"Bedside Manner"Author: thegildedmagpieCharacters/Pairings:
Poppy Pomfrey/Lavender Brown, small side of Ernie MacmillanRating:
cat fighting, fingering, fisting, hypephilia, masturbation (hands-free/pillowhumping), medical scenesOther Warnings:
sex with an intoxicated minor, abuse of authority, dubconWord Count:
Madam Pomfrey likes her patients to sleep soundly.Author's Notes:
On that name coincidence … at one point I was thinking of using all the flower names from the books and having a Poppy/Lavender/Daphne Greengrass threesome scene with voyeur!Myrtle and a flashback to Lily Potter getting a letter from Petunia while in hospital ... but I saw reason in the end. Um. Yay? Oh, and -- yes, that is the natural remedy to increase the production of cervical mucus. Double yay?
Here she is again. She always loses. Why does she insist on getting herself into these situations in the first place?
On the clipboard, Poppy makes the following entry: Lavender Brown, 6th, in a fight again. Scratches and twisted ankle.
She told the girl she could stay the night in the hospital wing, despite the inanity of her injuries, because of the late hour and unsightly facial scratches. Poppy has already given her an oral medication that she promised would take care of the nail-marks and the pink, slapped cheeks without stinging the broken skin. In its technicalities, this was true.
Lavender lies snoring slightly, her mouth open a little, with her permanent wave tied in a pink headband and her hospital nightgown half-tied. Poppy makes quick work of untying it, letting the slightly scratchy fabric graze over her wrists as she removes it. She purses her lips at the sight of the girl's body – the rake-marks of fingernails on arms and shoulders, the skin on the plump breasts still faintly marked with the red compressions from too-small bra cups. Lavender has on knickers that match her headband. Poppy pulls them down too and drops them atop the folded school robes sitting on the lower shelf of the bedside table. Then she stoops to pick up a stocking with a run in it that's trailing untidily onto the floor.
The hair that grows between the girl's legs is curly and abundant, and a little trail of stubble shows where she shaves that which runs up to her navel. Poppy climbs onto the foot of the bed (the metal frame has developed an alarming squeak, but never mind, she'll have a house-elf in tomorrow) and pushes Lavender's shins apart. With medical exactness, she inserts a thin middle finger into the rosy slit of the girl's cunt.
Dryness and redness about the vagina, Poppy notes professionally. Needs a water-based lubricant if she's going to keep on spreading her legs for other people's boyfriends.
Well, that's easily corrected, and Poppy sucks her fingers for a moment before lowering her hand again to caress the dry pink clitoris.
The girl twitches and moans in her sleep, but sleep it remains; Poppy's good-night draught makes sure of that. It works better on some than others, of course – the Longbottom boy, temptingly often as he's in here, doesn't take well to it, while the youngest Weasley boy can be left strikingly comatose by the normal dose. She overdid it, that time a few weeks ago. She's fortunate that no one noticed the cause. Potter and his friends have always been off-limits, since Minerva and the Headmaster keep such a careful eye on them, but the poisoning was a veritable invitation.
Still too dry to do much with; perhaps Lavender should take an infusion of primrose a few hours before intercourse. It would do her good. The mediwitch who taught the St. Mungo's courses in witches' health and fertility used to swear by it. Poppy bends down carefully to bathe the girl's cunt with her tongue from anus to mons. The low, fuzzy moans grow softer, but increase in frequency. Poppy monitors them like a pulse. Her crisp nurse's cap falls onto Lavender's stomach and flops aside; Poppy picks it up, half without thinking, and brushes the heavily starched fabric over the girl's anxious clit.
Lavender's hips rise to the touch, and Poppy withdraws it a little, sitting up to watch. The girl humps higher, chasing the touch. Now she's beginning to lubricate, Poppy notes with professional approval, and it's good healthy mucus too. She dabs at the slippery leak with a corner of the sheet and spreads it carefully up over the vulva while the girl wantonly pushes herself against the bulky corner hem.
Quickly, Poppy takes an extra pillow prepared for this purpose from the foot of the bed, folds it in half, and shoves it under her pristine white robes. She mounts its doubled bulk as she lets she sheet fall and checks Lavender again for moisture. The girl opens easily to the gauging middle finger, so Poppy adds the index, bending down to lick Lavender's clitoris again as her own hips begin to rock, the bulk of linen and stuffing beneath her quickly growing damp. The young girl's moans grow louder and longer as though they are rising not from her diaphragm but deeper, from the eager place where her body cleaves and the school mediwitch's tongue is laving her clit with well-practiced precision. Poppy moans with her, more quietly but with equal fervor. She adds a third finger, wiggling it in with patient force, and rides out the clench of the girl's muscles. Licking, lapping, relaxing her again, her fingers hooking and stretching to coax the walls to yield into the elasticity Poppy knows very well they can achieve. The fourth finger is the littlest, and once the tip is in it's easy going, nowhere near thick enough to force the opening much wider, but Lavender's moan goes high and piteous as Poppy begins to firmly push her thumb against the perineum.
The fingers inside are bunched, palm up. Patiently, Poppy draws them out flat, and the girl makes a noise like eep!
, reminding Poppy oddly of the guinea pigs from her St. Mungo's research days. Poppy braces herself on the free hand to push her pelvis harder against the doubled pillow, feeling that it's slick now with her juices, no longer able to detect the faint coarseness of the weave against her sensitive parts. Now the thumb – pushing, pushing as Lavender whimpers, flattening the hand, until at last the prominent knuckles on the back of the hand pop through to the sound of the girl's squeak.
Poppy hooks her fingers, finds that slight prominence under the moist inner membrane, and pushes it gently. When she sees the girl's pale thighs tremble, she grinds down harder against the pillow, biting back orgasm, feeling its fold bunch against her sex. When the sleepy little whimpers turn to tiny cries of unconscious pleasure, Poppy comes in a gush, silent and bearing down with her fingertips on that secret little spot inside the drugged child.
The cleanup is always a letdown – coaxing her hand back out of the clenched passage, moving the wet and fragrant pillow to the laundry, washing the girl clean and at last applying the cream with exacting thoroughness to every crimson run in Lavender's blotchy skin – so she makes it more visually appealing by leaving the redressing to last, so she can see the gaping cunt of the faintly snoring girl start to close again. Then, replace the knickers, replace the gown, make the bed around her, and Poppy is off to bed herself.
When the girl leaves in the morning, Poppy writes, without telling her why, the name of a green tea containing evening primrose. It'll do her good.
She has a few hours to tidy up and compound new simple little remedies for her walk-in cabinet – headache cures, Pepper-Up, a sulfurous paste that takes care of a surprising number of different types of Potions injuries – before the next one is led in by one of his classmates. Stepped in front of the wand of an enthusiastic Charms student, silly boy. He's speaking in pink soap bubbles; by his expression, that's exactly what they taste like, too. Ernie Macmillan, charms accident. Bringing up bubbles,
she writes on her clipboard, and notes aloud, “Flowers or toads I can cure in a moment, but bubbles are tricky. You had better plan to stay the night.”