Pansy/Hermione, (mentions of past Hermione/Ron, mentions of future Hermione/OMCs)Rating:
1) breasts, 3) illegal sex, 4) pompoir: a sexual technique, said to require extensive training and practice to master, in which both participants remain still while the penetrated partner uses their muscles to rhythmically stimulate their partner's
whatever they've got up there ;)Other Warnings/Content:
darkside wins AU; non-con & dub-con (coercion mostly); the coerced person getting off (Hermione hates it, enjoys it; it's pretty complicated); non-con prostitution/sex work (I've been watching a loooooot of Harlots
), mentions of non-canon character deaths (highlight to read): *Lee Jordan, Ernie Macmillan, Seamus Finnigan (sorry!)
*; finger-fucking; cunnilingus; mentions of sex with a strap-on; boobs all the boobs!Word Count:
6,200Summary/Description: "Making me come doesn't mean you've won," Hermione says. Because she's afraid maybe she will and she needs to prevaricate now, while she still can. God, what if this is the time it happens? What if it's Pansy Parkinson? In a brothel? When Hermione has no bloody choice? "Oh Granger," says Pansy wistfully. "Nobody wins here."Author's Notes:
Ngl, boy howdy, did I have an excellent time writing this! Please mind those warnings. I didn't think I'd have this ready for my posting day, but here I am under the wire with the fabulous help of sdk
"Welcome. Do come in."
Hermione flinches only slightly, a knee-jerk reaction to the word 'welcome' in conjunction with her circumstances—seeing as she has no choice but to be standing here in the doorway to Pansy Parkinson's inner sanctum, her 'boudoir' as Bulstrode had defined it.
Pansy swivels in a chair to face her; the monstrosity is part late eighteenth century and part Fortune 500. The wonders of magic when your side has won a war.
"You're looking much better," Pansy tells her, throwing a trousered leg over the arm of the chair and swinging her foot. She pinches her bottom lip between thumb and forefinger. "Gained back the weight you lost, I see."
Hermione lifts her chin, quelling the desire to cross her arms over her nearly exposed chest. The corset they cinched her into has her breasts pushed up obscenely, her nipples a hard breath away from slipping out over the top of her frilly dress.
"I'm glad your hunger strike appears to be over." Pansy's gaze travels the length of Hermione's body at a snail's pace. Prickling heat steals up Hermione's chest, and her fingers ball into a fist, as if seeking a wand that's no longer there.
Not that she isn't resigned to her predicament. She is. It might have taken two months to get here, but here she is. They'd had to threaten her with Harry. Not that she believed for an instant that they would kill Harry Potter. The Dark Lord needs him alive. But, as had been pointed out to her, the Chosen One could live through the unanesthesised severing of just one of his hands.
So here she is, trussed up like a proper trollop, sweating between her thighs from the heat of the layers of skirt, the thick stockings held on with scratchy garters. She's been assured she'll graduate to actual finery once she's proven herself worthy.
And that's one of the reasons she's now in this room.
"Come closer," Pansy says, and once Hermione obeys and walks slowly to her chair, Pansy drops her booted foot to the ground, knees still spread wide. Like her chair, Pansy Parkinson is a hybrid: She wears dark trousers and dangerous-looking boots with a bit of a heel, while on top, her breasts are as precariously covered as Hermione's, though it isn't a corset from which they might spring. Instead, Parkinson wears a see-through collared shirt, open nearly down to her waist, its material barely clinging to her pert tits just visible through the plum-coloured sheer. Though sometimes she costumes herself in the wide skirts and pushed-up breasts that apparently this regime favours, this less flauntingly feminine get-up seems more to her liking.
"Get those straps off your shoulders," Pansy orders, flicking her wand at Hermione's bodice yet leaving the fulfillment of the instruction to Hermione herself.
With a measured exhale, Hermione reaches up with one hand and then the other and urges the fraying lace down so that her shoulders are bare and there's even less fabric standing between her decency and her nudity.
"Better," proclaims Pansy. "Now, let me see what you've got underneath." She nods at the skirt.
Hermione holds her breath and hitches up the skirt, showing her mistress the garters and knickers that had been laid out for her that morning. She feels Parkinson's gaze like stroking fingers and turns her face away, her jaw clenching.
"Mm," Parkinson grunts noncommittally. "Do you know why you're here, Granger?"
"May I drop my skirt now, or should I answer you like this?" Hermione grits out.
To her surprise, Parkinson doesn't punish her for speaking out of turn or with the impudence she'd not been able to keep from her voice. She gives a low chuckle, and when Hermione turns to look at her, she sees a slanted smile on her lips. Parkinson gestures with her wand that she can release the skirt.
Hermione lets it fall back down with a sigh.
"Do you then?" Parkinson swivels back and forth idly, the chair creaking with each movement.
"I'm here for you to inspect me, mistress." The last word nearly lodges in her throat, though she's learnt by now what it means not to use it, and she has no longing to feel the extended Stinging Hex this house has clearly perfected.
But Parkinson scoffs. "Don't call me that in here. For Merlin's sake."
She looks genuinely put out by it, and the notion has a frown settling on Hermione's face. "Wh—what should
I call you?"
Parkinson leers at her now. "My name should suffice."
Hermione compresses her lips and gives a nod, though there's a potent shift in the room, the feel of a storm brewing, and she doesn't like it… that having learned the particular rules of this horrible place, she's now unmoored from them yet again.
"Say it," Parkinson demands, the smirk falling.
Hermione clears her throat. "Parkinson."
Parkinson gives a short, humourless laugh. She reaches out with such sped, her arm is like the strike of a viper as she grabs Hermione's wrist and pulls her off balance, toppling her into the chair so that Hermione half straddles her.
"Not that one." Parkinson's face is so close, Hermione can feel the breath behind her words. She smells like cognac. Like caramel.
Hermione draws a shaky inhale and then exhales the name. "Pansy."
"That's right," she says, her other hand coming up and caressing a lock of hair off Hermione's burning face. "And do you know why you're here?"
Hermione swallows. "To be inspected by you."
Pansy's face changes with another sultry smile, and when Hermione raises her gaze enough to really look at her, she sees the high blush on her mistress' cheeks. "No, I'm afraid not," Pansy says.
Hermione is oddly glad to be half-fallen onto the chair, because she feels as though the floor would have dropped away from her feet were she still standing. Her heart is suddenly racing with the unknowns, the implications swimming through her head.
"Yes, I see you thinking." Pansy's fingers drift beneath her chin, her knuckle lifting it. "But there will be little need for your cleverness in this room."
"Wh—" Hermione swallows again. "What are you going to do with me?"
Pansy smirks again. She looks deeply into Hermione's blinking eyes. "Why, I'm going to train you, my love."
Hermione's heart stops at the words—and then thunders straight into her throat in the next instant. Before she can draw breath though, Pansy grasps onto her arm and Hermione feels the telling rush of magic before Apparition.
There's a disorienting jolt, and then she finds herself on her back in the big bed she'd been trying not to notice across the room. Pansy lands with her, half on top of her. Her instinct is to struggle, and for a few moments, she gives in to it, feeling Pansy's hands stay her wrists against the bedding easily as she had the advantage in the first place. Hermione would kick, but she feels certain she knows the punishment for that would outpace any hex she's as yet been subjected to. If only she had her wand. She'd probably gouge out an eye before she used it for magic, she thinks.
Pansy seems to see her think it and quirks an amused brow. "That fire will do you good in small doses. Don't think our clients wouldn't pay extra to have a bit of a fight on their hands."
"Go fuck yourself," Hermione spits.
And it only serves to put a new brightness in Pansy's eyes. Surprisingly, she lets go of Hermione's arms and sits back, just observing her. "You know, in a couple of years I can see you joining me and running this place."
It's such an odd and frankly repulsive notion that it knocks Hermione completely off-balance for a moment, and she merely gawks at Pansy in response.
"You think I'm mad, but…" Pansy shakes her head, her lips pursing in thought, "you'll do well in this world, Granger. If you let yourself."
"If I let
myself. I'm a captive here. I'm your
captive. You are
mad if you think I'll ever join you in anything, Pansy
." She's sat up now a bit during her diatribe, and strangely, Parkinson has allowed her to.
Parkinson's eyes go momentarily darker. "You're a fool if you think it is I who is your captor, Hermione."
Hermione frowns, her gaze dropping. She's not wrong, of course. Hermione knows who owns all of them here. She just hadn't considered that Parkinson might not be the enthusiastic stooge she'd assumed. She seems willing enough, playing her part with relish. But… well, so much in this nightmarish world has shown itself as a mask for something else. Hatred often looks like laughter; torture is frivolity. She who was once bullied becomes a bully herself and those who once prided themselves on purity are the dirtiest of all. In her time here, Hermione has seen allegiances bend to breaking. She got word that Ginny runs a pub with illegal duelling in the basement, the fights going to the death, but that she might be one of the links in an underground effort to free people as well. Luna's been put to use mending the injuries of the Dark Lord's mages, sent out to battle the last skirmishes with what's left of the resistance.
Ron is out there, she knows. If he's still alive, that is. She can't imagine she wouldn't have heard if he'd fallen.
He's alive. Neville is alive. Cho Chang and Angelina and Dean and Anthony. So many others have been lost, and Hermione tries not to see their faces rising up against the black of her closed lids when she sleeps: Lee Jordan, Ernie Macmillan… poor Seamus.
Harry is alive. Maybe it shouldn't be, but that's still the greatest hope she has, even knowing what his life has turned into.
Parkinson is looking at her oddly. "Are you thinking of that old boyfriend of yours?"
"Don't you say his name," Hermione grits out.
"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it," says Parkinson. She tilts her head. "Did you have sex with him?"
Hermione feels her cheeks flame. "How you can think that that's any of your business—"
"It's absolutely my business," Parkinson interrupts with a soft laugh. She moves closer, flicking another stray strand of hair off Hermione's face… then another off the rapid rise and fall of her chest, and Hermione has to stifle a shiver in response. "I need to know how bereft of knowledge my little darling here might be."
Hermione squares her jaw. "Not so very bereft," she answers. Though, in truth, she probably is. For these purposes certainly.
"But there's been penetration."
Hermione inhales to tell Parkinson to go fuck herself again if she's so keen on penetration. But what comes out is simply, "Yes."
Pansy leans in a little. "Was it good?" Her gaze drops to Hermione's lips. "For you, I mean."
Hermione feels the dull rage under her ribs turn into a sour sickness. "Yes," she spits—and she wants
her answer to be the truth. She even tried to make it true for a long time. But she suspects it may not be. She knows she's never… Well, there was never really enough time to… get there. She told herself they would have got better at it with practice. It's not that it was bad. It just wasn't… how it sounded when other girls talked about it. It didn't make her scream, didn't make her lose control. Sometimes she wondered what losing control would feel like… if she even could. She thought maybe that it was her fault, her problem. She'd never been good at giving up control after all.
"I see," Pansy replies, her finger unwrapping from the strand of Hermione's hair and sifting down her throat, over the slope of her breast. Hermione knows that she does
, in fact, see. The shame of it and her desire to defend Ron all bottle up in her throat, and all she can do is sit there, looking hard at the floral bedspread while a stupid tear slithers from her eye.
"I never had to teach him how to be a good person though, did I?" she grits out.
Pansy gives another low laugh. It sounds the way cigarette smoke looks, weaving sensuously through the air. "And we all know how hard one can come from a rough and tumble ride on decency."
The statement is snide as fuck, and Hermione has never wanted to hit someone so badly in her life. But as Pansy's knuckle moves gently just to the side of her nipple through the fabric of her gown, Hermione sucks her breath in and stifles the sound that wants to issue forth.
Just like that, she's wet to the point of aching.
"Haven't you ever wondered, Hermione," says Pansy, "how good being bad feels?" She tugs a little on Hermione's dress, making the fabric pull down to where it gets stuck on her nipple, the rest of the round flesh bulging out over the lace. By instinct, just to keep the garment on, Hermione expands her chest a little. If she deflates, exhales, slumps, her breasts will become immediately visible. But the action only serves to intensify the feeling… the way her breasts want to slip out into Pansy's hands… the flood of desire between her legs at the way the bodice pulls against her nipples.
And just when she thinks a good yank is imminent, Pansy leaves off entirely. She flops down onto her arse next to Hermione with a sigh. It's a relief only momentarily.
"Straddle me, love," Pansy says, crossing her booted ankles and shoving a pillow behind her back. When Hermione only blinks at her, Pansy then pats her thigh in invitation.
Hermione takes a breath and then hikes her skirt, manuevoring herself into Pansy's lap, a knee on either side of her hips. She remains upright, looming over her, fully expecting to be told to properly sit. But Pansy doesn't tell; now is when she yanks, grabbing Hermione by the hips and forcibly settling her crotch down on the fly of Pansy's trousers. Her breasts bounce with the jolt of it.
Pansy squirms a little beneath her, getting more comfortable. "There," she says. "Much better." Then, "Put your hands on me, darling."
Hermione stops the snide retort that comes naturally to her lips and merely asks, "Where?"
"I'd say wherever you like, but I imagine that would have your pretty hands around my throat, now wouldn't it?"
Hermione can't quite halt the flick of her lips into an answering smile, though she stifles it within a second. Pansy sees it though and lifts an amused brow before taking Hermione's hands in her own and placing them, palms flat, on her own rib cage, "How about here?"
"You're asking me?"
"Do you have better ideas of where they could go?" Pansy flings a lazy arm over her head, fingers wrapping around the carved wood of the headboard. "Other than my throat," she adds.
Hermione hopes the question is at least somewhat rhetorical. She evades answering regardless, her thumbs smoothing over the sheer material of Pansy's top, moving it over her skin seen just beneath.
"Has a woman ever made you come?" Pansy asks suddenly.
Hermione decides not to meet her eyes, but that only means that her gaze alights on the glaring gap of the shirt… and the beauty mark just visible to the side of Pansy's breastbone… the expanse of creamy skin… her breasts rising and falling, the nipples tight and hard and pebbled…
"Dear Merlin, has anyone
?" Pansy asks with a touch of what sounds like real, rather than sarcastic, alarm.
Hermione's rather metaphorically screwed now. If she admits the truth, it's a weakness, but if she lies, that is too. She squares her jaw and meets Pany's gaze with all the steel she can pack into it. "Shouldn't you be more concerned with the kind of pleasure I can provide?"
Pansy's gaze goes hot, widening a touch at her words before settling into something sultry. Her pupils expand, crowding out the changeable irises. "Oh I am," Pansy assures her. Her hand slides up into Hermione's mass of hair gently, and she begins urging her forward… down… "If you think I have anything on my mind other than finding pleasure between your thighs, Granger…"
Hermione inhales a small gasp but then finds her parted lips captured by Pansy's, muffling the exhale that follows. There's the initial shock… the suddenness of finding herself in a kiss. But then, as Pansy shifts, cupping the back of Hermione's head and changing their angle, Hermione can't help but catalogue that Pansy's lips are desperately soft. She's never felt anything so soft.
She wrenches back, panting. Her hands, still bracing on Pansy's stomach, turn to claws. Pansy gasps, feeling it. Her lips are slightly swollen. This close, Hermione can see that her eyes are a bright blue-green. When Pansy licks Hermione's taste from her lips, Hermione's gaze goes to the peek of her tongue. Without thinking, she leans down and presses her mouth hard to Pansy's again, nails raking up her ribs.
Pansy meets her, sitting straighter, her tongue pushing between Hermione's teeth. Hermione considers biting down… imagines the blood in her mouth. She tilts her head and parts her lips still more, her knickers getting positively soaked in moments.
Pansy's arms come around her, dragging Hermione hard up against her body. Hermione lets her own arms dangle at her sides now, her body jostled on Pansy's lap, breasts pushed into Pansy's chest, the tongue in her mouth warm and liquor-smooth.
All at once, though, Pansy breaks the kiss. Her laugh is that smokey one that tendrils around the curve of Hermione's ear. She leans back into her pillows, hair tousled and falling haphazardly into her face.This is what Pansy Parkinson looks like after she's kissed me,
Hermione thinks. She hates that she finds it pleasing, even beautiful.
"I know how much you hate me," Pansy says, interrupting her thoughts, a hand sliding up Hermione's thigh idly, beneath the ridden-up skirt. "That's on the record. If it helps." She seems amused with this train of thought.
"On the contrary," Hermione says. "I pity you."
Pansy's gaze flicks to her own, the smile disappearing, as if it has Apparated away. "You'll do no such thing."
Hermione feels the win like an arrow piercing armour, the sensation sharp in her own gut, a pleasurable sort of pain.
As fast as Pansy's shown her own cards, though, she pivots, a shrug displacing her ire. "Honestly though, it doesn't matter what you think of me. It only matters how much money we can make together."
"Oh?" says Hermione, ignoring the flutter in her stomach at the way Pansy's now toying with her garter. "How much do your handlers take for their share then?"
"I don't have handlers."
"No, you have captors, as you said."
Pansy gives her a hard stare, not as angry as the former though. "Money's only part of it."
"Is that so?" Hermione moves her hands from their useless positions at her sides and slides her palms up Pansy's stomach again, displacing the sheer shirt and exposing the tensing of her belly. "What's the other part?"
"I do have some power, Granger," Pansy reminds her. "I have power over you.
" Though the statement is undermined somewhat by the soft mewl she makes at the caress of Hermione's fingers on her bare skin.
"What a large fish you've landed, power over the powerless."
"I never said you were powerless," Pansy says.
It's enough to bring Hermione up short. She's dying to know what she means by that, but giving voice to that desire to know would only lose her some ground. Hermione instead lifts a brow. "So is that all you're about, Parkinson? A little money? Even less power?"
Pansy sits up again suddenly, her breath in Hermione's face. Her hand slides further up, her palm turning, and she runs her fingers tenderly just along the seam of Hermione's panties where they meet her inner thigh. "Absolutely not," she breathes. "I'm first and foremost about making you come all over yourself. And you'll scream for more while you're doing it."
Hermione's hands drop to the bedding, grasping on while Pansy's fingers move just to the side of where they'd feel so very—
"Making me come doesn't mean you've won," she says. Because she's afraid maybe she will and she needs to prevaricate now, while she still can. God, what if this is the time it happens? What if it's Pansy Parkinson? In a brothel? When Hermione has no bloody choice?
"Oh Granger," says Pansy wistfully. "Nobody wins here."
Then her fingers do move, still over the knickers, and she strokes the soft mound she finds, not far enough down, not over Hermione's clit or her entrance, just over the sensitive hair Hermione's been allowed to keep unshaved.
It's excruciating—the line between heaven and hell. Hermione compresses her lips and commands her hips not to move, not to seek those fingers stroking lower.
"You like that?" Pansy purrs.
"Maybe another time."
Hermione's teeth sink into her lower lip.
"Move on me," Pansy instructs.
Hermione's eyes fly open. (In truth, she'd not been aware she'd shut them.) "What?"
"You heard me. I want to see you work for it."
Her cheeks flame hot, even while an arrow shoots through her belly, low, like a sharp sting of what's to come. She looks somewhere over Pansy's left shoulder, at a stain on the wall, and she begins to roll her hips a little.
She tries to stop herself gasping as it rubs Pansy's fingers gently over her clit for the first time. She'll feel how wet Hermione is now. Only part of her still cares. The other part simply wants it again… needs those fingers to tickle her there, to slide beneath her knickers and spread that wetness over the nub that's now throbbing with wanting more.
Pansy crooks her fingers and makes a come-here gesture. "More," she says.
Hermione takes a breath, and, unwisely, she meets Pansy's gaze as she moves her hips, letting Pansy's fingers rub back where she's wettest, where, if the panties weren't in the way, Pansy might tease her opening… might sink inside her. Her breath has begun shuddering out of her, and Pansy's lips lift in a small, awe-struck smile.
She lets Hermione ride her two fingertips a bit longer, until a bead of sweat trickles down Hermione's temple. Then a hand on her hips stills her, and Pansy's fingers shift even further back, making Hermione gasp.
"Has anyone ever…?" Pansy asks as her fingers lightly circle Hermione's arsehole.
Her blush probably answers the question, but Hermione still manages to shake her head no. Her heart feels like it might actually explode with how fast it's galloping.
"Don't worry," says Pansy. "Not this time." Then her hand is gone, and it's both a relief and a torture. Hermione sags a little, the adrenaline flooding through her and making her feel lightheaded.
"Come here," Pansy says softly, gesturing as she lies back into the propped pillows. She gets Hermione where she wants her, a hand on either side of Pansy's shoulders, braced. Gravity does its work, competing with the corset to see which can bare her breasts faster.
Pansy's eyeing them as though she'll not have either force beat her to it. She glances up at Hermione's face, gives a smirk, and then leans up enough to place a tender but wet kiss to the bulge of her breast. "They're exquisite," she pronounces, leaving a soft bite as well.
"They're just breasts," Hermione says, aggravated by both the compliment and the response of her body. Her nipples are tingling, and she wants something between her thighs so bad she almost grinds in Pansy's lap unbidden.
But then Pansy once again lies back, and she pulls a little at Hermione's bodice once again, both sides, letting the fabric tug on her nipples, until—Merlin, the moment lasts forever—finally Hermione's nipples pop out. She's exposed, her hard breaths only serving to move her dangling breasts still more. The air itself possesses the intensity of a touch, Pansy's gaze adding exponentially to the sensation. When Pansy's eyes dilate, Hermione's breath hitches. She doesn't know whether she wants to cover herself or… or beg that her nipples be touched.
She needn't decide though, as Pansy cups her breasts, lifting the weight of them, and then draws a nipple into her hot mouth and sucks on it.
A breathless groan leaves Hermione's throat, and before she can stop it, her back arches. She wishes Pansy could be in two places at once, working her nipple with her tongue like she already is, and also behind her, flicking her skirts up, exposing her pussy and… and… Hermione doesn't know what she wants. She only aches for that spectral thing, instinct overwhelming reason and objection in one fell swoop.
Pansy lifts her mouth, her thumbs rubbing over both Hermione's tits at the same time. Hermione cries out, pushing her breasts into Pansy's hands and feeling Pansy flick harder, in quick succession, until Hermione is arching into it so strongly, her bowed back aches and her arms tremble with holding herself up.
"Fuck," Pansy breathes. She squeezes Hermione's nipples between thumbs and fingers, pinches and pulls and watches Hermione's face contort… watches her dissolve to nothing resembling the Hermione Granger she herself knows.
Then Pansy sits again, taking Hermione with her. She Summons her wand with a voice changed by arousal. She flicks it—and Hermione feels her knickers rip. Pansy could have simply Vanished them. But she chose to rend them apart. Hermione's cunt clenches down, and she can't bring herself to complain when Pansy's hand sinks between her legs again, disappearing under the skirts, and Hermione feels the heat of her bare fingers separating her folds, running through the shameful slick awaiting her, and then, slowly, pushing inside.
Pansy watches her eyes, and Hermione feels herself transfixed, unable to look away. Pansy pumps her fingers in, makes Hermione gasp, and then unhurriedly withdraws to the tips. Hermione feels herself wanting to cling on. Her mouth opens on a hot gust of breath. Her nipples ache. And when Pansy slips two fingers into her again, Hermione's hands fly up and grasp Pansy's shoulders. The slippery shirt slides off one side, exposing Pansy's left breast, and Hermione's gaze feels magnetised to it.
Watching Pansy's rosy nipple tighten under her attention, Hermione lifts up, feels Pansy's fingers slip almost loose, and then she drives herself down on them once more.
This time, Pansy is the one who gasps. Hermione finds her gaze again, blistering with heat, and she moves
, hips rolling as she fucks herself on Pansy's fingers. She should be ashamed. She didn't even have to be told. But maybe that's the thing. Maybe doing it herself is all she can
do really… to control it.
That's what she tells herself as she grinds in Pansy's lap, feeling those fingers deep inside her, flexing a little now, massaging her. Hermione feels the moan start deep in her chest. Pansy dips her head and takes a nipple between her lips again. She flicks with her tongue. "Stay still," she instructs.
Hermione wants to fight, but she's nearly past caring. She stills. Pansy kisses up to her neck. "Now just… squeeze my fingers, Granger."
There's something about her saying it like that, with Hermione's last name. They might as well be back at Hogwarts, a scarlet and an emerald green tie knotted at their necks, armfuls of books. "What are you looking at, Granger?"
as they pass on the stairs. For a moment, it's like they're not here at all. Hermione wants to imagine them in the dormitories, in one another's beds, still fighting, still disgusted with each other, but fumbling around beneath one another's clothes regardless.
"Did you hear me?" Pansy prompts, lips against the shell of her ear. "Or do you not know how?"
"Keep your hips still. Just…" Pansy kisses her jaw, her lips. She speaks between slips of her tongue into Hermione's mouth. "...tighten down around them… with your cunt."
As suddenly as she left, Hermione is back in the world again. Reality slams into her, and before she has time to think it through, she takes Pansy's hair in her hand and yanks. She doesn't do it so hard it will hurt. Well, hard enough to sting but hopefully not hard enough to anger. Pansy inhales sharply. Hermione does as she was instructed then: She tightens her inner muscles until she feels she can't do it any harder. She feels the contours of Pansy's fingers against the walls of her pussy. The knuckles… the tips. She realises her grip, feels Pansy pull an inch out and then push back in all the way.
"Again," Pansy says.
Hermione doesn't want to, but her hand relaxes in Pansy's bob. She spans her hand against the back of Pansy's head and squeezes herself around her fingers tight.
Pansy exhales an impressed breath, her lips quirking. "Again."
Hermione sets up a rhythm—squeeze and release, squeeze hard and release. It feels… odd. Almost repulsively intimate. She realises she'll be expected to perform this act with a man. With men. Many of them. She shutters the thought away, but not before Pansy sees it.
Pansy tilts her head. "What? What was that?"
"It's nothing," Hermione breathes out.
"It doesn't feel good?" Pansy guesses.
Again, Hermione can't help wondering why it matters. Pansy's fingers start to withdraw, but Hermione shoots her hand down, fingers closing around Pansy's wrist. She eases herself back down onto her fingers, gaze holding Pansy's hostage. Pansy's eyes dart between hers, looking for answers she can't seem to find.
Hermione's lips quirk. "You were determined to make me enjoy it and yet you're shocked when I do, Parkinson? Have you so little faith in your prowess as a whore?" Hermione holds her wrist tightly and pumps her hips, squeezing her inner muscles simultaneously. New wetness trickles down Pansy's fingers. "Either you're in charge or you're not," Hermione tells her. "Pick a bloody side."
Pansy's eyes flare. Suddenly, Hermione is flipped over onto her back. Pansy throws her skirts up, yanking Hermione's legs apart. "You may not like the side I choose," she says. Her voice is defiant, full of pride, but there is also… pain. When Pansy makes to move down the bed, Hermione clamps her legs closed around her waist. She pushes all the errant, calculating thoughts from her own head, sinks her hand into Pansy's hair, and pulls her down into a kiss.
She licks into Pansy's mouth, opening her own and defying every alarm bell that's been ringing through her body and mind since she walked into the room, for far longer than that. Her legs loosen, but Pansy stays between her thighs, kissing her deeply, soundly, but without violence or vitriol. Like a lover. She kisses Hermione like they're lovers.
The insidious thought surfaces that maybe it's not Pansy who will choose which side she lands on. Maybe, far in the future, if they're forced to live in this fucked up world together long enough, it will be Hermione who chooses for her.
It's a vain hope, a hopeless hope. But it sits, barely shining, inside her chest nonetheless.
Pansy pulls back and looks into Hermione's eyes as though her thoughts alone were loud enough to break the kiss. Hermione lets her hand slide from Pansy's hair, down her chest, flicking the shirt open so that she can see Pansy's soft tits, small and… freckled. Just a little. She doesn't want it to be endearing. She wants no reminder of who she's lost and may never have again. She doesn't want to taste Pansy Parkinson's nipples, first one and then the other going hard in her mouth. Hermione cups her tits instead and watches what that does on Pansy's face. Her thumb brushes over a nipple, and bright spots of pink rise on Pansy's cheeks. Hermione pinches, and Pansy gasps. Pansy gives a crooked smile, wrenching Hermione's legs open once more. Hermione lets her, gets even wetter for her, and merely raises her arms as Pansy sinks down the bed, her hands fitting around the slats in the headboard in preparation for her own destruction. Pansy parts the lips of her sex, makes a hot seal of her mouth, and laps at Hermione's cunt.
." Hermione opens her legs wider, drawing her knees up. She tightens her grip on the headboard, using it for leverage as her body rocks against Pansy's open, hungry mouth.
And she is. Hermione, through the blur if her own lust, can sense it, can't help but feel it—that this cannot only be about her training… that Pansy wants
"Puh-Pansy," Hermione cries. She's not ready. She doesn't want to come yet. She doesn't want to come at all. But her legs are shaking, and she's writhing uncontrollably—uncontrollably
—and it's there. It's right there. She knows it like someone she's only met in a dream, with that same innate quality, that unquestioning yesness
while not ever having totally glimpsed their full face.
" she cries. And then Pansy sucks a little at her clit—and she's gone.
It's a discomfiting number. To go from nothing to… this. With her
Hermione hasn't left the bed yet. Isn't sure she can stand. She's nude, her dress in a heap on the floor somewhere, corset flung over a bedpost in Pansy's haste to get her naked, to run her hands up Hermione's sides as she'd fucked her from behind with the strap-on.
Hermione remembers and rubs her thighs together, the ache still present.
She remembers… Pansy's hands grabbing her tits while they fucked, and how Hermione had heard the word, straight and shocking from her own mouth: "Harder."
Her pussy is sore, but deliciously so. She'd demanded it as much as Pansy had taken what she'd wanted from her. Her breasts feel heavy and alive with sensation. She can still feel Pansy's mouth. She wants to feel it again, even now.
Not that Hermione will give either of them the satisfaction at present.
Pansy's dressing, just finishing the buttons on her blouse, now fastening it a little more than halfway up. This new shirt—Hermione had literally ripped the other off her—is no longer see-through, and Hermione sighs, not wanting to abuse herself with guilt for feeling that tinge of dejection. This is her world now. She'll bloody take what she can from it.
Hermione rolls to her side and props her head on her hand. Her breasts squeeze together in this position, and when Pansy turns, Hermione gets that arrow of heat between her thighs at the doubletake she gives seeing the cleavage. Hermione rubs her thighs together slowly and watches Pansy's gaze descend there as well.
Maybe it will be that easy. To snare her. To flip her.
If Hermione isn't herself ensnared in the process.
"How many men will I be expected to service in a day?" Hermione asks.
Pansy flinches slightly, clearing her throat and threading a belt through the loops on her trousers. "I haven't decided."
"It's up to you then."
"It's up to supply and demand," Pansy corrects her.
"But…" Pansy stops, now facing away from Hermione. Hermione wants her gaze back again… because it's easier to manipulate her that way, because it makes her feel like like spreading her legs and taking Pansy's mouth, her tongue, her fingers, her cock… It almost doesn't matter which is the higher priority. Both is the likely answer. Nothing is simple now.
Pansy turns. She comes close. She reaches out and winds a strand of Hermione's hair around her finger. Hermione shifts to lie on her back, the hair springing loose. She's aware that lying like this, arms bent by her head and relaxed, she's inviting more. It speeds her heart, and she feels the wet smear her inner thighs at the thought.
"Nothing," says Pansy. But her look says everything
. She doesn't want to pimp Hermione out any longer. Not now that she's had her for herself. And easy as anything, that hopeless hope is back, burning dully inside Hermione's belly.
She holds out her hand. Pansy sighs, but then she takes it. She lets herself be drawn back into the bed, on top of Hermione, between her legs. Hermione reaches down and cups her cunt through her new trousers, and Pansy's breath leaves her lips.
Maybe this will turn out to be something other than impossible.
Hermione spreads her thighs, unzips Pansy's trousers, and pulls her into a kiss.