompanied by another intrusion, a long wet tongue lapping across the curve of her arse, down the cleft and over her... pucker.

Outrage warred with arousal. This was disgusting. But he was just a dog, and this was what dogs did. And really, if you ignored the source, the sensation was rather lovely....

She wriggled a little, and the tongue obliged by going deeper, further down, before she fully realised exactly what he was doing – encouraging him – and stood up and turned to face him.

"Bad dog," she repeated, reaching for the shower.

He grinned. There was no other word for it. On that long muzzle the expression was unmistakable. And now she was facing him, and her crotch was still at his nose-level, and her hands were occupied and quite unable to prevent the nose plunged into her pubic hair and the long canine tongue resuming its task of stimulation.

She slipped on the wet floor, lost balance, and, quite suddenly, found herself on her back in the bath. It was a miracle that she hadn't hit her head on the taps going down. And the dog was above her, all four paws planted on the rubber mat, his nose had left her crotch and was sniffing at her hair as he stood over her, dripping and happy.

Very happy. His long red penis was fully out of its sheath and drooping obscenely over her thighs. He gave her a look out of those dark brown eyes and enunciated, more like a human than an animal, a clearly interrogative "Woof?"

"No!" Her voice was high, ringing off the tiles as she pushed him off and struggled to her feet. Standing over him again, the shower pouring down on them both, she felt more in control. "Dumb animal," she muttered, retrieving the shampoo and continuing the task she had begin, albeit rubbing more roughly to get the soap into the thick fur. He submitted to her ministrations, keeping his nose and his tongue to himself, until she turned her attention to washing his balls.

As she reached down to grip him she briefly remembered Marge's booming description of her dog's show points: "Of course all male animals should have two apparently normal testicles fully descended into the scrotum. Ripper's never been thrown out of the ring on that count." It was hardly proper dinner conversation, but Marge was hardly a proper dinner guest. This dog would certainly qualify on that point, if not on his looks. His big furred testicles filled her hand, warm and slippery with soap. He panted a little, breath coming in doggy puffs, and unsheathed his penis again, pushing his rear end into her hand, and using the leverage to rear up and put his paws on her shoulders –

His hands –

Because suddenly he wasn't a dog any more, though his furred chest against her breasts and his cock, long and hard, against her mound, were no less intrusive.

She should have pushed him away, but instead she pulled him closer, playing out all her fantasies – though he was nothing like the chap on the afternoon property show who was her usual sexual fantasy fodder – and besides, she suspected that the TV presenter was gay and would never have looked at her in real life the way this man's warm brown eyes were looking at her. Desperate. Wanting. Her.

She should have pushed him away, she should be screaming for help (though Vernon was miles away, and she didn't want to think about him right now). If she screamed the neighbours might hear and she didn't want that either. What she wanted – needed – was this gorgeous hunk of wet, wiry, wonderful man to fuck her through the floor. Or the wall. Or wherever he wanted.

"Fuck me," she said. Whispered, because she didn't say filthy words like 'fuck' aloud. Not where anyone could hear her. Especially Vernon. Even when he was fucking her. Which wasn't often these days. For which she was grateful, because it was hard to fantasise about other men when you were trying to remember to breathe.

Oh god! His tongue was in her mouth now! His human tongue. Possessing her. Thick and wet. And his other thick, wet, blood-engorged flesh was pressing into her down there. Her cunt, she thought, deliberately crude. A strange man, who used to be a dog, is fucking my cunt, and French-kissing me, and it's... magic!

The shower was still on, still pouring down on them both, washing the foam of the shampoo from his back, from the incredibly long hair cascading down over his shoulders, and from the hand with which she had washed his balls, and which was now grasping the curve of his arse and encouraging him to do more than rut against her like the animal he had been, to guide the now-human, but no less impressive, cock between her warm, wet, well prepared folds.

He was inside her now, filling and arousing her, making her feel things that she hadn't felt for so long that she had thought they were figments of her imagination. But she pulsed around him and the sensation sparked through her and erupted from her mouth in a cry of breathy delight.

He pushed her back against the tiles, lifted her so that she was forced to wrap her legs around his thighs, still half-boneless from orgasm, and riding him to another, even more exquisite, climax.

His followed. Breathless and satisfied they both slid back into the bath and let the water wash away all scent, all trace, and all evidence of her – their - lust.

When the world eventually slid back into focus she looked up to see him examining his reflection in the steamy mirror. And... Oh God, she recognised him! Twice over, like two images each superimposed on the misted glass. The tangle-haired, gaunt, haunted figure of the man who's photograph had been on the TV news, the wanted serial killer... and the fit young man with the mischievous smile who had been Best Man at her sister's wedding. The one who had flirted with all the bridesmaids – and with her – she would have liked it to go further, but he was one of them and you never knew, did you, whether those people were using that magic stuff to make you like them.

And now she had...

She gave a little scream, and he turned and looked down at her, and she wondered whether he could read her mind, or whether it was all, the arousal, the fear, the satisfaction, written on her face.

He smiled. Oh that smile!

"It's not true," he said – croaked, rather, in a voice half-canine growl, "I didn't kill anyone." His expression suddenly became grim. "But when I find the little rat who was responsible for betraying James and Lily..." His lips curved into a grim smile – and kept curving, lengthening, drawing back over pointed canine teeth, and then the dog was back, huge and out of place in that room. He shook himself, showering her with the remains of the water, and then bounded out of the room and down the stairs. She heard the thud of the front door against the latch – and then silence reigned again in Privet Drive.

The End.
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