Title: Snape's Toy
Author: Serpenscript
Characters/Pairing: Snape/Hermione
Rating: Very NC-17/hard R
Kinks/Themes Chosen: Flagellation, Touch
Other Warnings: consensual, but with a heavy focus on sadomasochism and contains heavy flogging, caning, first time sex, anal sex and rough sex
Word Count: ~4,500 words
Summary: Snape thinks it's time to take Hermione's submission to the next step.
Notes: Unbeta'ed due to time restraints, hopefully it's not too ugly! Consensual, but not necessarily safe or sane! Views expressed herein are not necessarily my own. OMGOSH HET O_O



Her face was ravaged by tears, eyes red and puffy, skin blotchy, her lips flecked with red where she'd bitten them bloody. Her bushy, leviantine hair was pulled back from her face and contained with a leather thong, but a few curls had struggled free and clung to her wet face and her sweat-damp hair. Her hands were clenched in fists, the knuckles bloodless. She looked the soul of torment, until one noticed something else: she was completely unbound, apparently kneeling in agonising submission of her own free will.

In stark contrast to her nudity, her Master was a slash of darkness. Only his face broke the head-to-toe black that was his trademark; he lauded himself for his severity and harshness, proud of living up to his name. He was demanding, unforgiving, and often cruel; he often ignored the boundaries she tried to set and and while not utterly disregarding her limits, he deliberately pushed her a little further past them each time. She had learned more about pain and humiliation, about suffering and submission, in her months with him than she ever had gleaned from hours of research.

He touched her face gently now, the gesture breaching her defenses and shoring them all at once, smearing the tear-tracks and ignoring the way she flinched at his touch. His thin lips murmured words into her ear, brushing the outer whorl as they moved. "There is no masterpiece so beautiful as a tear-ravaged face," he breathed, "no sensation so pleasurable as a slave's body, shuddering in pain and pleasure; no power so heady as that over a slave who willingly submits, even knowing that pain is all that will welcome their obedience."

A tremor ran through her body as the rough-silk voice slid over her; her breath caught on a faint sob when his fingers moved down to her breasts, liberally covered with finger-shaped bruises and long red welts. The hands lingered ungently with her nipples, swollen and abused by wicked-toothed clamps biting harshly into them; they were each weighted, and a sturdy chain connected the two. A bisecting chain led down between her kneeling, spread legs, where the hood protecting her clitoris was kept pushed back by an identical clamp biting cruelly into her tender nub. She whimpered when he tugged the connected chains sharply, twice, thrice; shivered when he released her and walked behind her.

"Hold position," he ordered, coldly; he gave her no more warning. She yelped when the many stands of a flogger whistled through the air and struck her backside, already covered in welts, new and old; he swung the flogger sharply, without mercy, without restraint, and savoured the new red lines overlying the old nearly as much as he savoured the way she struggled to hold position, to remain still. The flogger he used now delivered a delicious thud to it, reddening the skin and bruising in its aftermath; without a healing potion, she would feel its effect for several days.

He continued the flogging; up her back and shoulders, marking even her arms; down to the small of her back and the narrow waist, to the rounded, feminine bottom that welted so readily. Even across the soles of her feet, the callused heel and ball, and the oh-so-sensitive arch that made her toes curl spastically in a futile self-defense.

Tears dripped from her chin and she begged, "No more, please, no more, I can't take it - " devolving into a litany of pleas for mercy, for relief from the flogging and pain. He listened and watched her carefully, dark eyes taking in the subtle cues her body gave him; when the adrenaline hit and her eyes darkened, the irises expanding, when the words became rote, when she began to breathe through the pain, instead of fighting it.

Then he changed direction, and swung the lash down sharply across her breasts, across the sensitive nipples; the leather strands tangled briefly with the chain and small weights, and tugged at her most sensitive bits when he pulled the flogger free. The litany renewed its intensity, almost rising in a wail, and he allowed a tight, satisfied smile to curl his lips upward. Several more times he lashed across her breasts, aiming for the tender, exposed nipples; when she could not control the unconscious attempt to twist away, he flicked the flogger at her nether lips, striking her mons, the strands curling around and stinging her exposed clit and the swollen labia. The wail became a shriek and he threw his arm into it, until her shaved mons was red and puffy, the tender inner thigh was heavily striped, and she showed true signs of breaking position - thighs spasming in effort to stay open, the uncontrollable flutters of spasms in her back - the human will was indomitable, but the flesh was far more limited; it could be trained to accommodate higher and higher levels of trauma and stress, but once the present threshold was reached, pushing past it could have dire consequences.

Thankfully, the body had numerous thresholds; reaching one did not mean he had to abandon all others.

When he saw the tell-tale signs, he tossed the flogger aside - later, she would have the task of picking up and cleaning her own instruments of torture - and dropped to his knees beside her, running rough hands over her breasts, fingers digging in and leaving fresh bruises, ignoring her pleas to stop, her repeated I can't, I can't -

"Ah, but you can take it, and you will," he murmured, "because I command you to, because you want to please me, and because the alternative is - unthinkable." There was no hiding the dark, cruel promise in those words; it was not that she feared he would fail to stop, were she to use her safeword. His self-control was unshakable; were she to speak it, he would stop.

No, what made her shiver at the threat was the knowledge that, were she to fail, were she to disobey an order deliberately, were she to speak her safeword and force him to stop -

--he would stop. And that it would be it; the end. She would leave, and never be allowed to return to him again. That was his condition for accepting her submission. She would never again suffer, nor writhe in utter humiliation at his whim; never again crawl on command, or offer herself to endless hours of abuse, for his solitary pleasure. But neither would she be freed from choice, from responsibility, from endless repeating thought and double-guessing. She knew other people - even her closest friends - thought it was twisted and unnatural, but even while she hated it, feared it, was ashamed of it - she couldn't live without it. She needed it, craved it, like some sickness in her blood that no amount of whipping could purge.

So she struggled, and wept, and begged and pleaded, but never spoke her safeword. Even when she thought she would go mad if she bore another moment she held her position with the tooth and claw of her willpower, though her body threatened to betray her.

He gave her a few moments to regain her breath and her strength, using those moments to pinch and pull at the abused nipples, tugging alternately with one hand at the chain, the other thrust between her legs to rub at her clitoris - so sensitised it made her shudder and shake when he stroked his thumb over it.

When he deemed her sufficiently recovered he hauled her too her feet, with a casual hand fisted in her tangle of curls, another beneath one arm, supporting her until her initial wave of dizziness had passed. Then he tilted her chin up until she could see the thick, knotted rope dangling from a beam overhead, just low enough that, were she to stretch, she could wrap her hands around it. "Legs spread, hands over your head; when you can no longer stand unaided, you may hold the rope for assistance."

In the beginning, she would have reached for the rope immediately, not trusting to her strength. As a result, he'd denied her any support at all for the next several sessions. Now she would sooner collapse, then take the offered assistance too soon. Her hands shook as she lifted her hands and crossed them over her head, wrapping her hands around her wrists and holding tightly; obediently, she kept her eyes downcast, even when her Master walked over to the shelf holding her training tools and selected a new one; curiosity was a punishable offense when it caused her to break form. And besides, she would shortly discover what he chose.

He announced his choice a moment later, stepping close to stand in her line of sight, swishing a thin, tapered cane; he'd only used one once, and sparingly; it had hurt worse than a flogger, bruised deeply, and drew blood when wielded by her Master's unsparing hand. It was her least-liked toy; there was nothing remotely sensual to her about caning.

For a moment, she felt blind panic, and she fought against the impulse to flee - surely they'd gone far enough today, without caning as well? Surely he wouldn't expect her to submit to that as well today? But she knew her Master was without mercy.

He waited, black eyes hard and cold and unrelenting, until she managed to win the internal battle; he waited until he saw the minute lessening of tension in her body, the subtle sign of submission winning over self-preservation. "Y-yes, Master," she whispered, hoarsely. Briefly he touched her face, his hand cool against the heated flush of her skin. He never spoke compliments; he showed approval by the giving of favours. A touch; the use of a favorite toy; sometimes, sex. He frequently ordered her to perform fellatio on him, loved thrusting his long thick cock down her throat, seeing those lips stretched tight around him, seeing her struggle to breathe and the tears in her eyes when he used her tangled hair to pull her down on him until her nose was mashed in his groin, holding her there until she began to struggle, desperate for air. He liked to piston into her mouth with bruising force while enjoying the tearstained face - his masterpiece - before pulling out at the last minute and covering her with his seed. She had yet to earn the privilege of swallowing.

He had only twice fucked her; once, to take her arse's virginity. He was cruel in that, too; he made it clear that it was for HIS pleasure, not hers, and he took the bare minimum of time to prepare her. The lube used was for his comfort, and she had screamed in pain when he'd breached her; she'd felt split in two. He'd pinned her down on all fours, face pressed sideways to the ground and held there by the weight of his arms. He had not even disrobed, only unbending to open the placket of his trousers and freeing his cock. He had fucked her silently, grinding his hips against her welted arse and raking fingers over the welts on her back. He'd left her feeling bruised and aching with his seed dribbling from her arse, had sent her home naked and utterly used, beneath her robes. But he had held her while she drifted, afterwords, and though he sneered as he thrust her into the floo, his gloved hand brushing her cheek spoke his approval. She'd nursed the warm glow all the next day as she sat gingerly.

The second time was to take her maidenhead, and he had made her beg him for it. For some reason he had seemed truly adverse to the idea; he had fucked her mouth to silence her begging almost a dozen times before he agreed, with simmering anger, to take her remaining virginity. "I will take it how I please," he'd warned her, dark with fury and an emotion she couldn't name. "I will not stop half-way if you change your mind. I may not even heed your safeword," he sneered the word like a profanity, "I will not pander to any delusions of gentility or romance you may have. I am cruel, I am sadistic, and that will not change."

"I understand," she'd told him, pale with her audacity at challenging her Master, demanding a privilege he did not yet feel she'd earned. "But I still want it. I - I want you to take it. In whatever way pleases you." She'd been proud of how little apprehension showed in her voice.

"Whatever way pleased him" was in his Potions lab, on one of the low work tables. For a moment, anger and rebellion burned brightly in her and she turned to snarl at her Master, but the look on his face -

He expected her to back out, insulted by the sheer lack of sensuality and romanticism of his laboratory. And she wanted to walk away, demand somewhere better - like in a bed. Or on a nice padded leather bench. Even outside on the grass would be preferable!

But if she refused now, it would be the end. So she did what she was told. She stripped when commanded, and crawled nude on her belly to where her Master waited - fully clad, as always - and when he told her in his cold, cruel, bored tone that she would have to beg him to take her virginity here, knowing he was a cruel sadistic man who would show no thought for her comfort, she only hesitated a moment.

She wanted to take the easy way out and lean over the counter when he fucked her, but she knew this was a test; being a good submissive wasn't just following spoken commands. It was knowing what he or she would want, and doing that.

So when he told her to lay on her back on the raised platform with her legs spread, she did so immediately; she crossed her hands over her head as if bound in place and spread her legs obediently. The stone surface of the work table was cold, and raised goosebumps on her skin; her nipples tightened, something she was sure her Master had counted on. Presentation was an important aspect of submission; she was there to be pleasing to him visually, as well.

He gave her no warning and used no lubrication, only spread her nether lips with his thumbs - she was already slickly wet with anticipation - and positioned himself at her opening. For a moment he paused, locking shadowed eyes on hers. She just long enough to panic; suddenly certain there was no way he'd fit in her, how had she not considered that before now? - then he thrust in, and ohMerlinithurt. He pulled back partway, then thrust in deeper, sundering her maidenhead; she'd felt as if her vagina had been set on fire, and she couldn't quite swallow back a scream, nor stop the tears that sprang to her face.

Another thrust, and her Master was fully seated in her; it took all her willpower to keep her hands where they were, not fight to push him off and run away, because while she was familiar with pain on her skin, taking it internally was a whole different realm of pain: white-hot and tearing at her control. Tears spilled from her eyes and she blinked hard against them, struggling to remember there was a reason she was here, giving her virginity to a harsh, brutal Master, a reason she was letting him ream her open so ungently -

He pulled out, slowly this time, and thrust back in, strongly; the movement burned, forcing her body to accommodate his large shaft. Again he thrust, rocking her hips back with the force of his penetration. She realised she was crying silently, tears streaming down her temples and pooling in her hair.

Then she looked to her Master's face, and met his eyes - the eyes burned with dark fire, fire that was rending her open and burning her up from the inside out, agonising white hot fire - she was caught in the force of his searing need, and she surrendered, spreading her legs still further even as she shuddered with the brutality of his assault. His ferocious need to dominate was a near-perfect match to her need to submit. This was why she was here.

It was the only time she saw his unshakable control shatter; the eyes shuttered then fell closed, and his hips snapped forward wildly, falling into a frantic, punishing rhythm. She resisted the urge to close her own streaming eyes, keeping her blurry sight focused on her Master's face as the pain between her thighs leveled off to something manageable - he had taught her something about managing pain, after all. Experimentally she squeezed those muscles around him, and was rewarded when his hands on her hips spasmed and dug in hard enough to bruise and his thrusts sped up, the rhythm faltering.

She squeezed again and again, welcoming his battering thrusts now, angling her hips so he could penetrate even deeper. She welcomed the burning discomfort, exulting in the power she, the submissive and slave, had over her Master. "Please, Master, fuck me harder," she whispered through a throat tight with tears, squeezing around him again.

Her Master - her impassive, proud, cruel Master - threw his head back, the sallow face flushed, and groaned; a moment later his frantic thrusts stilled and he held himself buried deep as he shuddered. She felt the faint pulsing of his ejaculation inside herself, and smiled up at her Master.

That day she'd learned her Master was human beneath the black robes and stern demeanor. And that was worth the rest - the throbbing, burning ache between her legs, or the way he'd again tumbled her into the floo with orders to not bathe until morning. She was sure he'd been driven half mad that night replaying the scene over and over in his head, even as she had savoured the throbbing ache alone in bed that night.

A sharp, burning pain snapped her from her memories; as if she'd been out-of-body, she was suddenly hyper aware of her welted skin, the clamps, and the cold, implacable Master waiting with the cane; her blood pounded in her ears, and she was uncomfortably aware of the dampness between her legs, making her swollen nether lips slick.

"If you're back in the present," the words carried warning, "I will continue. Count!"

The caning hurt much more than flogging; it was more of a thuddy pain, deeper, leaving an ache deep in the afflicted muscles, bruising and breaking the skin. She hated it, but he was fond of it; he wielded it precisely, placing the stripes with the same premeditation an artist moved their brush.

The cane lashed down, neatly placed next to the first lash, and she clenched her fingers tighter around her wrists, fingernails gouging her own skin. "That was two, Master; thank you," she gasped.

Then the lashes rained down - fifteen, total; she'd had to grab the rope on the eighth, and swayed on her feet. The tenth had been placed to cross over the earlier stripes, and the final stripe landed right atop the previous one. The pain tore the breath from her lungs, and her knees gave out; she collapsed to her knees. For a moment, all she could hear was her breath, loud and harsh in the echoing room, and her vision blurred with sweat and tears. She shook with shock and strain, but then his arms were holding her, carrying her over to the padded leather bench where he usually sponged her down after her a session. But this time he pushed her to her knees and bent her over the bench, and with a rustle to free himself from his trousers, penetrated her.

It had been months since she’d begged him to take her virginity and her subsequent ravishment and the soreness had healed, but she was still impossibly tight. He slid into her tight entrance with no resistance, lubricated by her own arousal; his shaft made an obscene squelch as he sank into her, and her ears burned with embarrassment. The rough wool of his trousers and coat pressed into the raw welts on her arse and back, and even as she cried out from the sensation she pressed back against him, wanting him deeper, wanting all of it - the pain, the submission, the humiliation, the pleasure.

His voice was dark with amusement. "And at last the sensual side rears its head." He reached for his wand, flicked it absently at the clamps still adorning her body, and they released her sensitive bits and fell to the ground. She screamed as blood rushed back to her nipples and clit in an agonising wave of burning sensation- ohshitfuckMerlintheyBURN, and he rolled one nipple in his long, narrow fingers cruelly; his other hand dropped his wand and rubbed the abused clit. It was suddenly too much; too much pain, too much pleasure, too much adrenaline, too much everything and she thrashed, caught between the bench and her Master, held in place by his spear. Her orgasm hit her like a tidal wave and battered her in its intensity.

"Master!" she wailed, and he growled, deep in his throat like a rabid beast; pushing her deeper into the bench he pounded into her, battering her tight channel. His thrusts caught her up in the crashing force of her orgasm and flung her higher; her body clenched around him and his hands abandoned her over-sensitive places and gripped her hips tightly, anchoring him as his own orgasm was torn from him.

"Mine!" he snarled, before he slumped bonelessly over her, "Only mine!" He thrust slowly a few more times, letting her support her weight; he knew the coarse texture of his clothing was fresh torment to her abused skin, when she came down from her orgasm.

Later, when their breathing had returned to normal, he pulled out of her, wiped himself off, and sponged her down. His hands were neither gentle nor kind and lingered over the welts, but they were brisk and thorough, and grounded her while she drifted in a pain-and-pleasure induced haze. She felt safe in knowing he stayed next to her, a pillar of black stone, until she was back in herself again.

When she was clean - except for where his seed dripped from between her thighs, he preferred leaving her with the reminder - he silently handed her not her robe, but a narrow, flat box.

"You have earned this," he said, eyes suddenly intense; he stepped to the side, allowing her to open it when she was ready.

Shakily, she set the box in her lap. It was plain, unwrapped and without ribbon; her Master scorned such things. Severus Snape did not bother with such niceties for a slave, no matter how willingly she came to him. He had given her things before - a paddle with 'slave' cut into it, her own personal flogger - one after he took her anal virginity, the other after he took her last virginity.

But she’d been coming to him for a year now, and they hadn't done anything particularly special; it hadn't even been the first time he'd caned her -

Oh. OH. One year. Repressing the urge to laugh - she knew he would take it the wrong way - she lifted off the cover to the box.

Inside was - a collar. A fine, black leather collar with a silver buckle and tag, a tag that read, "Snape's Toy".

Hermione wasn't unaware of what he was saying - no, asking - without words; he said everything worth saying without words. Almost as if he is afraid to speak them aloud lest he be refused, she thought with a sudden flash of understanding, and she picked up the collar.

The leather was soft and supple in her hands, well-conditioned and strong; she tugged at it experimentally before she handed it back to him, prepared this time for the sudden flash of regret in those dark eyes, eyes that still expected her to walk away from him.

Instead, she slid off the bench and knelt at his feet, the floor cool beneath her knees, the position familiar and natural as breathing. "Please, Master, put your collar around my neck?" She brushed a stray curl away from where it clung to her sweaty face, and looked up at him. "I want to be yours. I won't run away. Only if you want me to, and then only if you command me."

He buried a hand in her hair and tugged her face up. "Tell me," he said hoarsely, "tell me again what you want."

She smiled, and she was, he thought, his best masterpiece. "I want what you want, Master. I want to be your slave; to suffer pain at your hand, pleasure when you allow, to be dominated as your whims dictate. I want to submit myself to you, whole and entire; my mind, my magic, and my body, for your use. I want to be my Master's slave, never any more or any less than Snape's Toy." She sat back on her heels and laid her hands palm-up on her thighs and lifted her chin, pulling her shoulders back so her breasts were out-thrust, splaying her knees; the very first position he'd taught her. "Please Master, own me forever?" she whispered breathlessly, terrified and exhilarated by her audacity - what if he didn’t mean it to be permanent? What if it was simply a token of the past year, and not a promise of the future? What if -

But then he leaned down and slid the collar around her neck. His fingers trembled ever-so-slightly as he fastened the silver buckle and she silently marvelled that her submission should move her Master so deeply and so visibly. The next minute though, the mood passed; he was once again the cold, implacable man who drove her to the edge of breaking and brought her back again. He curled his fingers into her bushy hair again and angled her head to the side so she could see the room.

"Clean up here, then you may leave," he said dismissively, not even looking at her.

Reverently, she touched her collar, tracing the elaborate script on the tag. "Yes, Master," she said, serenely.