As soon as they get to Imogen's room, it's all bruising kisses and tight grips, ripping at each other's clothes and pushing each other up against the door, the wall, the desk. Constance, with her usual efficiency, has Imogen's shirt and pants off within seconds, and—pushing her sports bra down for better access—gives her a hickey on each breast, just next to the nipple. Imogen groans loudly and grabs Constance's head, dragging her back up so she can kiss her hard while undoing the many, many buttons currently keeping her from her lover's perfect body.
Constance's hands are everywhere. Sometimes she has to swat at them in order to keep going with her work. They have a way of distracting her, those long fingers—the way they trail over sensitive areas, slip just inside her underwear, press firmly into her hips and shoulders and back. And Imogen knows Constance could remove her own dress easily with a few murmured words, knows, in fact, that that would get them relief faster, but she prefers it this way. Slow, steady, and undeniably erotic.
Finally Imogen manages to get the tight black dress off. It peels away from Constance like a second skin and pools at her feet. And then Constance is there, willowy and majestic and so gorgeous that she's awed anew at her luck.
Imogen notes with satisfaction that last week's hickeys have not yet faded. They decorate Constance's neck, shoulders and breasts like constellations in varying shades of red and purple. How lovely it is to go about her day, working, teaching, interacting with the stern Miss Hardbroom, and to know something that no one else knows or even suspects: that beneath the long, concealing dress, the stern Miss Hardbroom is covered in evidence of some very naughty behavior.
There's a moment where she just stands and looks, and appreciates.
Then: "Come here," Constance almost growls, and grabs her around the hips, pulling her close. Imogen revels in the first touch of bare legs and stomachs, and Constance's hands, warm and soft on her thigh and back. She slides her hands up to Constance's magnificent jawline, caressing it with one hand while holding her firmly in place with the other on the curve of her neck. The kiss is long and intense and full of little movements—teeth just nipping at her lip, her tongue in Constance's mouth, and angle changes, in futile attempt to bury themselves deeper in one another.
Without looking backwards—her lover has an uncanny ability to know exactly where she is in relation to everything else in the room—Constance sits in Imogen's desk chair, pulling her into her lap. Imogen places her knees wide on either side of Constance's hips, grinding down so that she can feel the warmth of Constance's lower abdomen against the increasingly damp fabric of her underwear. Constance disposes of her sports bra, cupping her breasts possessively and squeezing roughly, eliciting a guttural moan.
From her vantage point, Imogen can see Constance's dark red lips curve wickedly, and balances herself with a hand on Constance's shoulder as the sinful mouth begins its assault on her breasts. Imogen doesn't think Constance would ever admit to having a favorite part of her body, but it's hard to see how any other could compete. Constance closes her eyes as she suckles at a nipple, lips wrapped around the skin and tongue teasing the small bud into a hard point, while her other hand strokes and tugs at the other nipple, hands still squeezing and massaging. Imogen wants to keep staring at Constance's rapt face—the long eyelashes that just brush her chest, the flush beginning to rise in her pale cheeks—but finds herself closing her own eyes, tipping her head back and giving voice to the sounds rising in her throat. It should be illegal to be that good with your mouth, she thinks hazily.
Finally, she places her hands on Constance's cheeks, grazing her cheekbones with the pads of her thumbs, and pulls her up, pushing her against the back of the chair. Leaning in, she takes Constance's earlobe between her teeth, licks it ever so slightly with the tip of her tongue, then sucks just the way she likes it. Constance groans, deep in her throat, and Imogen lets her tongue trace up the shell of her ear, grazing her teeth against the fragile skin, making sure to mingle softness and warmth, light touches and pressure. Constance is beginning to tremble against her, and Imogen knows it's almost time to take her to bed and take her apart, but not yet. Not quite yet.
First she gets rid of Constance's bra, shifting in her lap and making sure that her wet underwear brushes against Constance's upper thigh (it's definitely wet now, she can feel herself soaking through, and she's pretty sure Constance is in the same state and she wants to reach down and find out for sure but no, she has to be patient). She starts at the front, running her hands over the black lacy bra (another secret, her favorite secret, especially when she gets to watch Constance put it on in the morning and then take it off at night, and she thinks about it all day, remembering every time she sees her what it looked like going on and how it'll look coming off). Constance squirms beneath her, wanting more, but not now; Imogen's hands slip around to the back, and she unclasps it, tugging the bra off so she can cradle the heavy breasts in her hands.
Constance's breasts are more sensitive than hers, so she's not as rough, but that almost makes it more satisfying when she gasps and sighs and moans at the slightest touch. Imogen spends a while just playing with her breasts, caressing them with her fingers and mouth, and occasionally letting her own breasts fall against them, or leaning in to lick and suck at her ear again. She likes having her lover like this: breathy, responsive, so focused on how good she feels that she forgets to be stern or proud or any of the other, external things that make her Deputy Headmistress of Cackle's Academy. As always when Imogen remembers this—that Constance allows her to see her like this, permits her to touch her and touches her in return; that she lets down her guard for her—she feels a heady, irrepressible tide of both wonder and possessive desire rise in her.
Imogen grabs Constance's chin and kisses her hungrily, tangling her fingers in the thick dark hair. Constance rises into her, bucking slightly against her hips, then breaks her mouth away to continue the assault that Imogen's hands distracted her from. Imogen looks down, and sees her lover, and loves her so much it hurts.
"God, sometimes I just want to pin you down and fuck you," Imogen mumbles into Constance's ear lowly, tugging roughly at Constance's hair while the taller woman bites at her shoulder, hands wrapped firmly around her ass. "Kiss you hard and fuck you with my whole hand, fill you all the way up, make you come so hard you scream my name for everyone to hear."
Constance's hands slow as she begins speaking. When she finishes, she kind of expects Constance to remember her propriety, tell her "not to be crass, and anyway I sound-proofed the room, you silly non-witch," and stomp off to her rooms for the night. She's never spoken to her like this: low and dirty, telling her exactly what she fantasizes about on the nights when they sleep in separate rooms for convenience, and she has to take care of herself. Oh, they communicate well; it's one of the reasons the sex is so good. But she's never been…obscene. Not with Constance.
But to her surprise, Constance moans at her words, high and wanton and needy. It's involuntary, Imogen's almost sure; Constance can be pretty vocal, but she's always been too self-conscious to make sounds like that.
Imogen pulls back, one hand in Constance's lovely dark hair and the other on her shoulder. She catches a glimpse of the bliss on Constance's face—the way her eyes fall closed and her lips part slightly—and the sight fills her with a reckless joy.
Within a second, Constance's eyes fly open and her face shutters closed, a stoic mask replacing the vulnerability of pleasure. Imogen can tell she's embarrassed, but she's too invigorated by her discovery to let it go.
"You liked that," Imogen whispers, half-disbelieving her own words. "You really, really liked that." And Constance doesn't say anything at all.
Imogen considers her next move. She desperately wants to explore this, see if she can make Constance moan like that again, see what other sounds she can make given the right incentive. She wants to tell Constance everything she's ever fantasized about, and figure out—based on moans—which ones turn her lover on the most, and which ones may actually come true. And, of course, she wants to pin her down and fuck her. First three fingers, then four, then three again with her tongue ever-so-gently stroking her clit; in every position, as many times as possible. Sometimes she wonders if she could get off without being touched: just from making Constance come.
So she leans in, carefully, gently, and suckles at Constance's earlobe. She strokes Constance's shoulder soothingly with one hand, rubbing her neck and upper back. Once she feels the muscles relax, she lets her fingers trail down to Constance's breast, cupping and squeezing lightly. Constance groans into Imogen's shoulder, and settles her lips on her collarbone, laying delicate kisses in a trail across her chest. They stay there for a few minutes: Constance's hands still on her ass and her mouth at her neck, and Imogen's hands at her shoulder and breast, lips at her lover's ear.
Quietly, as if to an easily startled animal, Imogen speaks. "Would you like more of that?" She doesn't name it, but she knows Constance knows what she means.
For a few moments, there's no response. She feels Constance's mouth still against her, and she stops moving her fingers as well, to give her space and time to think, or go back to her room, or do whatever she will.
And then: a small, deliberate movement against her neck. A nod.
Again, she speaks quietly. "Is that a yes?"
And again, a movement. A nod.
The wave of ecstatic arousal that floods her at Constance's answer leaves her almost unable to think for a moment. As if to distance herself from the gesture, Constance moves immediately: tightening her grip on Imogen's ass, she pulls her close as she stands up. Imogen wraps her legs around her lover's waist and her arms around her neck, burying her face in Constance's hair and closing her eyes. Constance is surprisingly strong for someone who doesn't appear to exercise at all, and while Imogen's a little jealous, she also loves being carried. She can feel Constance's breasts just underneath her own, Constance's stomach against her wet, now almost dripping underwear, and she can't keep herself from rubbing against her instinctively, desperate for friction.
Constance kneels on the bed and lays her down, eying her possessively as she spreads her out on the white sheets. Imogen lets her look, lets her be in control for a moment, and waits for touch.
After a few seconds of looking, and running her hands over Imogen's calves and thighs, Constance crawls up between her legs and settles on her, pressing the length of her body against her so that she can feel every inch of skin. And, soon as she's comfortable, Imogen flips her: propelled by her hips and holding tightly to her back, she lands on top, straddles her lover and kisses her, deep and hard.
Then she turns her head, puts her lips by Constance's ear, and murmurs, "Do you want to know what I think about when I touch myself?"
Constance swallows. Imogen kisses her throat, and licks up to her jaw.
"Well, a lot of things, really," she murmurs to the skin. "I think about the way you look when you come. I think about how fucking wet you get for me, and how delicious you taste. Sometimes I wonder if I could just live off you—eat you out for breakfast, lunch and dinner. And dessert. What if I went down on you four or five times a day? Would you like that?"
Constance whimpers. Fuck.
"I bet you're soaking right now," Imogen breathes. "Do you want me to touch you? Do you want me to rub your clit?"
"Please," Constance gasps, and then suddenly they're upright, Imogen still straddling Constance, who's looking a little wild-eyed. "Please," she repeats, and tries to guide Imogen's hand to the crotch of her underwear. Instead, Imogen places her hands on Constance's hips, and, smiling up at her, slides off to kneel in front of her. She places a kiss just above the black lacy fabric—it matches the bra, and all things considered, that set is one of Imogen's favorite sights in the whole wide world—and then places another, slightly lower down, on the edge of the panties. Then she ever-so-gently encloses the lace between her teeth, and tugs down.
The process takes a little while, but she doesn't try to rush it, just kisses and licks and bites her way, dragging the panties with her. They are, in fact, drenched, and when the scent hits her she has to close her eyes for a second to keep herself from ripping the underwear off and just burying her face between Constance's legs. She has bigger plans, Imogen reminds herself. She does, however, allow herself an exploratory lick. The explosion of tartness on her tongue—and Constance's accompanying yelp—is all she needs to keep going.
Constance sits back so she can yank the panties off fully, tossing them to the floor impatiently and grabbing for Imogen's waistband. Imogen lets her tug them off, but doesn't let her touch there quite yet—mostly because she's not sure she could stop herself from riding Constance's talented fingers if she felt them against her. Instead, she crawls around to sit behind Constance, her own back against the headboard. With a hand on Constance's waist, she gently pulls her towards her until she's nestled against her, Imogen's breasts against Constance's back. Then, with a touch of her fingers along Constance's inner thigh, she spreads her lover's legs.
Imogen strokes her thighs, her waist, her belly, moving her hands up to cup Constance's breasts. She's already moaning, mewling, and she tilts her head back to rest on Imogen's shoulder, giving her access to her neck—and, more importantly, her ear.
Then Imogen strokes her clit, and Constance gasps her name.
"Fuck," Imogen whispers, grazing her earlobe with her lips. "You're so wet for me."
"Yes," Constance moans. "Please..."
Imogen lets the other hand slip down. She buries three fingers in her easily, keeps rubbing her clit, enjoys how Constance melts in her arms. The angle isn't great for her wrist, but who cares? Not her. Not with the sounds Constance is making.
"I think about being inside of you all the time," she murmurs. "When I'm running. When we're at breakfast. When I pass you in the hallway. I imagine doing this to you—" She curls her fingers, and Constance whines. "I think about fucking you in the broom shed, in the Great Hall, on the tables in the potions room—"
A gasp, that Constance tries to turn into a sigh. It only takes Imogen a moment to decipher, and then it hits her, as paralyzingly arousing as Constance's scent.
"Oh," she whispers. "You've thought about that too, haven't you."
A beat. No reply.
She pulls her hands away from Constance, and Constance bucks her hips up into empty air. "Haven't you?"
"Yes—" Constance says, more of a plea than a statement. "Please, Imogen, I need—" But Imogen is moving, crawling back around, pushing Constance down and spreading her legs so she can bury four fingers in her, and the moan Constance releases is just beautiful.
She fucks her slowly, gazing in wonder at Constance's face. Her cheeks are flushed and her lips are parted, sighs and gasps and moans and occasionally her name slipping out.
"Did you picture it like this?" Imogen asks her. "Me fucking you on your desk, you still in your dress and apron…maybe during lunch break? And you'd have to teach for the rest of the day with no underwear and cum dripping down your thighs."
At this, Constance sobs. There actually is cum dripping down Imogen's wrist, and Constance is gripping her back and hair so tightly it almost hurts. "Please," she moans. "Your hand…"
"You want my whole hand?" she says. "You want me to fill you up?"
"Gods, yes," Constance moans, and Imogen does as she's told. First she slips her thumb in, and then, very gently, she pushes her knuckles into Constance. Lubrication, of course, isn't an issue; but they haven't done this before, and she wants to be careful not to hurt her. Judging by the long moan Constance lets out, though, she's doing a good job; and she keeps curling her hand in until Constance's outer lips are kissing her wrist, muscles clenched around her.
"Does that feel good?" Imogen asks, although it's mostly rhetorical. Constance has been getting louder and freer with her cries, and Imogen suspects she's very close, given the way her eyes have glazed over, and the way she's panting and jerking her hips erratically. She's so tight around Imogen's hand that it kind of hurts. Sure enough, when Constance speaks again, she sounds utterly desperate.
"Imogen," she begs. "Clit…please…"
The angle is a little tough, but she pulls her elbow and leans down. Carefully, she licks her lover's clit, then wraps her lips around it and sucks.
Constance screams her name—really, truly screams it, the sound echoing off the walls—and it's the most magnificent sound she's ever heard.
They stay like that for a while—Imogen's fist in Constance and her mouth on her clit, and her other hand holding her hips down so that she doesn't break Imogen's jaw with the way she's thrusting against her; Constance's hands in her hair and Imogen's name on her tongue (along with a variety of obscene words and noises). Imogen thinks she counts three orgasms, maybe four, but she can't really be sure. Her hand, arm and tongue are all sore, but at this point she's more or less letting Constance grind against her, so it doesn't require too much effort on her part.
Finally, Constance collapses, and pushes Imogen's head away from her. Imogen raises her head, grinning. Her lover looks utterly spent, more exhausted than she's ever seen her; so boneless that she's curling in on herself like a cat. Imogen thinks of how rigid Constance is during the day, marching around Cackle's like a wind-up soldier, and delights in being able to rid her of that horrifying, ramrod-straight posture.
She gently withdraws her arm, trying not to brush the sensitive, swollen folds too much, though she enjoys the resulting gasps when she does. Her hand and wrist are covered in white, sticky, delicious cum. She licks her fingers and palm happily, eying Constance over her treat. Constance is gazing at her, eyes half-closed.
"Hey," Imogen says. She doesn't even try to hide the pride in her voice. She made Constance Hardbroom come four times and scream her name the whole time. She thinks she deserves an ego.
Constance rasps, "Come here."
Imogen crawls up her body, and places two fingers against Constance's lips for a taste. She takes them in her mouth and sucks, and moans, and Imogen remembers that she hasn't gotten off yet and holy fuck she's wet.
Constance releases her fingers, and murmurs, "I'm afraid you've worn me out. Would you let me pay you back tomorrow night? I promise I'll take good care of you."
"Yes, that's fine," Imogen says, biting her lip. "But could you…just for now…"
"Of course," Constance says, smiling her cat's smile. She props three fingers up by her hip, and Imogen rides her hand home in a matter of seconds, fingers circling her own clit. She calls Constance's name, and drenches her lover's hand, and afterwards slumps against her. Constance cleans them up with a few words.
A few minutes later, when Constance is spooning her and Imogen is more happy than she can remember being in weeks, Constance murmurs, "Thank you, my love," and Imogen beams.
"For what?" she asks cheekily. "For the dirty talk, for fisting you, for making you come four times…"
Because Constance's face is buried in her neck, she can actually feel her flush. "For all of it," Constance mumbles. "For…for taking care of me."
Imogen twists in her arms so that she can wrap herself around Constance, kissing her reddening lips softly. "Anytime, sweetheart," she says quietly. Then she grins. "I assume we'll be doing this again?"
"I should hope so," Constance says, doing her best to summon the haughtiness that so often shapes her words.
"But tomorrow…"
Constance lowers her gaze, fixing her with a predatory look. Imogen is too exhausted to be aroused, but she comes damn close. "Tomorrow, I'm doing you," Constance says.
Imogen sighs happily, nestling closer in her arms. Constance smells like sex and jasmine. She falls asleep inhaling the sweet scent.