melusin (melusin) wrote in melusin_la_fey, @ 2008-03-26 19:25:00 |
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Entry tags: | needs must |
Needs Must: Chapters 5 & 6
Disclaimer: See chapters 1 & 2 above
5. Correspondence (i): Hermione.
I close the door and let out a long sigh. That was… surreal. What would Harry say? – not that I’d ever tell him of course. I turn the idea over in my head and suppress a giggle. Severus Snape as a sub – Sub Severus. A bit of a mouthful, that; I’ll just have to think up something else to call him. Slut-boy? Fuck-Toy? I can’t prevent the giggle this time. A suitable name will no doubt present itself; it usually does. I sigh again and shake my head, glancing at the clock. Twenty minutes to go before my next client arrives; plenty of time for another cuppa. I walk over to the window, stir my tea and try to put my thoughts into some kind of order.
Taking a sip of the hot liquid, my eyes are drawn to the hustle and bustle that is Diagon Alley. Dispassionately, I observe the wizarding community as it goes about its business – young couples, business wizards, children and old crones – I am an outsider now, although I suppose it could be argued that I never truly belonged. A swarm of humanity passes under my window each day, but I never venture out into Diagon Alley when it’s busy like this – chock-full of people finishing work and heading for the Leaky, or running some last minute errands before the shops close. I would panic in such a crowd. Anything I have to do, I usually do first thing in the morning when there are fewer people about, and even that can be a struggle…
Snape… After all this time… The cup rattles on its saucer. I look down and notice my hand is shaking. Oh God, I must be mad to be even considering this.
‘Stop it! Stop it this instant!’
I put my tea down and try to calm myself with some deep breathing. My next client will be here soon, and I cannot look like a scared rabbit when he arrives. Walking into the bedroom, I give myself a bit of a talking to. I am always, always professional. I am Mistress Roxanne; Hermione Granger has no business here. Feeling more in control now, I quickly strip off my suit and hang it up in the wardrobe. I already have a corset on underneath, so all I need to do is add a matching wrap around skirt, which reveals a lot of thigh, and pull on my long boots. A quick bit of wand work secures my hair and I’m ready.
A few moments later, there’s a knock on the door.
‘Enter.’
He’s early.
‘Come in, Poxy. You’re late.’
He looks crestfallen. ‘But, Mistress–’
‘No buts. Have you got your Marigolds?’
The grey haired wizard nods. ‘Yes, Mistress.’
‘Then, get in that kitchen, elf, and start scrubbing.’
He takes off his cloak, puts on his rubber gloves, then looks down at his sensible boots.
‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ I say airily. ‘What shall it be today? Red sling-backs?’
He tries not to look disapproving. He thinks sling-backs are common.
‘Court shoes, then?’
‘Please, Mistress.’
I Transfigure his boots into the customary six-inch stilettos and he minces off towards the kitchen happily. I don’t know how he walks in them. I know I couldn’t.
‘Oh, and Poxy.’
‘Yes, Mistress?’
‘Take the tea tray with you.’
He does a little dip to pick the tray up from the table, and then balances it on one hand before sauntering off again. With his long hair and wiggling hips, he looks like some strange travesty of a Bunny Girl.
‘I shall be there to inspect in fifteen minutes, and I want to see those surfaces shining.’
‘Very good, Mistress.’
Dear old Poxy. He’s been one of my regulars for about five years now, and he does so love to do the cleaning, particularly as I allow him to use Muggle products. He’s as happy as Larry and it saves me having to employ someone to do the housework. Best of all, I’m twenty Galleons the richer for it.
I leave him to it and go back to my window gazing. It’s overcast and drizzling out. People are rushing from one shop to another, casting charms to keep themselves dry. The rain lends a dreary greyness to Diagon Alley, leaching all the colour out of the place. When I first came here as a child, agog with the wonder of it all, the bustle and brightness was the first thing that struck me. A perfect, garishly painted mediaeval street in the middle of London, unharmed by the Blitz or the town planners that followed with their plans for ‘modernisation’. But even in the sunshine, for me, the colour is long gone. For me, there are only shades of black and white, and a shadow in a window is all that’s left of that awe-struck little Muggle-born. I rub my arms, feeling cold suddenly.
Unbidden, my thoughts drift back to Snape… How had he reacted to his first sighting of his mother’s world, I wonder? How much did she tell him before he came here for the first time? Did he come here before he was eleven? Did he have eyes like saucers the first time he saw a chocolate frog? No doubt he was excited at the prospect of going to a school where he wouldn’t feel like an outsider – somewhere he would be able to fit in at long last. How soon was it before he realised that Hogwarts held its own terrors?
Poxy, whistling in the kitchen, interrupts my musings. He knows it gets on my nerves, which is why he does it, of course. Responding to it will only encourage him, so I shall ignore him for the time being. Anyway, I really need to get some of my thoughts down on paper while they’re still fresh in my mind. I Summon a Dictaquill and parchment from my bureau and make a start.
‘Okay… early years… Let’s start with the parents… Seemingly a loving couple. Mother a witch, father a Muggle. Client remembers a mother who was strong and able to sort his father out when drunk. Felt safe with her… Query jealous of her control… or even his father’s love for her. A figure of comfort, certainly…’ The sound of what could loosely be described as, ‘singing’, disturbs my train of thought.
‘If I ruled the worr-ld, ev’ry day would be the first day of sprrr-inng…’ Poxy is pushing his luck.
‘Father. Probably loved his son in his own way, but I doubt he could relate to him. Client experienced first arousal when beaten by him. Much guilt about sex and disgust of genitalia…’
‘Every heart would have a new song to si-innng…’
I wouldn’t mind so much if he could sing in tune, but Poxy, as they say, can’t hold a note in a bucket. I let out an aggravated sigh.
‘First point. Control of sexual activity. Hmm… Enforced celibacy an option as he is not in any kind of relationship. Query chastity belt. Granting permission to masturbate and orgasm desirable.’ Relieving him of the responsibility of acting (or not) on his urges may free him of some guilt, I feel. ‘CBT likely.’
‘Da-da-daa-dee-da-da-daa-da-dee-da…’
For fuck’s sake. ‘Second point. Desire/need to be punished. Also goes back to childhood/early adolescence but more modern events obviously apply.’ I think about his dream. Does he harbour a secret desire for public humiliation due to his sense of guilt? Hmm… It will be very interesting to see how this develops.
‘Third point–’
‘And we’d sing of the JOY EV’RY MORN-ING WOULD BRI-INNNG’
My patience has just run out. ‘POXY, STOP THAT INFERNAL RACKET AT ONCE!’
‘Yes, Mistress. Sorry, Mistress.’
‘I should think so.’ Now, where was I? Um… Oh, yes. ‘Third point. Leather association. Many possibilities here. Clothes, whips, floggers, restraints, etc. Play on childhood association with father’s belt. Emotional reaction may be strong, however. Some caution required, I think.’
The whistling starts up again, but I choose to ignore it, irritating though it is – anything’s better than that bloody awful caterwauling. I huff in annoyance and rub my forehead. How can anyone be expected to concentrate when there’s a wizard with a latex fetish blundering around the place?
I try again. ‘Fourth point. Anal penetration…’ Well, that’s non-negotiable. He did not mention a preference for it – or experience of it for that matter. I smirk at the thought that I may have anal virgin on my hands. Severus Snape, you don’t know it yet, but your arse is mine.
‘Um… Fifth point. Approval...
I bite my lower lip. I really have to think this one through very carefully. I am on dangerous ground here, I know. One of the reasons I am so good at my job is my ability to see past the obvious desires of my clients and get to the core issues, thereby giving them what they need rather than what they think they want. Snape is no exception (and I’ve a feeling approval is the last thing he’s expecting). An idea is forming in my mind, which is not without risk. With someone as inexperienced as him, I have to take into account the likelihood of emotional involvement – more emotional involvement than I am prepared to tolerate, at any rate. I know the signs, and will end our association before it gets that far, I hope, but I have to consider the very real possibility that Snape will fall in love with me. I’m really not sure I should play these kinds of mind games with him, though. He could end up in a worse state than he is now, and I wouldn’t want to be responsible for that. Still… he’s the one who approached me, so I will do what he is paying me for – and to the best of my ability.
Which brings me to the subject of money. The quill waits patiently as I debate with myself. I tend to charge what I think the client can afford, but even so my services are not cheap. Snape said that money was not a problem, but he is on a teacher’s salary so I doubt he is that well off, and yet I don’t want him to think he’s a charity case either. There is also a lot of preparatory work involved which will take up a great deal of my time. I decide finally on 25 Galleons a session even though I often demand twice that, but then those men can easily afford it.
There is a loud crash from the kitchen. I don’t suppose I can ignore Poxy any longer.
‘Now, what have you done, elf?’ I shout.
‘N-nothing, Mistress,’ he replies.
‘That didn’t sound like nothing to me. You had better not have broken anything; that’s my best china you’ve got there.’ I pick up my riding crop and walk into the kitchen, only to discover a broken bottle and milk all over the floor. I step in the puddle deliberately.
‘So sorry, Mistress, so sorry,’ he says, banging his head against the worksurface. ‘Poxy is a bad, bad elf.’
He really shouldn’t be doing that at his age.
‘Banging your head isn’t going to clear up the mess, now is it?’ I say. ‘Get a cloth at once.’
Poxy totters on his high heels towards the sink.
‘Look in the cupboard.’
He bends over and I give him a sharp smack with the crop.
‘Oh, yes, Mistress. Punish poor Poxy. Poxy is a clumsy fucker of an elf.’
‘He most certainly is,’ I agree. ‘Now, get to it. And watch the broken glass; I don’t want you cutting yourself and bleeding over the floor. Understand? Any more mess, and I’ll personally slam your bollocks in the oven door.’
He looks hopeful.
‘But first, you may clean my boots.’
‘Thank you, Mistress.’ He gets down on his knees to polish them.
‘And, no whistling.’
‘Poxy is happy to serve, Mistress.’
‘I shall be in the living-room. No more ‘accidents.’ Are we clear?’
‘Yes, Mistress.’