Thanks as ever to my two angels, Septentrion and Darkheartwalsh for all their help and support.
Warnings for references to rape and torture, BDSM, humiliation and anal play.
9. Preparation: Hermione.
It’s five in the morning; the house is locked down tighter than Gringotts, and as much light as it’s possible to muster with a wand floods the bathroom. A Calming Draught has stopped the shaking, but I can’t risk going back to sleep, much as I’d like to. Sucking the blood off my finger, I stare angrily at the remains of the little potion phial, lying in shards where I dropped it because I don’t trust my ability to cast ‘Reparo’. It’s years since I had that particular nightmare, but I know I’d only have to shut my eyes, and I’ll be right back in there.
‘God, I look like crap.' Huffing angrily, I wring out the flannel and impatiently dab the cold cloth against my face. This helps to soothe me a little, but doesn’t do a lot for my puffy eyes. Feeling a lot less agitated though, I take a few deep breaths and roughly pull in the belt of my dressing-gown, fighting the drowsiness that is tempting me back to bed. No, I won’t give in to it; perhaps a cup of tea...? Yes, that's a much better idea.
Crookshanks follows me to the kitchen, mewing anxiously, sensing my distress. I’m in no mood to wait for the kettle to boil, nor for the tea leaves to brew in the pot. I grab the first mug that comes to hand, fill it with water, blast it with my wand and stick a tea bag in it. I’m out of milk, so black will have to do. The heat from the mug warms my hands as I stare out of the window and watch the first rays of the sun come up—the same dawn that’s breaking over Azkaban.
As I sip the hot tea, I can’t stop my thoughts from drifting... Lucius Malfoy. Is he awake, I wonder? Does he have anything like a conscience that keeps him up all night? I snort at the very notion. Although... he could well suffer from night terrors... but, no doubt, it would take something like the fear of losing all his wealth to make him wake up sweating. I’d be very surprised if he gave me any more thought than a house-elf. Grabbing a J-cloth, I wipe down the work-surface for something to do, trying to shake the images re-playing in my head.
The ability to dream lucidly is a useful, and often entertaining trick, and one that I’ve had since I was a child. But I can’t control that dream, which is why it is all the more frightening. It is always the same: I’m running down a long corridor—a picture gallery, in fact, desperately searching for a way out. The portraits scream obscenities at me (Filthy, Mudblood bitch. Fucking whore...) as I blindly sprint towards a door marked ‘exit’...
Malfoy steps into my path. I try to pass him, but he grabs me, and although I struggle for all I’m worth, I am no match for him... A dreadful, wailing noise: someone or something crying in the distance... He drags me through the wall. On the other side, Bellatrix Lestrange waits, holding a bloody mass in her outstretched hands, cackling wildly. She squeezes it, the blood making a puddle on the carpet, and the crying stops.
Not a woman, not even an animal. Only a thing, Mudblood, only a thing...
I turn and flee; her mad laughter rings in my ears as I run down the corridor. Snape is there... immovable, impassive. If only I can reach him... but Malfoy grabs me by the throat. You have escaped me twice before, Mudblood. Never again...
The first time I had that dream, I woke up screaming in a hospital bed. My mother was sitting by my side, her tear-stained face full of concern and her eyes all red and swollen. That scared me more than the dream, let me tell you; I had only ever seen my mother cry once—when my Gran died. I tried to speak, but my voice came out in a croak. Mum picked up a glass with a straw in it and held my head while I tried to sip some water.
‘It will be all right, darling. It will be all right.’
‘Where’s Dad?’ I want my Daddy.
‘He’s with Harry, love, and that nice black Auror with the bald head. They’re going to make sure the house is secure for you to come home. You’re safe now. Everything’s going to be fine.’
My mother has never been a convincing liar.
The Healer, when he eventually turned up, made no such attempt to spare my feelings. When he started to speak, I felt this odd sense of detachment, which, I realise now, was my mind’s way of coping with the trauma. It was like we were discussing some interesting medical case history that had nothing to do with me. ‘...we’ve managed to save your sight...’ Oh, that’s good. ‘...restored right kidney function...’Excellent, excellent. ‘...grown back the left, and the bladder...’ Marvellous. Isn’t magic wonderful? ‘... but not even magic can replicate you ovaries...’ True. Even magic has its limits. ‘... and as you will never be able to conceive a child, we have not replaced you uterus...’ Agreed. Not much point in doing that, was there?
He continued his monologue in a voice devoid of all emotion—like he had made this speech countless times, and I remember thinking in my removed state how professional he was... ‘the external scars will fade, but I’m sorry to have to tell you that they will not disappear completely, due to the Dark curses Malfoy inflicted on you...’ I nodded, and then he took a step forwards suddenly, intent on examining me, and I screeched like a banshee.
It is a dreadful irony that the time when you least want to be touched, the time when you want to crawl into a hole and shut the entire world out, is the time when you have to endure a stranger’s hand probing your most intimate places. And endure it I did because without the evidence on my body, Malfoy would never have even been brought to trial, never mind sent to Azkaban.
An involuntary shudder runs through me, and I wrap my arms across my stomach. He’s already eligible for parole. Harry tells me he’s an exemplary prisoner, and it’s likely he’ll regain his freedom in the not too distant future. I don’t know what I’ll do when that day comes—whether I will still be able to function with some degree of normality. I suppose I’ll have to cross that bridge when I come to it.
My eye catches my reflection in the window pane, and I trace my finger down the scar like I have innumerable times before. It was only with the greatest reluctance that my mother handed me a mirror when I demanded to see the damage. All I really remember thinking with any certainty when I saw the extent of the wound for the first time was that I had made a conscious choice to survive. It was a tiny nugget of strength somewhere deep inside, but I clung to it nonetheless. If a ravaged face was the price I had to pay for not letting Malfoy kill me, so be it. And yes, I healed just like they said I would, physically at any rate. No one in that hospital offered me any rape counselling, though—or any other sort of counselling for that matter, and I was discharged with a few healing potions for the residual pain and some salve for my skin—
Crookshanks puts his front paws on my legs, asking to be picked up, and so I do, burying my face in his fur. We sit down in the comfy chair next to the Aga, and Crooks puts his paws on my shoulder, purring madly.
‘It’s okay, Crooks. I’m okay.’ He butts my hand, encouraging me to stroke him, and I sigh. ‘I suppose seeing Snape again must have something to do with the dreams, eh Crookshanks? What do you think, boy?’ He purrs in agreement.
I'm not sure at what point during my ordeal—could have been hours, could have been days after I was taken, for all I knew—that Snape appeared or how long he stood there, watching. I thought he was a mirage as he swam into focus, or some-some wild hallucination. There was so much pain; floating in and out of consciousness, I couldn’t trust my eyes anymore. And anyway, he was supposed to be dead—like... the Lestrange woman. But there he was—gazing down at me between the ‘V’ of my spread legs, expressionless, unreadable: not a flicker of pity, or contempt or lust on his face. I didn’t particularly care what he thought of me; I was way past any feelings of shame or embarrassment at that point, but I knew he was my last and only hope. A little voice told me it was now or never: if I wanted to live, I had to act now...
Snape said nothing. He was like a statue, totally impassive, but I knew he had been loyal to Dumbledore—a fact which had yet to be made public. Perhaps my tormentors were unaware of it, too? And so I locked eyes with him, raised my head and bit Malfoy as hard as I could. Malfoy’s scream was music to my ears, but the slicing hex that blinded in me in one eye forced me to let go, and I passed out from the pain.
Between then and the arrival of the Aurors, they really went to town, tearing me apart from the inside out—or so it felt like—but I hung on, a little bit longer... just a bit longer, refusing to give up hope. There was a fight; Bellatrix Lestrange was killed—for real that time. I vaguely remember a green flash and strong arms picking me up, although I could just as easily have been flying. I was so close to death...
The pain eased a little. ‘Look after her, Potter.’ Snape. He’d sent his Patronus to Harry, (who’d rushed to his summons with reinforcements), fought alongside him and then surrendered his wand—much to the surprise and delight of the Aurors, who no doubt expected to gain an early promotion out of it...
As soon as I was sufficiently recovered, I asked to see Snape—not just to thank him for saving my life or even to thank him for all he'd done for us over the years, but to give him a show of support in front of the vulture otherwise known as Rita Skeeter. By that time, he was being held at the Ministry, pending trial. There was no way I could leave the house on my own, though, so Harry escorted me. It was the first of three public appearances I made before I began hiding my disfigurement—the other two being Snape’s, and later Malfoy’s, trial.
And Gods were they three horrible experiences I would love to stick in a Pensieve and forget all about. Have you any idea how much people stare when you have something wrong with your face? They can’t help it; it’s how we recognise one another, after all. If something is amiss or out of place, our eyes are drawn to the imperfection immediately. My injuries really brought it home to me just how much we are all unconsciously judged by our looks: you see horror, curiosity, and worst of all, pity reflected back at you. At a time when I had not even began to heal mentally or emotionally, at a time when I only ventured out of doors to see justice served, it was very nearly too much for me. When I look back, I’m amazed I ever left the house again.
Anyway, that aside, in all fairness to Kingsley, he made sure Snape was well treated. Although, as he had to be seen to be acting impartially, Kingsley couldn't just place him under house arrest as he would have liked, but he did ignore the calls to send him to Azkaban. In addition, he checked daily that Snape was being fed properly, had fresh water, allowed access to a shower and so on—and he didn't look in bad shape when I eventually plucked up the courage to visit. But Snape's reaction to my injuries shocked me to the core—he tried to hide it, but he wasn’t quick enough. God help me, even Severus sodding Snape found me repulsive! I felt a surge of panic rising in me and the taste of bile in my throat as the walls started to close in. I had to get out of there before I fainted: I only just about managed to thank him for saving my life as I turned to leave—
‘Ouch. Watch your claws, Crooks. Settle down, or you can sleep on the floor.’ Not in the least bit contrite, the furry pest butts his head against my chin before curling up on my lap. Sighing, I give his ears a scratch. He adores that.
Where was I? Oh, yes. Snape's trial... What a circus that was... Everything came out then, of course—the spying, the manipulation... God knows how he'd managed to survive so long, but by the end, the wizarding world was not left in any doubt as to the debt it owed Severus Snape. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Harry look so relieved as he did the day Snape left the court a free man. I saw him briefly one more time at Malfoy’s trial, but we did not speak. He went quietly back to teaching, and that was the last I heard of him. As for me... I went to live with my parents and began to... ah... pick up... the pieces...
~ * ~
Crookshanks? I... Wha-what's the time? I must have slept... Oh dear, it's later than I thought. By the time I have a shower and something to eat, it will be time to Apparate to London. There’s a scene to be prepared for a certain novice sub, preparations to be made; I have to get into the part. I’ve a feeling that, one way or another, this day is going to be a memorable one.
~ * ~
Wand in hand with two hours to spare, I Apparate to my flat in Diagon Alley. As usual, there are several bouquets of flowers from devoted clients (and a few from the desperate who live in hope of an interview) waiting for me on the doorstep. I conjure some vases for the prettiest of them, setting the biggest on the table in the waiting area and the others on the window sills in the living room, then Banish the rest. At least my subs know better than to send me jasmine.
Tutting at the dust bunnies that have gathered in my absence, I set about casting some basic housekeeping spells; the place has to be thoroughly cleaned before I can even think about creating my dungeon playground. Funnily enough, I actually enjoy this part; it's quite a contemplative, cathartic process. As the flat undergoes its transformation, I mentally prepare myself for the activities to come, letting Hermione fade into the background and allowing Mistress Roxanne to take centre stage. It's inevitably a little nerve-wracking, though—the first scene with a new sub, testing the waters, so to speak, and I do want our first encounter to be something he will always remember. Naturally, I have a pretty good idea of how I want the session to progress, but, having said that, things never go exactly to script in my experience. Better to be flexible and allow things to develop naturally rather than stick rigidly to a set plan, I always find. Housework done, another flick of my wand in the direction of the windows draws the heavy velvet curtains, blocking out what's left of the daylight.
I light the candles hurriedly before tackling my next task—putting my worktable in order. Sometimes I wish I wasn't so fastidious in nature, but I've been a perfectionist since I was a child, and I do like to see the tools of my trade laid out... just so. Biting my lip, I adjust the handles of the floggers infinitesimally so they line up exactly. Perfect!
For reasons of hygiene, I retain separate, identical toy-boxes for each client: these contain the items that are for their personal, that is to say, intimate, use. Summoning Sn- ... sub-severus', I remove most of the contents, placing each piece carefully in its allotted position, then Scourgify everything on the table. There. Neat, symmetrical and, most importantly, clean.
The number and variety of toys may look a little daunting to the untrained eye, I suppose, but there's no harm in instilling a little bit of fear. I'm not going to use everything I've placed here—some things are just to create a sense of drama—but the layout is always the same, no matter what the customer's stated fetishes may be, since experience has shown time and again that many of the hard limits a sub negotiates at the beginning of his journey into submission often blur as his trust in me, and his confidence in himself, grows. I've learnt over the years that it's best to be prepared for every eventuality from the outset. So, on the left side of the table are such delights as the plugs, clamps, sounds, and dildos that he will soon become... acquainted with, and to their right... I run my fingers lightly over the various whips, floggers, crops, canes and so on which I have gathered over the years. Most of these will be used in contact play at some point, but I always like to keep one back solely for the correction of minor transgressions, one that the sub will instantly recognise as his punishment implement. I haven't quite decided what sub-severus' will be yet, although anything involving leather is out; a sub doesn't get disciplined with something he finds pleasurable—at least not in my establishment. And... oh, yes. I mustn't forget that while he may be a novice to submission, he is no stranger to pain. He'll be gagging for a whipping, so... Smiling, I stroke my rabbit fur mit. He won't be expecting this.
I scan the table, going over my disciplinary options yet again, trying to make a final selection. There are only three things I can realistically choose from: a wooden paddle—good for a nice hard spanking, but needs a lot of effort on my part to make it really hurt; the long cane—efficient, but rather clichéd for a schoolmaster, I think; and a shorter, thicker but nicely flexible rod—effective, precise and easier to control. It's such a shame I can't use my favourite riding crop, though. Sighing, I pick it up, enjoying the familiar, reassuring feel of the smooth wooden handle in the palm of my hand. If anything, I suppose this could be called my signature implement—the one I keep by my side always, and which every sub to grace my premises has felt on his buttocks at one time or another. This goes next to my chair in readiness for later. Finally, I replace the lid on the toy-box, which now only contains a standard training collar and a set of matching leather wrist and ankle cuffs, and take it over to the small table near the door. I glance at the clock. Forty minutes to Showtime. I'd better get a move on.
The flat's bedroom contains a large bed, a wardrobe with a full length mirror on the door and a dressing table. Functional but rather nondescript. Of course, I’ve never slept in this room, but my clients don't need to know that. It is something for them to aspire to—pleasing me enough to be allowed inside the inner sanctum, to see 'my bed', and if they are especially good boys, to be tied to the bedposts. It will be a long time before sub-severus earns that privilege. Grinning at the thought, I quickly shed my clothes and pack them neatly away for later.
Even though I showered before leaving home, I still cast a few cleansing charms to rid myself of any lingering traces of body odour. Undoubtedly, there are men who prefer, how can I put it, the more natural bodily scents, but I am a stickler for hygiene. I do not like to smell of anything whether it is natural or artificial; I certainly don't ever use perfume or any product that might rub off inadvertently on a customer—that would be totally unprofessional seeing as these men often have wives to go home to. No, I set a high standard from the beginning (I want my clients to come back for more, after all), and I expect nothing less from them. When all is said and done, paying meticulous attention to one's personal cleanliness is simply a common courtesy between two virtual strangers indulging in intimate contact.
Now for my costume. Dressing the part correctly is vital; in a way, the costume is Mistress Roxanne. A leather-clad Domme is what they all want to see, not mousy old me, but having said that, I do not dress to please the client: I dress to please myself. I pick out a tight fitting corseted bodice, laced up the back, which makes my normally modest cleavage look very impressive, if I say so myself. My waist is naturally quite small, but the corset pulls it in even further, creating the desired hour-glass shape. Colourwise, I tend to avoid a lot of black as it makes my skin look washed out. I like green, but I don’t want Snape thinking I’m wearing his house colours—and to that end, red it out as well. I settle for a deep indigo blue and Charm the bodice as such, then put on a matching pair of (modest) knickers. I don't think I'll give him stockings and suspenders today—he can have that to look forward to.
Boots, naturally, are essential. They lend and air of authority to the proceedings, and as I'm not that tall, the heels give me added confidence. And, I think a short skirt today. Yes, not bad. As for my hair... I try out a few colours. Ash blonde is a good look and goes well with indigo, but perhaps it's a little too soft and girly. In the end, I decide on a deep mahogany.
Sitting at the dressing table, the last of Hermione Granger disappears behind the glamour, and I apply the final touches to my face. I tend not to go overboard on make-up—I don't want to look like a tart, and I don't need to hide behind a mask—my glamour already provides me with one, but somehow I manage to apply more eye-liner than I normally would, out of nervousness, most likely, and end up looking like a panda. I have to Charm it off and start again. As soon as I'm happy with my face, I check my appearance one last time in the full-length mirror and, nodding in satisfaction, put on my elbow length gloves. Once on, they shrink to fit like a second skin, giving me remarkable sensitivity while maintaining a barrier between me and the client—keeping contact to a minimum. There. All done. I wink at the woman in the mirror, and Mistress Roxanne winks back.
Returning to the playroom, I double-check everything is as it should be. And... yep, I think that's about it... A few last minute adjustments to my table, and I'm ready for action. All that’s missing is my sub.
Ah, here we go. The pop of Apparition outside announces his arrival. He’s a bit early, but no matter; I would have made him wait, anyway. I walk over to the connecting wall and observe him through the two-way mirror. Oh, he looks so nervous; I would never have believed it. As I watch him restlessly pacing the room, I start doubting my abilities to pull this off. His interview and letters have led me to make certain assumptions about him—and he about me, but what if I'm really wide of the mark? I can only make an educated guess at how truly submissive in nature he will turn out to be. Could he be only playing at this? He's an accomplished actor; there's even a chance he might just be a vanilla man with a leather fetish. But I've a nagging suspicion... Does he have a real desire to serve, to submit to my every whim, I wonder? He believes that he's a masochist—a true pain-slut, but I'm not entirely convinced of that, either... Gods, what if I have a full out submissive here—an honest to God natural slave? Sighing, I wonder why I care.
Snape looks into the mirror, turning from side to side, examining his appearance. He shakes his head and turns away, fiddling with something under his cloak... Oh, the cock-ring. I watch him pace the room some more; he's becoming increasingly agitated, now, and I can't help but grin at his discomfort. Of course, I deliberately do not provide chairs in the waiting room for this reason—it keeps the sub on edge and unable to relax. But... I think he’s suffered enough. I walk over to my chair and sit down, awaiting his knock. With my heart beating wildly, I extinguish the candles, take a deep breath and command him to enter.
~ *** ~
10. First Session: Severus
I am used to darkness. It has been my friend and companion since childhood. While my night vision is excellent, however, I cannot see in pitch blackness. It is closing in around me, smothering me like a velvet shroud, claustrophobic in its proximity. Instinctively, my other senses assess the danger, and my fingers close automatically around my wand. I sniff the air, and a scent of... violets? The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and I know I am not alone. I cannot hear anything, but she is near; I can feel her. What game is she playing?
But I dare not move. I stand with my head bowed as instructed, and wait for—I don't know how long. It seems like an eternity. I must be patient; this may be some sort of test. As I ponder that probability, an area about three feet in diameter is illuminated by candlelight just in front of me. I hear the sound of... heels clicking. Slow footsteps echo. I can’t quite make out where they are coming from—
‘Step into the light, sub. Stand where I can see you.’
Keeping my head bowed, I take two short strides into the circle. From the direction of her voice, I now know that she is somewhere slightly to the right of me.
One o’clock? No, two. I feel my heart begin to race.
‘Remove your cloak.’
It is hard not to react to the command by turning my head towards her. This is it. The moment I have both longed for and dreaded. Don’t laugh at me. Please don’t laugh at me. I reach for the clasp of my cloak and freeze. What if she is not alone? What if her school friends—?
‘If you don’t want to do this, you know where the door is.’
But I do want to do this. My cock is straining against the cock-ring, hard and aching. I remove my cloak and start to fold it as the spotlight expands to reveal a wooden chair and a low table with a box on it.
I wonder what...?
‘And your boots.’
I pull them off quickly and put them under the chair. Lastly, I relinquish my wand and place it on top of my cloak before resuming my previous position.
Hands behind my back, I suffer her silent inspection. Why won’t she show herself? Is it because I have been disobedient? What if she sends me away? Oh, why didn’t I shave like she told me to? Stupid, stupid, stupid... To my embarrassment, I realise I am shaking. Say something... please say something... anything. I’m sorry, so sorry...
There is a heavy sigh to my right. She sounds disappointed. Why am I surprised? Did I think she would be pleased at the sight of my ugly old body? She wouldn’t even be looking at me if I wasn’t paying her to do it.
A rustle of fabric, and she steps into the light, by my side. I mustn’t look. I mustn’t look. Staring at the floor, I use my peripheral vision—a handy ploy I learned in my spying days—to view my immediate surroundings, and I see a pair of long, leather boots on a pair of shapely legs. She moves slowly—click...click—deliberately, purposefully until she is facing me and sighs again. My cock swells against its confinement once more.
‘Is your penis usually that colour or is that cock-ring too tight?’
I am so ashamed. Hideous thing. ‘Yes, Mistress, the colour is quite normal.’
‘Really? Oh, well... Can’t be helped, I suppose.’
She makes a tutting noise but remains where she is, tapping her hand against her thigh—her gloved hand. Oh, Merlin, leather gloves... She still hasn’t said anything about the hair. Why hasn’t she said anything about the hair? Surely she won’t let me get away with it? Suddenly, she turns on her heel and walks away from me. I risk raising my head slightly and try not to gasp at the sight. She is wearing a short skirt that barely covers her arse with some kind of corset cinched in tightly at the waist, which serves to emphasise the curve of her swaying hips. At the top, where the laces are not fully tightened, is a V of perfect skin between the shoulder blades. It is one of the most erotic sights I have ever seen. I wonder what that skin feels like, tastes like. I want to lick it. I want to touch... will she let me touch? No, unlikely. I have done nothing to earn such an indulgence. And what has she done to her hair? Is it a wig?
Mesmerised, I watch her move away from me, her way lit by candles as she walks. She stops in front of a chair on a raised dais, and I lower my eyes again quickly, just in time before she spins around and sits down.
‘You many approach me.’
Thank you. Oh, thank you. I am on my knees crawling towards her before I have time to think. I keep my eyes firmly on her feet, although I desperately want to look at her face.
‘Kiss my boots.’
She has not given me permission to touch, so I must only use my mouth. As her legs are crossed, I kiss the foot that is in the air. Soft, beautifully soft. The leather is exquisite— possibly Italian; its seductive smell assaults my nostrils—and spotlessly clean, too. Judging by the state of the sole, these boots have never been worn outdoors, but they could be covered in mud, and I would find them equally appealing. I suck the spike of the heel, and she turns her foot this way and that so I may more easily kiss the ankle. I would love to lick the entire length of it to the point where it meets her thigh and higher... I inhale, trying to smell some hint of her female scent, but there is barely a trace. When I try to lick that delightful curve just above the heel, she puts her foot on the floor and offers me the other one, giving me a glimpse of a blue, lace-clad heaven I will never know. The supple leather is so fine I can see the outline of her toes through it. And, much as I love leather, I cannot help but wonder what it would be like to suck them... She uncrosses her legs, and I assume she wishes me to stop. So, I do.
‘Thank you, Mistress Roxanne.’
Without a word, she stands up, and with downcast eyes, I watch her walk out of my line of vision. The skin-tight boots show off her ankles and calves to perfection. Quite, quite, lovely...
‘Repeat the instructions I sent you in my owl.’
Oh, yess. A delightful shiver runs down my spine. She is toying with me. I know I should beg her forgiveness for my disobedience right away, but I can’t help but goad her a little.
She’s reaching for her crop... ah, I wondered what that little triangle of leather would feel like. It seems I may soon find out.
‘You are trying my patience.’
‘I-I was to remove all my body hair, Mistress.’ I hope the tremor in my voice is masking my excitement.
She walks around me, very deliberately... heel-toe, heel-toe. Mesmerising...
‘But, you haven’t, have you? Did you not do it, perhaps, in the hope that I might punish you?’
I am about to deny her accusation when the crop whooshes past my ear, taking my breath away. The time for games is over. ‘Yes, Mistress.’ Please.
‘And, so I shall, if only for your impudence...’
I can feel my heart hammering in my chest. The crop. Please let it be the crop—
‘... But... maybe not quite in the way you would like. Stand up.’
I scramble to my feet, not noticing the wand in her hand until it is too late. Ropes. Magical, silken ropes surround my wrists and ankles, pulling my arms up and out and spreading my legs wide. I feel something solid behind me as I am tilted slightly backwards and off balance, my feet losing contact with the floor. The structure supports my weight as the ropes attach themselves to it, and I flex my wrists, testing the efficiency of my bindings. They tighten further. Merlin, she's good; even with my wand, I would have difficulty freeing myself. But, surely, if I am to be punished, shouldn't I be facing the other way?
Swallowing a rising sense of panic-tinged excitement, my head jerks reflexively as the tip of her wand flashes past my eyes. I thought she said no magic... Oh... Laughing, she makes quick work of the hair under my arms. She's standing very close, now; I can feel her breath on my skin as she methodically moves the wand, the shaving spell prickling like pins and needles as it passes ever so slowly down my leg to the calf and then up to my groin and-and her face is level with my cock! My balls tighten; if I moved my hips slightly, it would touch her, but that would really be asking for trouble. While I am considering the consequences of such an action, she shaves my other leg, then moves away from me slightly before removing the small patch of hair on my chest. But... Why has she left—?
'You know your safe words?'
'Yes, Mistress.' I glance at her briefly. She has rather a nasty smile on her face.
'Excellent. Now what shall we do about all this?'
Without any preamble, she slides her fingers through my short and curlies... Gods, that's—'Ow-OWW!'
'Shall I get a pair of tweezers and pull them out one by one, hmm?'
Fucking hell!
'Would you like that?'
I clench my jaw, trying not to scream at the pain of hair being ripped off my balls, but to no avail.
'I asked you a question, you worthless piece of shit.'
Oh, my fucking God, that hurts. 'No, Mistress, please... no.'
She pauses, winding her fingers through my pubes. Twisting, teasing. I relax, hoping she may have taken pity on me, but no such luck. She yanks down hard suddenly, tearing out what feels like a large clump of hair. The pain is excruciating. Then, mercifully, she lets go.
'When I tell you to do something, you do it. Understand?'
Worthless, worthless. Trying to regain my breath, I barely manage a reply, forgetting to address her correctly as I blink back the tears. She walks behind me and whacks the part of my arse not protected by the cross. A hard, stinging smack to the lower buttocks—rather too close to my balls for comfort.
‘Yes, what?’
‘Yes, Mistress.’
I deserved it, though. My cock surges against the cock-ring, fearing where the next blow will land, and I close my eyes, lost in the bliss of anticipation—so lost, in fact, I miss her going down on her knees. What is she...? She grabs a handful of my pubes again, which is when I see the glint of steel in the candlelight. Oh, shit!
'Look away or I shall blindfold you.'
I tear my eyes away and bite my lip as she pulls and snips. The blades of the scissors brush against my skin; I dare not move a muscle for fear of being cut, but the effort of remaining completely still is making me tremble. Eventually, she stops, but my relief turns to dread when I hear an all too familiar Summoning spell.
‘Thought I’d do it with a Charm, didn’t you? Well, it just goes to show how wrong you can be. Maybe next time, you won’t be so eager to ignore my instructions.’
At the sight of the cut-throat razor, I consider begging, but the words stick in my throat. Time seems to slow as I watch her swirl the shaving brush in the bowl of soap; she doesn't appear to be in any hurry. At the first warm caress of bristle around my shaft, I close my eyes. If it were not confined, I would shoot my load over her face. She lifts my scrotum to soap underneath, and soon my entire groin covered in lather—apart from my cock, which feels rather cold and... neglected. Hearing the clunk of the brush as she puts it in the bowl, I take a deep breath and brace myself. With one hand on my hip, she touches the blade to the crease of my thigh but stops when I shiver. In one fluid movement, she drags the razor firmly downwards. Biting my bottom lip even harder, I keep my breathing shallow, as she scrapes away, in an effort to keep as still as humanly possible. She moves the cockring to get at the hair underneath; my cock twitches, desperate for any sort of contact. Touch me, please, Mistress, please. My knees are turning to jelly, and despite my best efforts, I start to tremble as the razor gets closer to my bollocks. I want to come so badly... A groan escapes.
'Be quiet! You don't want to disturb my concentration, now, do you?'
'No... Mistress.' I most certainly do not.
Sweat is running down my chest, and I suck in a breath, determined to suffer in silence, despite the fact that a witch with very good reason to hate me is taking a lethally sharp implement to my balls. She's stretching the skin, now, with the thumb and forefinger of her left hand, while making short scrapes in between. I have to grind my teeth to stop myself from moaning in pleasure at this sweet, dangerous torment, but I can't stop a sigh escaping when she drops the razor in the bowl for the last time. Looking at me sternly, she picks up a warm damp towel and wipes away the last of the soapy residue. The air cools rapidly around my groin when she finishes—an odd sensation as the rest of my body feels like it's on fire. At least Mistress looks pleased with the result.
'Much better. I like to be able to see my toys before I play with them. You are never to hide them from me again.'
She grabs my scrotum roughly and twists. Pain. Exquisite, delicious, pain. I try not to smile.
Her voice penetrates through my little bubble of pleasure. 'Do I make myself clear?'
I struggle to focus enough to reply. 'Yes, Mistress. Perfectly.'
‘Good. Now, for creating unnecessary work for me, I am going to give you thirty with the crop. You will count.’
My support vanishes, and I struggle to regain my footing. The ropes on my wrists pull upwards; I feel the stretch through my ribcage as I am almost lifted off the floor. Almost. Before my mind has registered the change, the first blow lands on my buttocks.
'One, Mistress.'
I resist the urge to wriggle away from the onslaught, having disgraced myself enough in her eyes for one day. Against all instinct I keep still, presenting my arse for punishment like the obedient sub I long to be.
'Six, Mistress.'
She's not taking any prisoners; she strikes hard and rhythmically, but I quickly realise there is control and precision in her technique. This bears no resemblance to the frenzied whipping I have experienced in the past.
'Twelve, Mistress.'
Left. Right. Two apiece... Cleansing, searing pain rocketing up my spine, and my mind starts to drift. I have to concentrate on the count to keep myself grounded.
'Twenty... Mistress.'
She doesn't let up, but she could go harder on me. More... Please, Mistress, harder... but it is not my place to make demands; I must be satisfied with whatever she sees fit to give me. Glancing down, I see a long strand of spunk hanging off my cock. I can’t hold back much longer.
'Thirty, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress.'
As soon as the last blow falls, the ropes disappear, and I collapse to the floor, panting, basking in an endorphin induced haze. She orders me to lean forward and spread my buttocks, and my hands move to obey of their own accord. Wincing, I pull my tenderised cheeks apart. There's the prickle of the shaving spell again as she disposes of the hair around my ring... I am commanded not to move, but the thought hadn't even occurred to me. I would hold this position all night if it pleased her. Then, she moves away from me, and I feel an inexplicable sense of loss. Of abandonment. I almost cry out, but then I hear the sound of her stiletto heels approaching, and she kneels behind me.
Something icy cold touches my anus and I jump. She laughs and tells me to relax as she gently circles my hole with her finger then presses against it. I force myself to comply, and she eases it further in—twisting, turning—smooth, slippery leather stroking my rectum. A second soon joins it, mustn't clench, musn't..., stretching and spreading my arsehole wider as she moves them back and fore... She touches my prostate, and the effect is electric. I have to grit my teeth and think of Albus fucking Alastor Moody to ease the pressure of the cock-ring... Oh, that is so...
'Tell me, sub-Severus,' she asks. 'Have you ever been buggered?'
'No, Mistress,' I manage to grind out.
She seems to find my answer highly amusing. 'Well, guess what?'
Her fingers are gone, leaving me... empty. But before I have a chance wonder why that should be, something presses against my arse again—something very hard, definitely not a finger. Oh, no, not that. I'm not ready for that. But she is relentless. I try not to resist, but it's unpleasant and it hurts—so much so, my safeword is on the tip of my tongue. Silver, just say silver, and she will stop, but I'm afraid she thinks so little of me already. Worthless, worthless. I cannot give up now. Endure. I must endure...
Groaning, I push against the invading object, wanting and not wanting to take it. It can't get any wider surely? But it does. A bit. Then... it's in, and my sphincter closes around the base. A final tap on the end, and Mistress gets up without another word and moves away from me. Turning my head slightly, I watch her feet as she walks back to her chair, then the lights dim, cutting me off from her, and I am left alone, illuminated by a small pool of light. Worthless, worthless, worthless...
Minutes pass in silence, but I dare not move even though that awful feeling of abandonment has returned. The thought that she might not want anything further to do with me inexplicably brings me close to tears. This is unbearable. Please, say something. I'll do anything you ask of me. Anything. Please, please...
'Come here.'
The way is lit to her chair once more as I gratefully crawl towards her, the thing in my arse shifting with every movement. My cock is leaking profusely now; I don’t want to think how desperate and pathetic I must look to her. Sitting up isn't easy, either; the plug or whatever it is presses hard against my prostate, but I do the best I can, spreading my knees wide like I practiced in front of the mirror and trying to ignore it as much as possible.
Mistress leans forward, sticking the riding crop under my chin and lifting my head up. Inadvertently, I raise my eyes to hers without permission. To my surprise, I realise she is Occluding—does she really think I would invade her mind? I would never presume... She's looking into my eyes now, searching my soul, and I feel like I'm being stripped to the bone under her gaze. There is nowhere to hide. Nowhere.
'When was the last time you had an orgasm?'
Nervously, I reply, 'Ten days ago, Mistress.'
She raises an eyebrow. 'You have not masturbated, as I instructed, since then?'
'No, Mistress. I have done as you asked.' Does she doubt me? I am devastated that she could think I have cheated—
'I see.'
She looks far from pleased. I don't understand—
'You are willing to follow my instructions so long as you can pick and choose which ones. Is that it?'
Swallowing hard, I open my mouth to apologise, but she doesn’t give me the chance.
'That is not acceptable,' she snarls. 'I will not waste my time on scumbags like you who think they can do what the hell they please. You have disappointed me greatly.'
I avert my eyes feeling utterly wretched. 'I'm sorry I disobeyed you, Mistress. It will not happen again.' Worthless, worthless...
'No, it most assuredly will not.' Her tone is hard. Lowering the crop, she sits back in her chair.
I should say something, but speaking without permission will only make matters worse. I have let her down. How could I have been so stupid to think—?
'Remove the cock-ring and wank for me.'
Shocked, I look at her directly, unable to believe my ears. Hesitantly, I release my cock from its prison.
'Keep your eyes down—no, on second thoughts, keep looking at me.'
Locking eyes with her, I grasp my cock and freeze. I don’t think I can do this.
'Well, what are you waiting for? I gave you an order.'
Cupping my balls with my left hand, I start pumping my cock. She's laughing at me. Hermione Granger is watching me wanking and laughing at me. But I don't care, sad old pervert that I am. It's been too long. She leans forward again, thrusting her tits out, and the thought of squirting all over them... gods, fuck... ‘Oh yes!’
Lungs heaving, I struggle to regain my composure and not collapse in a boneless heap at her feet. There's a wave of magic, and the mess I've made over my hands and thighs disappears. I'm about to thank her when she tells me to go. I look at her in bewilderment. My time is not yet up.
'Mistress?'
'I am cutting this session short. This is your punishment for your disobedience.'
But I thought I had been—
'However, I am feeling generous. You may return at the same time next week.'
I consider begging her to reconsider, but I don't think there would be much point, and I don't want to anger her further.
'And... you are to wear that plug day and night, removing it only to defecate. Understand?'
I'm not going to argue. 'Yes, Mistress.'
And that seems to be that. I have been dismissed. Getting to my feet, I try to walk towards the door with as much dignity as I can muster—not an easy feat for someone with a plug up his arse.
'Good. If you disobey me again, there will not be a third time. I want you to be perfectly clear on this.'
Nodding, I wrap my cloak around me. 'I will not make the same mistake again, Mistress.' Grabbing my wand and boots, I take one last look at her, almost forgetting to bow before I Disapparate.
~ * ~
Arriving in my living room at Spinner’s End, I drop my boots and wearily fall to my hands and knees on the rug. My mind is still reeling, trying to come to terms, trying to take it all in. I unfasten my cloak and push it off, letting it drop behind me.
Gods, my skin is sore. I had the presence of mind to prepare some salves and potions for the pain and any skin damage in advance, of course—expecting the worst is a habit that my life once depended on. But unlike the times when I had to deal regularly with spell-induced wounds or swallow pain relief for the Cruciatus curse, I don’t want to wipe away the evidence of this encounter. Instead, I smack the bruised skin a few times, reliving the experience, determined to commit it all to memory.
My knees have had it, but I’m not sure if I can sit down. A bit gingerly, I lie on my side, curling up in a foetal position and pull my cloak over me. I am all too aware how extremely fortunate I am she decided to give me another chance; she could so easily have terminated our agreement, and I would have had only myself to blame. But, there will be plenty of time for me to think about my mistakes—and how to make sure I do better next time. Right now, though, I only want to remember the sensation of a leather-clad hand caressing my body and the vision of a siren in thigh-high boots and a corset. Definitely one for the Pensieve.
Yawning, I feel myself drifting off to sleep. By fuck, that was twenty Galleons well spent of anybody’s money.