|Trio Maxwell-Chang (trio) wrote in fictionaltrio,|
@ 2007-08-14 13:25:00
|Entry tags:||harry potter series, hermione granger, severus snape|
[Harry Potter] Acceptable Pain
Title: Acceptable Pain
Fandom/Pairing: Harry Potter - Snape/Hermione
Word Count: 2779
Summary: A lapse of manners leads to a different kind of lesson.
Table/Prompt: 5.3 - Flogging
Disclaimer: All characters, places, and other copyrightable items within this story are the sole property of J.K. Rowling and her associated parties. No monetary benefit is being gained and no infringement is intended.
Warning(s): Bondage, flogging, very mild sadism, sex toys, some domination/submission, nudity, Teacher/student relationship, het
A/N: This story takes place during Hermione's 7th year, and ignores canon past Order of the Phoenix. Additionally, according to wikipedia, J.K. Rowling has noted that Harry recovered the map from the Moody imposter.
Whatever else he might have been, Severus Snape was patient. Hermione certainly hadn't expected him to be, not after his displays in the classroom or the way he lost his temper at Neville at the slightest inconvenience. Indeed, she'd somehow expected that Snape would contact her again in a few days, the prospect terrifying and thrilling her at the same time. Instead, she'd sat in the Gryffindor tower for nights on end, often unable to sleep until late into the night. The memory of that night, of the feather teasing over her, tickling her as she squirmed and screamed, driving her until she came and then backing off for several minutes, just long enough for her to gain a semblance of recovery before it was back again, tickling and teasing anew, stayed with her. It distracted her with what had been and the rather tantalizing thought of what might be to come. And a month later, when Professor McGonagall sat her down to discuss her grades and the upcoming N.E.W.T.S. and Hermione realized that her teacher was honestly worried that she'd dropped down to what most might consider average, Hermione apologized and promised to work harder.
"Is it a boy?" McGonagall asked, her voice taking on a faint gentleness, and a hint of hesitancy. Hermione, who had spent years under Harry and Ron's tutelage in the fine art of decieving one's teachers, shook her head and smiled back at McGonagall, doing her best to project the certainty that it was not a boy. She knew that she didn't quite dare to speak the words, even though it really wasn't a boy. Ron was a boy. Harry was a boy. Snape... was something else. A man, certainly, but even there, Hermione would have a hard time swearing to it. Something about him...
And there she was distracted again, her eyes fixed on McGonagall's face but seeing instead piercing black eyes and a cut-throat razor smile. She promised once more to do better, escaping the office with her calm still somehow intact, and she made her way up to the tower again, lost in thought. In order to keep this from continuing to get in the way of her work, something had to give. She had to seek him out, to get the other three 'lessons' over with quickly. Maybe then, in the aftermath, she would be able to focus.
The nights were colder now, so she dressed warmer, ignoring the skirt and silken shirt for another sweater and jeans. The denim pants were tight, and as they nestled in her crotch, she could feel herself pulse briefly in anticipation. Were she being polite, she would give him some warning that she was coming. But she wasn't polite. This wasn't polite. This was insanity, and the insane, she reasoned, were allowed to show up without warning. She peeked into the common room, caught sight of Ron and Harry playing chess, and nodded to herself, ducking back up the stairs to the boys dorm this time. She wouldn't need to take the Marauder's Map with her. She just needed to glance at it, to know where Snape was before she left to find him.
A few moments later, she was on her way. He was in his own rooms, surrounded by cold stone and warm wood, and that would be simple enough to find him and get the next lesson out of the way. Somehow, based on previous experience, she knew better than to think that she would be in any shape to deal with more than one lesson. So instead, she arrived at his room and tapped sharply, her heart in her throat as she waited for him to answer. It hadn't occurred to her until she'd already tapped that this was dangerous, that disturbing him without forewarning could put him into a foul mood and that she was literally placing herself into his hands. Would he take it out on her? Entirely likely. Would she let him? If she had to be honest with herself, she found that likely as well.
"Miss Granger." The dark smoke voice curled around her, dragging her from her inward thoughts, and she looked up into his face. He was not smiling, but a smile wasn't expected. But the look in his eyes couldn't quite be called a scowl either. It spoke of anticipation, something dark and dangerous lurking just behind. Her breath stuttered briefly to a halt, and she nodded rather than speak. "Come for your lesson, are you?" Snape continued, one eyebrow arching up when she nodded again. He looked down that large, hawk nose at her, sneering, then stepped back. His robe swirled outward, more of a welcoming gesture than he'd given her himself, and she took the opportunity to step inside.
"Most people ask permission before they come calling, Miss Granger, or wait for an invitation. Your manners are surprisingly lacking on this front. I wonder if your choice of companions has something to do with that," and the way his voice curled downward, a dark extension of the sneer, made her flush a deep red, looking away from him. "Or did you find your Gryffindor courage lacked enough strength to ensure that you were polite? Was it come now or flee forever, I wonder," he continued, motioning for her to follow him through a door into another, smaller room. A private study, perhaps, at one time, but now the room was nearly devoid of furniture. There was a comfortable couch against one wall, and a padded table in the center of the room. "Examine the table, Miss Granger. Tell me what you see," Snape invited, and for all that he'd appeared annoyed when she arrived, there was no anger lacing his voice any longer. He seemed, instead, anticipatory. His robes were abandoned, draped over one arm of the couch before he settled into it, more comfortably casual than she'd ever seen him.
Hermione padded around the table, trailing her fingers over the smooth padding for a long moment as she took it in. It was an odd thing, hardly a table at all, really, with several different levels and a cut-out at one end. A bar crossed beneath the cut-out, steel that matched the legs of the table. Straps rested over the cut out and the tallest part of the table itself, as well as over each of the small back portions. "It looks," she said finally, glancing back at Snape a little uncertainly, her cheeks tinted red, "a little like an inverted gynecologist's table." Oh how hard it was, watching the hooded delight in his eyes and not stumbling over those words. But her voice remained firm. And looking back briefly at those straps, she drew the logical conclusion. "I'm to be strapped down, aren't I?"
"It would seem that your slipping studies have not been the fault of your logic, Miss Granger," he smirked at her, and she turned abruptly away. Even he'd noticed her distraction?, she thought, one hand lifting to suddenly-hot cheeks. "I require two further pieces of equipment," he added, standing and gathering the robe. "You will remain here and strip. But do not get onto the table." That said, he was gone, and she was left shaken, staring at the door for a long moment before looking back at the table. Her body was a crazy mix of contradictions, blood flushing her cheeks with embarrassment and heart pounding in fear opposite the low thrumming pulse of her groin, a quickly-heightening need that told her more loudly than her own thoughts that she would stay to the end, if only to see what it was he would do to her.
Realizing abruptly that he'd once more turned his back on her, given some manner of privacy to strip, she hurriedly began. Even knowing that he'd be invading that privacy once she was done didn't stop her, for she knew that at least while he was gone, she could allow herself to be graceless in shedding her clothes, that it didn't have to be part of this huge game to him. Once bare, she gathered up her shirt and pants, folding them and tucking them into a corner, her underwear settled atop them. And when she turned back, there he was, watching her.
"Very good, Miss Granger," he praised, his words mocking. Moving to the table, he unbuckled each strap, the velcro that held them closed loud and rough in the silence of the room. When he was finally done, the straps open and hanging down the sides, he gestured to her. "Your belly on the table, Miss Granger," he directed. "And your face in the cut-out." And she did as he directed, climbing up awkwardly and figuring out that the two small surfaces in back were for her ankles, and that her arms hung down much as the straps did before he took each, threading it through a metal ring to one side and bringing it back around until it lay snug against her skin, holding her down. One over the back of her head, this one padded for comfort, additional comfort to the padding surrounding her face which kept the metal from biting into her. One at her back, just below where her breasts pressed down into the table, not quite crushed. The table was cool against her nipples. One strap around each ankle, settled snugly into place with her feet hanging down so that the strap didn't cut into skin. Overall, she found the table shockingly comfortable for all that it exposed her to his whims.
He moved to the couch, retrieving something she couldn't see, and knelt before her head. His hands, long-fingered and scarred from chopping ingredients, marred by old cuts and burns and clean, despite the ancient stains of plant juice, reached for one wrist, settling it into a black leather cuff before hooking the cuff to the bar she'd noted earlier. Once each hand was done, he rose, and those fingers slid over her hair, almost comforting. "Now that you're properly settled, Miss Granger, we can begin. Tonight's lesson will address your appalling lapse of manners. Should you suffer such a lapse a second time, I can assure you, the consequences will be infinitely worse. Commit that to memory, Miss Granger, while I prepare."
She shivered at the thought, drawing a shaken breath. The sound broke the silence, let him see how scared she really was despite the comfort of the table, and he sighed quietly. "Miss Granger, I assure you, no lasting harm will come to you while you are in my hands. You will not bleed nor break, and as with the last lesson, I know that you will find a certain pleasure about it all. Let your Gryffindor courage, that particularly frustrating trait you share with Weasley and Potter, bolster you." His words were gentle, the reassurance in them unimagined. And surprised by it all, Hermione felt herself relax into the table.
...For a moment.
The first lash landed across her backside, a sharp thud that surprised her. It wasn't the pain that drew a yelp from her. It was, instead, the unexpectedness of it all, the way she'd had no warning that he'd shifted from comforting Professor to hard-handed teacher. And the leather he was hitting her with seemed to curl around in a dozen different places, almost teasing at her hip. "What...?" she demanded sharply, voice pitched high by nerves. He laughed.
"A flogger, Miss Granger. It's rather like a soft cat o' nine tails, meant for specific purposes. Do you intend to interrupt with further questions?" he drawled, the same pointed question he'd asked only the previous week in his classroom. Somehow, that memory made her shiver all the more, and she nodded the little bit her bindings would allow. "Very well then," he finished, bringing the whip down a second time. Prepared, this time, she relaxed ever so slightly.
Again, the flogger did little more than hit her, leaving her slightly disappointed now that she was examining how it felt. She had always expected whippings to sting, but this almost felt like a multi-fingered tapping, solid and yet not painful in the slightest. It raised awareness of her skin, reminded her that he had access to her, and she shifted slightly, unable to do much more than that.
It took Snape a few blows before he'd developed a steady rhythm, but he quickly fell into it, varying where he hit her, but not the speed or power of it. At times, the flogger crawled all the way up to her shoulders, turning the whole of her back red. Other times, it crept down to her upper thighs, and she could just feel the pressure against her lips. For a time, she let the rhythmic strikes lull her, her mind beginning to wander as they continued. She couldn't quite tell when she began to feel the sting, or how long he'd been at it. It crept up on her, slow and steady until each blow brought honest discomfort. There was not yet pain as she would expect, but it began to make her squirm in truth, and she quickly discovered just how tightly bound she was. Her hips could dance a little, but not much, her chest unable to rise from the table. Her arms jerked against the cuffs encasing her wrists, but they, too, were firmly in place.
And still he continued.
As her skin grew more raw, more irritated by the constancy, the soft blows began to sting more. She shuddered with it, finding it shockingly difficult to endure willingly less pain than she had accepted as the very nature of being Harry's friend. The blows she'd taken, the acceptance of the danger her life was in, seemed so much easier than this conscious giving over. "Professor," she gasped softly, realizing belatedly that the blows were harder, that somewhere along the way, he'd progressed slowly and carefully from taps to outright strikes against her body. Punishment indeed for her lapse, and she whimpered. "Please, Professor," came the next plea, and to her horror, there were tears in those words, and tears dripping from her bound face down to the metal of the base below.
And he stopped.
Rough, callused fingers stroked over her reddened skin, and she whined softly at the touch, trying to pull away. "Quite becoming, Miss Granger," he praised quietly, moving to stand between her legs. She felt something hard and cold nudge at her entrance, then slide inside, stretching her just a little. She couldn't see what he was doing with it, but she felt him manipulate it for a few moments before she could feel a faint dusting, rather like the head of a soft-bristled paintbrush, over the puckered hole above, bared by the table. As she shivered, he turned the vibrator on, and it buzzed to life within her, the movement sending the brush to tease at sensitive skin. One of his fingers snaked beneath her, teasing at her clitoris as she gasped and shifted, hips moving with sudden shock and need.
"Professor?" she gasped, and he chuckled, the sound like rich, bitter chocolate sliding over her.
"I've given you your instruction, Miss Granger," he informed her. "And you learned admirably. As I cannot give you a letter grade, and do not intend to reward your House with points that only you have earned, I'm giving you another reward." And then he fell silent, watching as she jerked and gasped. His finger dampened with her juices, rolling her clit firmly and exploring the distended bundle of nerves. And then she was lost, plunging head-first into pure pleasure and feeling it consume her. She couldn't see, couldn't breathe. She could only feel as he teased her higher, and even as her climax poured out of her, he stroked one firm hand down her back, chafing over strawberry skin, and even that pain couldn't stop her release.
She sagged down into the table finally, limp from exertion and still half-deaf for the blood rushing in her ears. And there was his hand again, petting the tangles of her hair. "Very good, Miss Granger," he murmured. "You may rest here for an hour, after which time, you will shower as before and go back to your room." He unbound her head, her back and legs, released her wrists and watched as she didn't bother to move before chuckling warmly and moving to the door. "I think you will find sitting interesting tomorrow," he added, his voice undisguised smirk. And then he slipped from the room, leaving her alone.