Daily Deviant
- there is no such thing as 'too kinky'
Fic: Correspondence (Severus/Hermione) 
23rd July 2011 10:54
Title: Correspondence
Author: [info]kinky_kneazle
Characters/Pairings: Severus/Hermione
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: Erotographomania, sensory deprivation
Other Warnings: Bondage, caning, fisting, masturbation, fantasies, epistolary fic.
Word Count: ~2,300
Summary/Description: Sir, more than kisses, letters mingle souls; for, thus friends absent speak. - John Donne
Author's Notes: For [info]redcandle17, whose ideas inspired more than one story from me. With thanks to [info]deirdre_aithne for the early read through. Thanks to M for the beta.


It seems strange writing to you from the Weasley's kitchen table. Ron is to my left, bacon hanging out of his mouth as he sees how many rashers he can fit in there at one time; Harry sits opposite him, egging him on, if you'll pardon my pun. In the meantime, all I can think of is you.

I would write and tell you stories about touching myself in the night, but I'm sharing a bedroom and find myself with no privacy to indulge myself. Instead, I am left with my fantasies of you and no way to fulfill them. No way to find release.

Shall I share one of my fantasies? It involves ear plugs, a blindfold and a bed. And you. Always you. I know there are charms that would render me temporarily blind and deaf, but in this fantasy you prefer the Muggle way. Once I am comfortable in the bed, my wrists and ankles strapped to the bed posts, you step forward and wrap the black cloth around my eyes. I prefer to see you, but this is new, exciting, and I would never question you. Then I feel the small buds inserted into my ears, and I gasp with disappointment. To not be able to hear you? Your deep, silky voice is what grounds me in these moments. It murmurs, "good girl" when I've pleased you and bites out "Hermione!" when I'm in danger of disappointing. It reminds me that there is still a world around me and I shouldn't float off into the cloud of pain and ecstasy that always follows when you call me to your rooms.

There are brief caresses to my arms, my ribs. Something that isn't your hand draws down between my breasts; it is a feather, I think, and it leaves me squirming. Then there is nothing. I wait. Just wait. Fear starts to stab at my belly, and, strangely, it sets my cunt throbbing.

"Please," I say, but I can't hear myself plead. It's possible I'm mouthing soundlessly. It's possible you've left the room and I'm speaking to empty space. I move my limbs minutely, to test if the restraints are solid. They are and that just makes me wetter.

Suddenly there is a woosh of air and leather lands on the inside of my thigh. The next strike hits the outside of my other thigh. Then leather hits a breast, my arm, back to my thighs. There is no rhythm to the swats. I've no idea where the next one will hit, nor when. I'm sure there are red patches all over my body, even the bottom of my feet. I will ache all over the front of my body, and I will love it. Especially the way my apprentice robes tease the ache as I walk. Especially the way it will be worse as I help in your classes, moving around to correct the students, sure that you can see each time I wince.

Finally, finally the paddle is aimed at my clitoris. Light, fast smacks hit it and it takes only seconds for me to hit my crest. I'm babbling, begging, pleading for you to let me come, but even if you wanted to give permission I would not hear you. This is a test, I know. You want to see if I can hold on without orgasm. Want to see how long I'll manage to control the unbearable need to tumble over the edge into that freefall of pain and pleasure and sensation shooting through every molecule.

I bite my lip. Grab hold of the restraints. Concentrate on the bead of sweat that is dripping to my temple. Anything to take my mind off the pleasure that is taking over my body and making me lose control.

Has it been seconds? Hours? I have no idea, I just know I can't stave this off much longer. The only word coming out of my mouth is "Please," over and over again, a prayer and a curse all at once.

Magic must pull the plugs from my ears because suddenly I can hear the thwap of the paddle and your voice, that golden voice that is all command, says, "Come," and I shatter.

Writing this down next to Ron and Harry, knowing that Molly could walk in and read over my shoulder? That is as arousing as the fantasy. Imagining you reading this, your mind conjuring the image I've tried to create, your body reacting to it? That is more arousing still.

Will you come pick me up? Take me home?


* * *


I saw you today. In Diagon Alley. Seeing you isn't good for me; isn't good for my psyche. It fills my head with images of you so that the next time I'm in the shower I rest my forehead and hands against the tile as you taught me. And after a moment I slide my feet apart and slip a hand between my legs and remember what it felt like when you joined me and slid soapy fingers over my body, teasing as I moaned and writhed. And I rub gentle fingers over my clitoris and slide one inside me imagining that it's yours, longer and wider and rubbing insistently. And as I contort my body to slip two fingers inside myself and being to pound harder and faster my mind is one long refrain of MasterMasterplease and I come over my fingers and collapse in a heap letting the water wash away tears and sweat and that moisture coating my fingers.

You told me not to call you that anymore. I can't think of you any other way.


* * *


If the nights are for fantasies, the days when I wander through the fields and forests surrounding Ottery St. Catchpole are when I'm bombarded by memories. The first time I called you 'Master' and understood what it meant. The first time I knelt at your feet. The first tug at my hair and rope around my ankles and hand coming down on my arse.

I remember the way you'd push my limits past what I thought I could bear, but you'd say 'trust me' so I'd relax and let you have your way.

I remember that night I snuck through the halls after curfew and slipped into your bed uninvited. I thought I might be punished, but I risked it; I needed you. You woke when I entered your room – of course a spy is aware of everything, even during sleep – but you didn't look angry. You looked pleased.

You pushed my hands above my head and ordered me to hold them there before you began moving over my body. Your fingers pinched at my nipples, your lips sucked at my neck. Your hips nestled between mine and rocked, your hardness - cock - sliding over my clitoris and making me moan with pleasure.

I itched to touch you, to grab your hips and urge you faster, harder, but my hands stayed where they were, where you ordered them to be.

You murmured Lumos and the lamp flared to life before settling into a soft glow. Then you knelt between my legs and slipped a finger inside me. I bucked up against your hand wanting more. You worked quickly, a second finger, a third. A squirt of your favourite lube that stays slick no matter what, but more of it than you usually use.

"I'm going to put a fourth finger in," you said and I didn't even blink. I trust you. My body stretched to accommodate you far easier than I expected and you finally slowed down and pressed the thumb of your other hand against my clit. I convulsed, muscles clutching at the fingers inside me and you paused.

"Do you need me to stop, Hermione?" you asked, and I shook my head. "Do you need me to tie those hands there?" I considered it for a moment. I remember wondering how much farther you'd go, wondering if I'd be able to obey. In the end you took the decision out of my hands and reached for your wand. A moment later rope held my wrists together and secured them to the bed head and I relaxed, knowing that you'd take care of me.

"Breathe," you said and I concentrated on the smell of spices and potions that always clings to you and the sweet, honey smell of the lubricant that you kept adding to your fingers. I was in a haze of sensation for a long time as you gently pulsed your fingers in and out. Then your thumb joined your fingers and my eyes went wide as I realised what you were going to do.

Do you remember how scared I was? I'm sure you saw it in my eyes. You didn't ask permission, just counted on me to say the words that would stop you if I wanted out. You curled your hand and my body split in two and the feeling of being stretched seared through my brain and a small part of my heart – my soul? – murmured complete.

I don't know how long you stayed still, your eyes on the sight of your fist - your fist - in my cunt. There are no words to describe the feeling of being so full that I can't move. Your arm moved in miniscule movements, I know, but each one felt huge and momentous inside me.

"So good," you murmured. "You're such a good girl, pet. My Hermione. Mine."

I wanted your kiss and you seemed to sense it because you pressed your lips on the bare skin you could reach, praising me between every kiss. Those lips, those murmured words meant that I could concentrate on what was happening inside me.

"Tell me when it's too much," you said, even as you began to suckle my clit. "Tell me when you can take no more."

"No, Sir. Your choice," I gasped. You even understood that, could always read me so well. Your hand unfolded and your wrist slid out and I felt every knuckle, every finger as they moved out of me. It took only a kiss after that, a lick, a sip that sent me careening over a cliff I hadn't even known I was on the edge of.

You held me after that. Gathered me in your arms and held me as I shuddered and pressed those kisses to my hair and temple and lips.

I did it for you. Only you.


* * *


I don't know if you're even reading these letters. None have come back to me, so that's something. Harry and Ron keep asking me who I'm writing to. I want to tell them my secret. Tell them about that voice ordering me to chop ingredients and clean cauldrons as part of my apprenticeship and how it made my thighs weak and my heart race. I'd tell them about the morning I couldn't hold the lust in my eyes, the afternoon you tried to teach me occlumency and discovered my fantasies far too close to the surface of my mind.

I want to tell someone about the night you told me to kneel. A quick wand movement left me naked and you carefully arranged my arms behind me, each hand holding the opposite elbow, the position arching my back and pushing my breasts out in front of me. You carefully wrapped rope around my forearms, each brush of those fingers I'd been obsessing over sending shivers down my spine. You dipped them between my legs and they came away wet; you smeared the moisture over my lips and cheeks.

You opened the placket of your trousers and pulled your cock out. Do you remember? I wondered why, thought you were giving me everything I desired, until I realized you wouldn't let me touch. Wouldn't let me taste. You barely let me look, ordering me to keep my head bowed so that there was only the musky smell of sweat and sex and you and the sound of your hand moving, your breath growing harsher, though no moans escaped your lips. I could just see your hand moving if I raised my eyes, a tantalizing glimpse that did nothing to satisfy the craving I had to drink in the sight of you.

You knew me better than I thought you did, and to have you just out of reach when I yearned to take you in my mouth and service you was the cruelest torture. When you finally let loose a groan you didn't even let your seed hit me, though I wanted to feel it on my face and chest, a concrete sign of your desire for me. Instead you caught it in your hand, vanished it away and left me quivering on my knees wanting, but knowing I couldn't ask.

I still remember your exact words. "Is this what you want, Miss Granger? Your pleasure would be mine to grant - or not - at a whim. I could leave you kneeling here for hours on end, give you to my friends to make use of, bend you over the bed and whip you until you bleed. Be sure that this is what you want."

"It is, Professor."

"In here I am Master," you said and you helped me to my feet and bent me over the sofa and started a new apprenticeship with me that I didn't want to end.

Sir, I miss you.


* * *


Come home.

S. Snape


Your Master.
23rd July 2011 23:47
So deliciously hot.
24th July 2011 03:36
That was very yummy. Snape's letter to Hermione... loved the crossed out text, and her letters to him... I could definitely picture her writing them. And the content... *fans self*
26th July 2011 19:05
This is so unbelievably hot. Epistolary kinky!fic.

(*worries about similarities own forthcoming submission has*)
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