emma (edobb) wrote in afortic, @ 2013-06-03 22:34:00 |
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Entry tags: | emma dobbs, pansy parkinson |
Who: Pansy Parkinson & Emma Dobbs
When: June 2nd, 2005. Late, close to midnight.
Where: The Hellfire Club in London. No, really.
Rating: High.
Warnings: Power play, femme, um...
When she said she had things to do, Emma Dobbs was not kidding. The weekend escape to the Mediterranean had been just what she needed, especially coupled with the company of a new After popping back (through Europe's terribly convenient Floo Network, combined with her Permanent Portkeys that took her between London and her family home in Florence) early Sunday morning, Emma set right back down to work. The journals were a passing distraction, but they never truly derailed her plans for the evening. After touching base with her various contacts, and checking in on a couple of her safehouses to gather her things, Emma prepared for the evening ahead. Like it or not, there was a certain covert element to most of what Emma did. She wasn't especially adept at intercepting owls, but HUMIT (or human intelligence) was one of her strengths. Espionage, eavesdropping, disguises, interrogation. That kind of thing. Usually, she didn't even have to resort to extreme measures such as Polyjuice Potion to achieve her goals either. Take the Hellfire Club, for example. A prominent society for Purebloods founded in the 1600's, it occupied a niche role in wizarding society -- an elite club, removed from the majority of petty politics. Their public neutrality in the face of changing regimes over the eras, despite what powerful members did or said within their Inner Circle, afforded them the ability to survive. Although secretly moving pieces on the world chessboard behind the scenes, the Hellfire Club and its members nevertheless endured through the First War and the Second. In this changing climate, it was the perfect place to put an ear to the ground. While Purebloods were the target of many of the Ministry's new decrees, they were also well-connected. Several prominent families were unbothered and unharassed by the current administration, which gave them the freedom to talk, well, freely about what they had heard or what they knew -- behind closed doors, anyway. Getting in hadn't been easy, but then again, it hadn't been terribly hard either. Emma considered masquerading as a Pureblood witch from Italy, but that didn't exactly provide her with an alibi for regular returns to the club -- and besides, anyone poking around could have easily unraveled whatever backstory she provided for herself. No, it was much easier to just apply for a job. The Hellfire Club had very specific tastes when it hired help -- Muggleborns. They didn't allow Purebloods or even Halfbloods to serve their members. They also required their help to really commit to their standards, which happened to include dressing provocatively (always in black or white lingerie), wearing high heels (at least three inches tall), and dancing for customers upon request (rarely the waltz). With a bit of flirty initiative during her interview process, Emma Dobbs had secured a part-time cocktail waitress position about a month ago, under the pseudonym Brandy. It was tonight -- dressed in a white demi-bra, matching white lacy boyshorts worn over her white garters, semi-transparent white thigh-high stockings, and white strappy pumps that gave her a bit of a height advantage (normally 5'2", now 5'5") -- that 'Brandy' had picked up the 7pm-2am shift. Passing a table of posh old men, she stopped to lean over and pick up their empty glasses. Bending at the waist, of course, to showcase her "Anything else?" Most women who set foot in the Hellfire Club did so as entertainment and labour. On this particular evening, one besieged by cascading waves of rain too cold for early June, Pansy Parkinson was the only female who moved through the Club's shadowed interior with glass in hand and no man to deliver it to. Despite her singular status, she was at home here, accustomed to the clientele and conversation. By most, she was seen not as her father's daughter, but as an equal. A well-dressed, desirable equal, no doubt. But when Pansy visited the Hellfire Club, she avoided pencil skirts and plunging necklines. Lace and sheer paneling had no place here. Dressed in a simple, exquisitely tailored black dress, she made a point to separate herself from the half-clothed girls who served. Pansy served no one. She placed her empty tumbler on the silver tray, then turned to look at their waitress. "Whiskey. Nothing Elvish in origin this time." As she spoke, she narrowed her lined eyes, the face before her familiar. The girl on the journals, the ‘little rebel' she knew perfectly well as Emma Dobbs. Pansy betrayed that information to no one, but instead took Dobbs' wrist, to steer her toward a dark corner and the abandoned hall beyond. "Why don't I show you which whiskey I prefer." The trouble with men was they saw what they wanted to see. With a smudge of dark kohl, Emma found she could skate by without too many people recognising her. Her state of undress -- both how much of her olive skin she bared, and the helpful way her lacy underthings accented both her cleavage and butt -- only aided in this endeavor. Emma was the kind of witch who personally preferred to clothe herself in black and wear her hair messy, down to her shoulders. But Brandy did not. Brandy appeased the depraved perverts' naughty little girl image -- choosing the more virginal white lingerie, and pulling her dark brown hair back into matching pigtails. And it was Brandy, not Emma, that was so brusquely steered away from the men by none other than Pansy fucking Parkinson. Now, Emma was skilled enough in the acting arts to cover her genuine surprise -- but Brandy would have squeaked in sincere surprise, so squeak Emma did. With a girlish look of apology back to the gentlemen, she click-clacked quickly to keep up with Pansy as the better-dressed Pureblood pulled her aside. "Yes, ma'am! That would be very helpful. Sometimes I'm just too stupid to figure out which bottle is which," she babbled, the image of a vapid cocktail waitress. But once alone in that corridor, Emma spun on Pansy. Twisting her wrist free and nimbly wheeling on the other young woman. "What the fuck do you think you are doing?" Yes, because Emma was perfectly in the right here, not Pansy. "I belong here." The hall was deserted, yes, but it would not remain so. Any witch or wizard with a bit of sense-- not to mention a witch wanted by the government of the country they were both in-- would have fled at the sight of a Slytherin with her wand drawn, especially of late. But stupid Dobbs just stood, if anything, closer to Pansy than before. Pansy knew this particular corridor, and she pushed Dobbs toward its far end, murmuring a spell to unlock an unmarked powder room. She forced the girl across its threshold, then secured the door behind them. The powder room was dark, lit by no natural or artificial light, and so Pansy cast a second spell, the better to see any weapon Dobbs might have (though where she would keep it at present, Pansy didn't know). "I should think I've no reason to remind you that, if you scream, your employers will simply think you one of the new employees who was too stupid to realise what her position entailed." Emma flinched. I belong here. The sentiment rang in her head, long after the words had faded from Pansy's lips. It sent a kind of shiver down her spine that she did not like, unlike the many kinds of shivers that she did find pleasurable. Entitlement. She rankled against the very notion -- and had, her entire life. As a Muggleborn, Emma took special exception to any witch or wizard who dared try to claim superiority. In her own way, she was very much Ravenclaw's own Hermione Granger -- several years the famous witch's junior, but just as righteous and stubborn. Before she could muster a convincing counterpoint, Emma was strongarmed down the hall and into an empty room. She didn't struggle, because she was very much convinced that she could take Pansy. Even though she didn't have her wand, and Pansy did, Emma was sure she could disarm or otherwise overpower Pansy in a heartbeat, if she so chose. Muggles were much more well-versed in nonmagical methods of self-defense, after all. There was no fear, no anxiety -- just confidence and a bit of heat in her expression and body language. If anything, Emma was perturbed by the handsy way Pansy had cornered her in a room. With a huffy sound, she crossed her arms beneath her breasts and defiantly tipped her chin to level her eyes with Pansy's. Gone was Brandy's babydoll-sweetness, replaced by the smoky anger of a... well, a wanted criminal. "Do I honestly look like the kind of woman that would scream?" she deadpanned. Pansy smiled. While such an expression on the face of a woman like Isabel Moon was intended to suggest comfort and safety, mutual good cheer, when Pansy smiled, she came across as nothing so much as up to no good. Perhaps she'd learned it from Draco, before the unfortunate weakening of his spirit and his good name. When she took a single step forward, her heels clicked decisively on the marble floor. She leaned in, her stained lips a brilliant red. "You've no idea, little rebel, just how easily I can make any woman scream." This gave Emma pause. Not just her smile -- which hinted to dark things, as if Pansy knew something that Emma did not -- but Pansy's cool reply. Despite herself, she tensed when the other woman leaned in. She wasn't normally one to back down from a challenge, and she didn't consider herself to be backing down now, but something made her shoulders hunch and her posture diminish. As if shrinking back, or melting beneath Pansy's sneer. A disturbing thought suddenly occurred to her. Were Pansy's intentions lecherous? She had thought this was merely a matter of business. Emma was a terrorist, clearly snooping around in a club she did not belong in; Pansy was a member of that club in good standing, with vested interests in the Ministry. It made sense that the ex-Slytherin wasn't going to just stand by and allow Emma to carry on with her sham. But now that she was alone with the Pureblood, Pansy wasn't drilling her for information. She wasn't accusing her of treachery, or spying, or trying to murder the Minister. Instead, the other brunette was teasing her. There was no denying the wicked innuendo in Pansy's retort, and it threw Emma. She was obviously drawn to women -- but was Pansy? Despite their banter on the journals, Emma didn't actually think Pansy's tastes were so... varied. With a small sound, she scrunched her nose back at Pansy. "Right. Well, I think I'm just fine living in ignorance this time. So if you'll excuse me, I have work to do..." And with that, she attempted to sidestep Pansy. Again, Pansy stilled Dobbs with a hand to the wrist. This time, she dug her thumb into the girl's pulse point, then twisted-- just a touch. Just enough to hold Dobbs in one place. Pansy was taller, with curves where Dobbs was thin. Not plump, but she knew she held the physical edge, if it came to that. The question, then, was how well Dobbs knew to use her size. Pansy would be stupid to think she was anything but efficient in that regard. "And what work is that?" Somehow, Pansy doubted that a known terrorist would require such a droll means to feed and clothe herself. The Hellfire Club gave Dobbs too perfect an opportunity to circulate among a class of people she hated. The move took Emma by surprise. Again, Pansy impressed. She didn't know that the formerly pug-nosed witch was capable of such a deft maneuver. She did indeed freeze in place, covering her wince with a sharp look back at Pansy. Her dark, mismatched eyes flamed with a newfound emotion -- frustration. Her wrist snagged, she barely contemplated her next move. It was all instinct. With the kind of speed that her tiny size betrayed, the barely-clothed brunette stepped in close, ignoring the throb of pain from her pinned wrist. With a quick sweep of one ankle, she hooked Pansy's left calf and threw her weight in just the right way. But she didn't actually complete the move, which would've laid a much bigger man out on his back -- it was just a threat, insinuating her capabilities rather than fully demonstrating them. Instead, the move was just enough to drive Pansy back against the wall of that tiny space. In her free hand, she nimbly snagged the wand from Pansy's hand, not even bothering to flip it before angling it sideways against Pansy's throat. "No business of yours," she answered finally. This was usually the time she released her victim, stepping back neatly to compose herself before making an exit. But this time, she didn't. Pressed up close to the other witch, her heart beating faster than normal, Emma was suddenly the victim of her own show of force. Her eyes wandered, skipping to the line of Pansy's throat. Then flicking further south, to the other woman's chest. Despite herself, she found it hard to pull away from the other witch. "... Ps. Don't call me little rebel," she added as an afterthought, though her voice betrayed her. Huskier, choked up. Fuck. The little rebel, then, was not all bravado. For just a moment, Pansy had begun to wonder if she was nothing more than words, sentiments delivered with less polish than the Ministry's, but more heat. An attractive face to round out the package, exotic olive skin and large provocative eyes. Yes, Dobbs' face certainly helped. But this was a good deal more interesting. Pansy knew she ought to worry-- the murder of a pureblooded witch with questionable ties fit what she knew of Dobbs' silly little group quite well. It forwarded her agenda, and it would be easy enough to do. Which did not change the fact that rather than do it, Dobbs was instead evaluating Pansy's breasts. And, if Pansy were to hazard a guess, enjoying what she saw. "And how do you intend to stop me from making it my father's business? Or Amos', little rebel?" She shifted below the wand, her own breathing even. What was she doing. In truth, Emma didn't even fully hear Pansy's baiting reply. She was too consumed with her own inner monologue -- searching herself, with that frenzied but analytical mind of hers, for answers. This was the wrong time, the wrong place, and the wrong witch for anything... carnal. She couldn't afford to lose focus, especially when she was in such a delicate setting. The Hellfire Club was not the appropriate backdrop for... this. Whatever this was. Pansy wasn't even giving any indication that she actually wanted anything. Beyond her teasing, there was nothing about the And then it registered. Little rebel. Pansy dared taunt her again, which caused the smoldering fire in her core to flare up again. And with an annoyed sound, she leaned forward on her toes and silenced Pansy the only way she knew how -- by pressing her lips against the other woman's in hard, demanding seal. In the split-second before Dobbs pressed her mouth to Pansy's, the Slytherin girl sensed her hesitation, her unraveling as she seceded the logical response to the situation to sheer, physical want. Pansy's lips curled in smug satisfaction, the certainty that-- for at least this moment-- she could better control the little rebel than the entire forces of the Ministry of Magic. Dobbs tasted of mint and smoke. She bit the younger girl's bottom lip, reveling in the subsequent catch of breath, the opportunity to stroke her tongue against Dobbs'. She could kiss and, despite the wand still lodged against his throat, Pansy found herself wondering what else the girl was good at. In that moment, Emma was fortunate that she was not an Legilimens. She needn't know the extent of Pansy's smug satisfaction, nor that tiny fallacy regarding control. On the contrary, she didn't think she was sacrificing any measure of control. If anything, Emma was equally validated in the belief that she was seizing control -- of the moment, and of Pansy's ability to keep taunting her. She greedily deprived her of that right, hungry for Pansy's new taste -- which was distinctly more refined than her own, the spicy edge of top-shelf whiskey layered with something sweeter... Pomegranate? Though the wand stayed at Pansy's throat, simulating the edge of a knife, Emma's body language continued to evolve. The ankle that was hooked behind Pansy's calf slid down, her body melting against the other woman's curves. The heels she wore gave her a bit of an equalising height advantage -- which Emma didn't want, so she subtly shed her shoes. This forced her back onto her tip-toes, of course, but she was much more content with the upward tilt of her chin to maintain the kiss. She nipped back at Pansy's lip, before finally breaking the kiss with a soft inhale. Momentarily searching out the other woman's eyes, Emma impulsively decided that she didn't want to know whether or not Pansy approved of this turn of events. Instead, she angled herself beneath Pansy's jaw, finding the pale skin of her throat. A kiss, a drag of her tongue, followed by the scrape of her teeth. To do so meant pulling the wand away finally, but she liked to think this was just as threatening. With another bite, she rocked her pelvis forward to better meet Pansy's hips with her own. "You should get on your knees," she half-growled. Pushy rebel. "My knees?" Pansy questioned with an incredulous laugh. With the wand no longer held to her throat, she grew more assertive still, the epitome of the haughty pureblooded bitch so many of the ex-students of Hogwarts labeled her. And with good reason. She reveled in the label. "Oh, darling, Parkinsons do not kneel." She tangled one hand in Dobbs' dark hair, curls caught around unyielding fingers. She pulled, admiring the tautness of straining tendon. The perfect place to bite, to bruise. To mark. And so she did, knowing just how hard to press. With her other hand, she ghosted fingers up the inside of a white-clad thigh. Emma wasn't initially put off. Resistance was to be expected, especially from a witch with such an elevated opinion of herself. So despite Pansy's rising confidence, a smirk tugged on the corners of Emma's full lips. She had every intention of getting Pansy Parkinson to her knees. She was no stranger to reluctance, or shows of dominance. Since she tended to target profoundly straight girls, Emma was used to firmly coaxing a witch to do her bidding. It usually just required a hand in their hair, maybe two fingers teasing between their squeezed-shut thighs. Touching gently but insistantly until their stance widened and she could hook those fingers into their wetness. And they were always wet. So when the same technique was reversed on her, Emma was immediately dazed. Caught unawares, she wasn't prepared for the twist of fingers in her own dark hair -- a move that threatened to dishevel her cutesy pigtails altogether. And what's more, her head was pulled back, her throat exposed. Teeth were now on her neck, fingers were now trailing up her leg. It was new; it was unexpected. And it was thoroughly unsettling. Right on cue, a squeaky sound spilled from her lips -- part yelp, part moan. This time, the soft cry wasn't staged and it wasn't Brandy. It was Emma. This certainly wouldn't do, she thought quickly. Even as she felt things spiraling out of her control, Emma's grip tightened on the purloined wand in her hand. Her fingers flexed, and in a flash she twisted away just enough to push the wand between Pansy's legs. "No. On your knees, or I'll just Imperio you there," she breathed huskily. Would she really? Even Emma wasn't sure, but she didn't let that show. The nerve-- for a moment, Pansy considered how it would feel to tighten her fingers around Dobbs' throat. But the initial image, of choking the air from her struggling lungs, was soon replaced by one of Dobbs gasping at an entirely different press of Pansy's fingers. It was not difficult to imagine how the little rebel viewed the woman who chose to kneel. She who submitted, who pleasured another, held no control. It was a view Pansy sometimes shared, but not today. She'd drawn that startled sound from Dobbs, and with so little effort. Pansy could struggle now, and she might manage to subdue or unarm Dobbs before the girl cast the Imperius Curse. Or Dobbs might prove too quick. Pansy feared what she might do with an Imperio, what secrets Pansy might betray. Without further thought, Pansy knelt on the cold floor. She who submitted held endless power. She would make Dobbs squirm and beg before they were through and, as she'd said, scream. Though she cautioned herself not to take it for granted, Emma couldn't help but savour the small victory. She was not opposed to kneeling, not in principle -- she had knelt for many of her conquests before, much with the same intentions. To make the other girl squirm, or cry out, or moan her name. She appreciated the power that existed on both sides of the coin, but tonight felt different. Whether she would rue it or not, Emma was determined not to be the first to submit. And yes, in the dim recesses of her mind, she had to admit -- she did traditionally consider the server, the pleasurer to be in the submissive role. Even when she had turned the tables on her more inexperienced prey from between their legs, Emma couldn't help but feel a heady rush of power when she was able to look down on another woman. It must've been a twisted version of the Napoleon Complex -- at 5'2", the petite Emma wasn't accustomed to having the height advantage. She angled the wand away, reaching back to brace her right palm against the nearby counter that ran along one wall of the powder room. The wand clattered against its surface, forgotten. Because now she was threading her fingers back through Pansy's dark bob, appreciating the silky, shampooed and conditioned softness. It was exquisite. Widening her stand, she curled her fingertips at the back of Pansy's skull. "You know what to do, honey." Impatient at the best of times, Pansy eschewed all notion of leisurely play now. She would have preferred to charm the barely-there bottoms off Dobbs, but with no wand at hand, Pansy settled for hooking her fingers in the waistband and pulling. The filmy material slid over Dobbs' hips, down thighs slenderer than Pansy's own, and when they reached the girl's ankles, Pansy growled for her to step out of them. Emma was nothing if not someone who could appreciate both impatience and practicality, especially when melded together. She lifted her brows when Pansy's expression flashed with seeming annoyance, but quickly recognised the reason. Her pelvis instinctively tilted when Pansy's fingertips snagged the waistband of her knickers, forcing herself to snag her bottom lip with her teeth rather than purr with delight as Pansy dragged them down. They fell easily past her hips, in part because she didn't have the same wide curves as Pansy. The lacy material caught briefly on one of her garter clasps, but then skimmed smoothly past her stockinged legs. Barefoot except for her now-soiled stockings, she stepped nimbly from the discarded boyshorts when Pansy growled -- chiding herself mentally for being so prompt in doing so. She should've made Pansy wait. For aesthetics' sake, Emma kept herself well-maintained down there. Hers was the kind of neat pussy that didn't appear overused, still young and (for lack of a better word) tight at the age of twenty-three. Even south of the border, her skin maintained that warm, Mediterranean colour. And yes, just a small groomed triangle of soft, dark hairs above. Finally, in the crease near her right hip, there was a tiny but simple heart inked. "Stop wasting time," she scolded, just as impatient. Pansy noted the rapidity with which Emma shed her underthings-- for all the terrorist's pretending at dominance, it was already rather obvious to Pansy that she possessed tremendous potential in the opposite role. Dobbs, Pansy suspected, would look best on her knees and would take orders all too well. That she'd already begun to consider the circumstances of a second shag didn't merit consideration. She ignored Dobbs' command. She would proceed when she was good and ready, not a moment before. "I see even rebels find time to tidy up," she instead remarked. Pansy preferred her women trimmed, and Dobbs fit that bill. She flicked the girl's clitoris with a polished fingernail. "Spread your legs," she instructed Dobbs, the back of one hand against her thigh to ensure she did. "What a pretty cunt you have, little rebel." Emma stared. If she had any expectations for a prompt and subservient display of obedience out of Pansy, they weren't fulfilled. It threw her for a loop, and not for the first time tonight. While Emma certainly fancied herself an alpha-type personality, she didn't necessarily put any thought into classifying her bedroom role. She was used to being the assertive one, absolutely. She normally took the reins and never let go of them -- but a large part of that was honestly because she targeted the submissive, innocent type. 'Straight' girls in particular tended to defer readily to her instruction. It seemed Pansy did not fall so neatly into that designation. And that was new, which made it somewhat unnerving. The knelt brunette wasn't backing down, wasn't already lavishing her pussy with a clumsy tongue. Instead, Pansy was mocking her. Appraising her And before she could stop herself or mount some kind of defense, her thighs spread apart like margarine. Not just her knees butterflying out, but her stance actually widening completely as her stockinged feet slid on the marble floor. A delicate frown creased her brow as she continued to stare down at the haughty bitch, lips parting as if about to say something smart in return. Then she shut her mouth, before opening it again. "Stop calling me that." To her horror, her voice cracked, coming out much reedier than she intended. "And what shall I call you instead?" Pansy retorted. She was in no particular rush to satiate Dobbs. By now, her father was certain to be home. He often left her to her own devices at the club, and once he had, Pansy selected a man or woman from those present to occupy the remainder of her evening. No one would bother her here, and she would bring Dobbs to orgasm when she felt like it. But she was curious about the girl. The tattoo was not entirely expected, and Pansy wondered what other secrets she held. She parted her labia with quick fingers, wet her cherry lips with the tip of her tongue while she examined her little rebel. She could fill her with two fingers, she expected, and twist whimpers and moans from her with three. "Pretty and tight." Emma's frown deepened, lips turning in the kind of incredulous expression she was well-known for. That 'WTF?' face that she used to practice in the mirror. But right now, it was cued by the way Pansy prompted her for an alternative to little rebel. The infuriating ex-Slytherin knew her name. She could've called her Emma, or even Dobbs. She might even allowed something familiar, like Ems or (possibly) Emmy. Anything but the condescending titles that Pansy had thus far picked out. What was that other demeaning petname? Naughty little girl. "You can... call me..." Emma began haltingly, distracted by the manipulation of Pansy's fingers. Finally. The fingers still buried in Pansy's hair curled, her own manicured nails (with their chipped black polish) grazing the scalp. She wanted that tongue and those cherry red lips to... to... She felt a curious knot in her stomach, tightening when Pansy murmured her opinion. Why was this making her so hot? The way Pansy was coolly, almost disinterestedly examining her. And her continued manner of talking down to her. "Just fucking call me Emma," she blurted finally, already scrambling to compose herself. She had clearly underestimated Pansy, and she badly needed to get a handle on herself and the situation again. "Emma," Pansy repeated, as though rolling it, testing it on her tongue. Without warning, or other indication, she pressed a single finger inside the girl. "Once you've spent yourself on my fingers, perhaps I'll pass on that name and your current whereabouts to dear old Amos." Emma proved deliciously responsive, as if unable to check her body before it reacted. Her pelvis rolled, hitching higher as that single finger slid inside her. And right on cue, the muscles there reflexively clamped tight, milking that slender digit with the kind of silken embrace one expected from an oversexed rebel leader. In that moment of initial vulnerability -- that of being penetrated by a woman, one who was supposed to be much more docile and subservient in her position on the floor -- Emma's paranoia intertwined with her arousal. For one fragile moment, she worried that Pansy was sincere, that she really would report her. It's not that she would tarry long after they were through here -- but she really didn't want her job at the Hellfire Club jeopardised, not when she had so much more intel to gather. And a dark part of her found the threat only boosted her desire, fanning the heat that was concentrating between her spread-apart thighs. With a subdued sound that sounded suspiciously close to a whimper, Emma tilted her head back and squeezed her eyes shut. "You wouldn't..." she husked. "Because you wouldn't be able to fuck me again if I were in Azkaban." Pansy wouldn't, no. But her reasoning (already the rationale for withholding the whereabouts of the wizarding world's most sought after criminal was forming, occupying those portions of her mind not otherwise devoted to making Dobbs squirm with a different emotion) was not the one Dobbs espoused. "And wouldn't you like that," Pansy very nearly purred. It was all too obvious Dobbs would-- from the greedy cant of her hips to the ease with which Pansy added a second finger. She hadn't been wrong in declaring the girl tight, but it was evident, too, that she was no inexperienced virgin. No, Pansy would keep her mouth shut about Dobbs for one very important reason: what she came to know of the rebel's location, of her plans, she could use to her own ends. Not Amos', not her father's. In the crudest sense, Emma Dobbs was tight for one principal reason -- she wasn't often the one getting penetrated. She avoided blokes almost religiously, ever since her 3rd Year when she came to terms with who she was. It wasn't until Emma officially fell off the grid after Minister Diggory tried to have her killed that Emma even realised the value of teasing men, leading them on for information. But even then, even when she was masquerading as a coquettish vixen, trying to get a bloke to talk, she avoided committing to anything as intimate as sex. And when it came to her string of girls, Emma was usually the one buckling a strap-on harness around her hips. Not that she was thinking about any of that. She didn't even pride herself on her tightness, especially right now -- since that same snug fit was responsible for the overwhelming Licking her lips quickly, she tried to clear her hazy thoughts, even as her hips rolled to encourage the two fingers inside her. "Just hurry up and make me fucking cum." Had she later been asked, Pansy would have attributed her sudden willingness to do as Dobbs said to boredom. To the ache in her knees, to the seep of the cold through the marble flagstones. To a simple desire to get on with her evening. That she'd had better things to do than tease a criminal for hours on end. In truth, she was aroused. She'd undone Dobbs, that much was certain, and with that, she'd woken her own desires. The sooner she drove the little rebel to orgasm, the sooner she could also drive Dobbs to her own knees. With her free hand, Pansy jerked Dobbs' hips forward, the better to angle herself between her legs. She curved her fingers as she pressed her mouth to Dobbs' cunt, searching for the ridge of muscle just beyond her pelvic bone. Predictably, Emma felt a spark of confidence again when Pansy finally stopped teasing. Although she grunted when her hips were yanked, nearly losing her footing on the slick marble, Emma was quickly rewarded by down-to-business, shameless oral sex. It was exactly what she had been craving, for much more of tonight's encounter with Pansy than she cared to readily admit. She didn't want to think about how attractive she found the regal brunette. She didn't want to acknowledge that she had been turned on by Pansy even before they met face-to-face, by their banter over the journals alone -- as seemingly innocent as it seemed at the time. Instead, she prided herself in finally getting her way. A breathless grin flickered on her lips, but it didn't survive long before a purring moan stole it away. The curl of Pansy's fingers inside her hit just the right place, those manicured nails scraping against her velvety insides in such a way that made her toes curl in their stockings. And the heat of Pansy's mouth on the apex of her pussy, zeroed in on that secret button hidden beneath its protective hood, just felt divine. She succumbed to the wave of instant gratification, hips bucking spasmodically as she enjoyed the softness of the other woman's lips. Grinding against that not-so-pug nose, fingers curling to tug on Pansy's shortish hair. "Ohhh... Pansy," she blurted throatily. Whoops. It was as easy as Pansy had expected-- perhaps even more so. One firm stroke of her fingers, the hard pressure of the tip of her tongue. But Pansy found she rather enjoyed Dobbs' responses. Not for the thrill of control, but in their own simple right. The way Dobbs clenched her fingers in Pansy's hair, the way her inner thighs followed suit. She rather regretted waiting so long between women, now. Pansy, her own name now a breathless moan on the other woman's lips, grazed her teeth along Dobbs' clitoris. She alternated that with the sweep of her tongue, the thrust of her fingers, a low hum in her throat. There was no shame in being easy, Emma always insisted. And right now, she reaped the benefits of that hair-trigger reflex without regret. As was usually the case, much of it had to do with anticipation -- that initial seed of arousal when she was first stolen away to the powder room had since grown into a tangled vine that twisted in her stomach. The tease and denial game was the quickest way to Emma's, well, to her peak. Which was rapidly approaching. Pansy was clearly no rookie. This wasn't a teaching moment -- she felt no need to coach Pansy, to correct or otherwise direct the other woman's tongue, lips, teeth, or fingers. It wasn't the technique Emma usually lapsed into -- something slow and And with just another few seconds' worth of coaxing, she spilled over that vaunted threshold. Even as the heat exploded from between her legs, spreading like wildfire, Emma threw back her head and lived up to that key expectation from earlier -- noisy, vocal, unrestrained in her orgasmic expression. Part scream, though it eventually melted into a shuddering moan, soft gasps, and finally a breathless purr. Slumping her weight more fully against the counter as her legs turned to warm jelly. Guh. With the back of her hand, Pansy discreetly wiped her mouth. She cast a freshening charm, her lips perfectly lined, perfectly reddened once more. As she rose to stand once more, her severe bob in artful disarray, she pulled the side zip on her dress, then stepped out of its shell. "Now," she purred, pulling Dobbs to her unsteady feet. "Kneel." |