Perfect PotionsAuthor: inamacCharacters/Pairings:
Fabian/Gideon, Fudge, UmbrageRating:
Pygophilia - arousal from touching, playing with, or seeing another's buttocksOther Warnings:
dub-con, incestWord Count:
1450 (of which 287 are smut)Summary/Description:
1973. Hogsmede's specialist potions shop has a new product to test.Author's Notes:
I did set out to provide two deviations this month, but I'm afraid that the thought of Fudge and Umbrage was too much and I leave the details to my reader's imagination. I hope that the Prewett brothers will provide some compensation.
Fabian Prewett swallowed, licked his full lips, rolled his tongue around his teeth to fill his mouth with warm saliva, then pressed his wet tongue to the circle of red flesh delineated by the grip of his spread fingers, and licked
His twin bucked at the contact and moaned.
"Merlin's balls, Fabe! Do that again!"
Fabian increased his grip, securing the other man and enjoying the pattern made by his thumbs where they pushed into the plump curves of his arse-cheek. He licked the spot again, then fastened his mouth there and sucked.
This time the groan was wordless.
Marvelling at the sensuality and the sensation he was feeling (his own buttocks were clenching in sympathy with his assault on Gideon's), he shifted his hands and did the same to the other side. Gideon was making little whimpering noises now and his anus, for once not the centre of attention, was pulsing in reaction. Fabian moved back and watched the flush and tremble move across his brother's body. Of all the kinks they'd tried this was certainly the most interesting. Who would have thought that a firm grope and a few tender licks would achieve in seconds what spanking and cross-dressing and bondage had taken hours to do.
"More!" Gideon was writhing now. Fabian moved forward, gripped his trembling thighs, and began to methodically lick and kiss and caress every inch of his twin's arse, from hips, to thigh-crease, waist-fuzz and spine-dimples, down his long crack to his fluttering hole. By the time he thrust his folded tongue into the last the sheets were covered in both their spunk, and Gideon's whimpers and entreaties had turned to gasps of pleasure.
This particular kink was the best yet.
"Giddy," said Fabian, when they were both lying sated and replete on the scourgified
bed. "What the hell was in that bottle?"
Gideon freed his arm from beneath his brother and stretched over to pick up a package from the bedside table. The box bore the label of a trader in one of more obscure backstreets of Hogsmeade. Dagworth's Daily Deviations
It contained a set of seven bottles, each labelled with a day of the week. Gideon squinted at the label on the 'Wednesday' bottle that they had just used. "It's something called Pygophilia Potion
," he said.
Fabian grinned. "Arse-licker
eh? We should have bought half a dozen," he said.
Gideon looked thoughtful. "I know someone who did," he said. "Do you know Fudge in Accounts? I ran into him coming out of Dagworths with a large bottle of this stuff. I wondered about it at the time, and then I remembered Dolores Umbrage. You know her?"
His brother thought for a moment. "The new witch working in Recruitment? Face like a toad, backside like the Venus di Milo?"
"That's the one. And he always did have a rep for touching up the help, and I thought, y'know, if he's going to put the moves on that little arse-licker he might need the help of a potion."
Fabian frowned. "Damn, Giddy, I really didn't want that mental image right now." He sat up himself and reached for the box. "I need to get the thought out of my mind. How do you feel about a drop of 'Friday'?"
"Okay. But this time you wear the gag."
Hob's Passage, which ran a crooked dog-leg between the High Street and Market Place in Hogsmeade, did not have quite the unsavoury reputation of Nocturne Alley in London but the small shops which lined its cobbled length did cater for customers who valued discretion. Hogwarts students could find everything they needed for their studies, sports and entertainment in the bright streets at one end or the other of Hob's Passage but teachers, parents and older students seeking more esoteric products and services made their way under the arched entrance sandwiched between the imposing frontages of Gladrags Wizardwear and Scrivenshaft's Quill Emporium to the tiny shops with their discreet hanging signs, the open book of Ingwits' Incunabula, the ambiguous hearldic sleeve of The Petticoat Parlour, the three hanging balls over the entrance to Nogrod's Exchange (No Questions Asked), and the plump coloured bottles of Dagworth's Pills and Potions.
The proprietor of the latter, Corrin Renfrew was no relation, in either the family or business sense to the famous potioneer whose name his shop bore, but he recognised the value of good publicity afforded by a reliable name and a good reputation.
And he always liked to receive feedback from customers.
He waved his wand over the pensieve and restored the memory that he had just been reviewing to its bottle. The idea of packaging his new line of kink potions in weekend and weekly sets was certainly bringing dividends. He made a note in his catalogue and reached for the second package which had arrived that morning by public-owl.
Cornelius Fudge did not really like having lunch in the office canteen, but he was willing to make the sacrifice in the interests of advancement. He had arranged to stand in line behind Dolores, from which vantage point he could admire her most attractive assets. In fact, as he leaned over to reach the gravy jug, it was possible for him to press his hip gently against her left buttock. The slight pressure sent a frisson of desire through him, and he was sure that he had not imagined the shift in her weight as she pressed back into the touch. He feigned surprise though.
"Oh Miss Umbrage! I'm so sorry. I had not realised I was quite so close."
She fluttered. Which was slightly disgusting, but he fixed his mind on his objective.
"Oh Mister Fudge, that's quite all right. I really shouldn't have lingered quite so long over dessert. Apple pie or caramel cream, which do you think?"
It was the perfect opportunity. "Oh caramel cream, my dear. Sweets for the sweet. Allow me." He reached over and it was the work of a moment for him to place a few drops of the potion concealed in his hand into the sticky concoction before handing the bowl to her to place on her own tray.
They continued down the line to the till, where he gallantly paid for both their meals, and thus obliged her to join him at the same table. It was all going splendidly, She didn't make any remark when he guided her to the table with a proprietorial grasp on that tempting arse. He wondered whether he actually needed the potion, but it seemed a pity to waste it.
"I'm pleased that I ran into you," he said. "I know I should go through the official channels but I have a vacancy in my office for a discreet young clerical officer and I wondered whether you might have any suggestions – on the ground floor of Recruitment as you are."
She blushed, and wriggled that delightful backside on her chair. "There are rules," she said. "Protocol. All new posts are supposed to be advertised."
He nodded. "Oh naturally. We must ensure that the formalities are observed. If you could meet me after work we could discuss my resuirements. I am looking for absolute loyalty."
"To the Department?" she asked.
"Indeed. Here is my address." He passed the note across the table, and his fingers lingered on hers suggestively. "The Department's floo is directly connected to my flat. It is important for me to be able get to my office at a moment's notice. I'm sure you understand. Do speak very clearly."
"Oh yes." Her voice was breathless. She wriggled again. Fudge made a mental note to recommend the potion to certain of his colleagues. And to send back the requested testimonial memory.
"This position. Will it be a permanent one?"
He patted her arm gently. "That rather depends, my dear, on how far the candidate expects to go." He paused. Oh yes, he had been right. She was a born arse-licker. "With the Department," he added.
She gazed at him out of her large, moist eyes. She was planning on going all the way to the top. Eventually.
Renfrew withdrew from the pensieve and sighed. Much as he liked receiving kudos from satisfied customers he would have to remember that satisfaction was very much a matter of taste. It was all a matter of marketing and terminology. Perhaps he should change the description of the Pygophilia Potion
. One version in the Deviant's Delight box, and a second for clients who preferred a less intimate, more practical version of its effects.
He bottled the memory, made a final note in his ledger, and went to bed.