Just the Love – And the Hard Life Too
It wasn't that she was abused as a child and it wasn't because her stepfather hit her too many times. No, it wasn't something to be blamed on anyone, except for maybe herself, or the numerous amounts of scars that riddled her body. Make up only did cover so much and then it was useless. She didn't care though, it was just something that added to the flavor of her sickness, something that twisted it and debauched it more all for her liking. She loved the command of the darkness that swarmed over her and her senses playing with her, touching her, making her.
A twisted smile shaped her face as the teacher of the local one-room schoolhouse walked in. She loved this man; she loved going to his school and listening outside his window as he yelled to the many students. She had been one of his, only a year ago. It was more fun when he saw her watching. The blush that would start at his chest and travel up to his face entertained her. Made her aroused to the situation that she was in and she would revel in it. Knowing that he would always be back by Tuesday; would always be back to her twisted grip where she was in control and hurting him or him hurting her, while he moaned out just how bad of a hypocrite he actually was.
When he saw her standing in the shadows he walked over to her and smacked her. Her cheek was a flaming crimson and her eyes burned with the fiery passion that was locked inside. She knew what she looked like to him. She knew the way that the black lace clung to her breasts, the scars vivid there. The bodice of the black satin pulled tight over her corset. The short silk skirt with a maroon underlay. And the single white rose. The white rose that she held in her hands offered out to the shepherd in front of her. The one whose lips where now on her neck, whose hands roamed up over her body, glancing over the sides of her breasts, up to her neck where they tightened only for a moment.
He soon was behind her, the innocent, crushed, flower laid upon the floor as the teacher pushed himself into the small slope of her spine. Groaning. She cackled. His hands were soon on her hips and pushing her across the room to the bed, the only piece of furniture in the small room. On it. On top of the wantonly body.
She loved it and she knew he hated it. A hand fisted her hair, pulling her head back with a tight-lipped moan. His tongue lit fire on her neck, his teeth soothing the burn as they bit down, drawing blood. His other hand soon grasped her breast, twisting the flesh roughly. The hand grabbing her hair was released and soon she found herself on her back and his hand was between her legs, cupping her, hurting her. He stopped and she reached for the chains she had under the bed. He snatched them from her and chained her to the bed, their cold, frigid, unyielding silver links set a blaze of heat on her naked arms and ankles and she was soon spread eagle on the black crushed velvet. A rope was placed around her neck and she could taste her excitement and anticipation on his tongue.
The sex itself was fast and hard. Grunting and short screams ensued. The more the rope tightened around her neck the more she would try to scream. Which only made the man on top of her, pound harder into her, grunting furiously into her neck and the rope and the bites and the blood mingling with her own moisture. His breathe hot against the sweet mixture of hatred. And the harder he would thrust, the higher she climbed and the less she could breath. Until, finally, stars appeared before her eyes, her orgasm carried her past those stars and blackness swarmed her red-hot vision.
She would come too, dizzy and satisfied with the man on top of her, limp inside her, sobbing onto her lace-clothed breast. Breasts, which he didn't have the decency to uncover. And even while he was crying he was biting the still hard nipples through the lace. She knew that the obsession he had would never end and while he would always return to his classroom, where he taught even her, Tuesdays would always be his favorite and most cursed day.
Breathing heavily, now with an unbound neck, she felt the man, still on top of her, still inside her, still crying, and still biting, circle his hips and the erection was obvious. Slowly this time, he would again pervert himself to the lust of his flesh and slowly she would come to love the power of the debauchery she just submitted to.
So it goes…
My little idea of historical fiction meeting the Potterverse. The teacher is obviously the black-eyed wonder we all love to hate and break. The whore is none other than my version of Hermione Granger. Just a look at what could have happened if time was different and magic didn't exist.
Yours favorably,
the Penguin Prodigy W/ a esoR Colored bOw-tIe