MY MASTER
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Saturday
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by Saeshmea
When I wake up my skin is still sore and my wrists are handcuffed together to the head board of Severus bed. He's gone and I am wet.
…
When I heard the cane fall to the ground last night, I thought the punishment was over, but I couldn't have been more wrong.
He made me lay down over the sheets on my back, which was torture for my bruises, but bearable while his hands skillfully caressed my entire body, increasing my arousal to the point that, not able to stand the need anymore, I instinctively searched for satisfaction on my hands. It was then when the handcuffs appeared.
He restrained me and kept massaging my body, aware of how hard my nipples were, of the wetness between my legs, of the throbbing of my clitoris. It was sick agony but, at the same time, it was pure pleasure. All I wanted was to release myself, but he wouldn't let me.
"Please, Sir," I said, remembering the time at La Maison, "let me come."
"You want to come?" he asked.
"Yes, Sir, please," I begged with tears on my eyes.
"You want me to fuck you?" his hand stroking my breast as he said that.
"Yes, please, Sir."
"Like if you were a slut?" I don't understand now how I didn't see were this was heading.
"Yes, yes," I repeated impatiently.
"Say it," he says, "say that you are my little dirty slut and I'll let you come."
…
I didn't. I couldn't. I know it's stupid to keep my pride at that point over a stupid word of four letters, but it was all I had.
"Good morning," he startles me, coming back to the room with a tray that smells of white tea and pancakes.
Breakfast in bed, I think, that has to be a good way to start a day, definitely a romantic touch, maybe an apology for the agony he's put me through the night.
"Did you sleep well?" he asks, as he sits next to me, with the tray on his lap, and I turn around, showing him my back, because he knows I haven't, and he knows he's to blame for it.
"I always thought you'd be one of those morning people," he says, and he rests a hand on my shoulder and squeezes, not only making me shiver, but reminding my body of how aroused I still am, "you'll feel better after tasting my pancakes," he says, "I know you like them with honey."
I turn around and gaze at the tray. I'm famished. There's a plate with six perfectly round and piled pancakes covered in shiny and sticky golden honey that smells like heaven. I can play nice for some breakfast, I think, let him untie me and then run away. Merlin knows I thought of it last night, trying to unlock the handcuffs with a couple wandless tricks that, obviously, didn't work. So I sit up, and look expectantly for him to take out his wand and make my chains disappear.
"Good," he says, but he doesn't look for his wand, he begins to feed me.
The first forkful tastes of humiliation, I am glowering at him and, despites he knows exactly how low I'm feeling, he seems not to care. Then, it comes a moment when I start to feel the sensuality of the situation, helpless as I am, bounded to his bed, naked and completely dependent of his hands, while his eyes are fixed on the movement of my lips as I chew. My arouse increases at every bite and sip he takes to my mouth and he notices it.
.
When we're done he puts the tray away and lets me free. I don't run away. I guess that, as much as I'd like to heck him right now, I really want to know where this is going, because if he's putting so much effort on it, it must be something good.
He makes me lie across the bed, face down, while he applies that healing ointment of his on my bruises. And I have to scratch the sheets and bite them with my teeth to bear the heat and pleasure of his hands, while he reminds me that: "If you want to come, Ms. McGonagall, you know the magic words."
I hate him. At this moment, I really do.
…
Dressed only with my green silk slip, I follow him to his office and he makes me sit on one of the chairs opposite to his.
"I have some work to do for Professor Slughorn," he says, "you can rather take one of my books to read or ask a house elf to bring you your paperwork," he adds, "but I want to see your hands on the desk all the time."
His insinuation makes me blush, but he ignores it and just sits down.
After giving the situation a thought, I decide to call Pearl, the house elf in charge of everything regarding the Gryffindor House and, therefore, the one I trust the most, and ask her to bring me the folder she'll find on top of my desk. Some work might make my arousal go and, if not, at least I will have something to keep my mind occupied for a while.
"Pearl, nobody must learn about this, understood?" I ask her once she's back.
"Yes, Mistress," she says, "Pearl won't tell anyone that Mistress McGonagall lost her clothes in Master Snape's rooms," she adds, and I swear I heard Severus chuckle behind my neck, "It's a secret."
"Yes, Pearl, it's a secret," I reassure her, taking my folder, "you can leave now."
With a pop, the house elf is gone and I turn to my Master Snape.
"Did you find that funny, Sir?" I ask with my sweetest voice.
"Indeed," he replies, and he goes back to his work and I to mine.
…
I'm done with my papers to review and sign before he is with whatever Slughorn asked him to do, which gives me a lot of time to think a little clearer.
I glance at the door from the corner of my eye and wonder if anyone could come in right now without knocking, and find me in the apprentice's office wearing only a night slip and nothing else. Of course not, I'm sure that Severus has the proper spells locking the door from intruders, right?
The throbbing between my legs comes back at the thought of being so exposed and I start to play nervously with my hands. I don't want to lose this battle but if I keep being stubborn, he will get tired of me and this, whatever it is, will be over; which I don't want, not so soon; and if I swallow my pride and do as I'm told (which, being a submissive, is what I should do), I will be giving him the victory, but at least I'll get my orgasm.
I sight at the realization that there's no way I can win, there's never been because he knew I would eventually come around, and he'll keep teasing me until I do or I leave.
"Are you alright, Ms. McGonagall?" he asks, raising his eyes from his papers. I open my mouth to reply, but I don't seem to find my voice "is there anything you'd like to say to me?"
"Actually," I say, "there is, Sir."
"Please, do delight my ears," he knows I'm surrendering and he's willing to make me feel as bad as possible with this. If only I had my wand with me.
"I am your dirty little slut," I mutter, with a low voice and very fast.
"What?" he asks, "could you repeat that louder, please, Ms. McGonagall?" a hint of a smirk on his lips that indicates his taking all the pleasure he can.
"I am your dirty little slut, Master," I repeat, louder and clearer.
"Good," I feel relieved at his approval, but when I see him returning to his work, fury and indignation invades me. While trying to kill him with my eyes, I bring my hands under the table, thinking the ban is over, but before I reach the skirt of my slip they are pulled back up by some spell.
"What were you doing?" he asks with a tone of voice that scares me.
"I'm sorry, Sir," I mutter, "I thought..."
"You thought wrong," he says, "if you are to have any orgasm today, it will be on my hands."
I want to reply but, probably seeing that I'm about to get in more trouble, he interrupts me.
"Are you hungry, Ms. McGonagall?"
He makes pasta for lunch and, probably it's because of my current mental state (which is anything but rational), but I find it very sexy and arousing to watch him move around the kitchen.
We eat in a distressing silence that he breaks to suggests a game of chess, and I accept.
I have never found it so hard to stay concentrated; I make so many random movements that when I finally say "Checkmate," I know that it was only a matter of luck rather than skill.
"Shall we play a little more?" he says, and I am placing the pieces back to the board when he stops me, "not chess, Ms. McGonagall."
He stands from the armchair and walks around the sofa to stand behind me. I feel a soft cloth in front of my eyes and suddenly, I'm blinded and his lips are on my neck. As soon as he touches I moan, my body betraying my pride.
His hands massage my shoulders, tickle my arms, stroke my breasts through the thin fabric of my slip and then he stops.
He's standing in front of me now, and I hear a zip and the sound of clothes falling to the ground. I notice his weight unbalancing the sofa and then his hand grabs me by the hair and pulls me down. Strangely and uncomfortably twisted on the couch, I feel the tip of his cock on my lips and I beggin to suck.
"Keep your hands on your back," he instructs as I fill my mouth with him and the throbbing comes back to my clit.
When I can feel his erection growing, he pulls me up rudely.
"You can now climb up on me," he says, and I don't wait a minute. I sit astride on his lap, my hands still entwined behind my back, as I impale myself with his cock. The feeling is overwhelming, after so much waiting, I have anything but patience, but he is pure evil, "slowly, my little dirty slut," he says.
His words infuriate me, and even he can't see the glare in my eyes, I'm sure he can notice the tention on my lips. I slow my pace, and feel his hands under my slip, feeling every inch of my skin while I lose control of my breathing, of my mind, of my body.
When I can't hold it anymore, I increase the rythm of my movement with fear of him asking to slow down again, but he doesn't, so I go faster and faster, and at some point I explode around him, and he comes inside me, and then it's all pleasure, and relief, and tiredness, and I rest exhausted on his chest, his arms around my body, holding me close.
I don't hate him anymore.
.
TO BE CONTINUED...