For the Potions Master's Amusement
Chapter 39: Misstep
The next few days passed as a dream. Hermione and her professor missed many a breakfast in the Great Hall, preferring to remain in bed together, though they managed to make an appearance at dinner each night. Hermione felt as if she were in a dream-like state, for even when she left his presence to spend time in the library, he was ever-present in her mind. How he could fail to be, when her body bore the constant reminders of his ownership?
On Sunday afternoon, sitting at her favourite table in the library, she wore a high-necked jumper to hide the dark purple love bites on her throat. Each touch of the fabric of her bra to her nipples reminded her of how long she had worn the nipple clamps the night before, feeling them hanging from her breasts as she had crawled across the professor's study at his command, his eyes warm upon her as she had obeyed him.
She had been horrified when he had told her what he wanted her to do. Crawl? Like an animal? It was demeaning—why would he ask such a thing of her? She had stood just inside the study, naked save for her collar and the nipple clamps, while he had sat, fully dressed, upon the cobalt blue sofa, waiting for her.
'Obey me, and you shall be rewarded,' he had said, tightening the clamps upon her nipples to an exquisite agony.
Chewing on her lower lip, she had hesitated, her modern sensibilities outraged by his request. Then, a question had entered her mind: When had following his instructions ever led to an experience she had wished undone? When had obeying and pleasing him ever put her in a place she did not care to be?
With new resolution, she had lowered herself to all fours and advanced slowly across the floor, amazed at the distance from the doorway to the sofa when traversed in this manner. The weave of the rugs had been rather irritating to her palms and her knees, but halfway to her goal, his voice had stopped her.
'You are very beautiful, my pet, when you humble yourself to me,' he had said, his voice caressing her with warmth and approbation.
The very timbre of his voice had brought heat to her quim, and she had continued onward with more speed, eager to reach him.
'Kneel up,' he had ordered her, and when she was kneeling between his thighs, he gave a gentle tug to the chain between her clamps, drawing a low moan from her. 'Take out my cock,' he had said, suddenly stern. 'Put it in your mouth, little slut, and be prepared to swallow every drop.'
Hermione had hurried to obey, her fingers fumbling at his fly, fear of failure screaming in her mind. Still, she had taken his thick erection, feeling a sympathetic throb between her legs as her lips travelled down his shaft, imagining it in her cunt. Her head had bobbed over his lap, the chain of her clamps catching and dragging on the sofa cushion upon which he sat, pulling maddeningly at her nipples, increasing her need. He had laced his fingers in her hair, thrusting firmly into her mouth even as his hands upon her head were gentle. He wouldn't force her down on him, but she had been determined to do well, emptying her mind of thoughts of how difficult it was and thinking instead of opening herself to him, concentrating on his sounds of pleasure rather than her sensations of discomfort. Her determination had paid off with his shout and the thick, hot jet of liquid hitting the back of her throat. She had swallowed convulsively, following by laving him clean.
He had dragged her into his arms and kissed her mouth, sharing with her the taste of his own seed; he had seemed not to mind at all. Draping her over his lap, he had proceeded to spank her to orgasm, delivering deliciously stinging blows directly to her wet quim until she had screamed her release.
Now she was wool-gathering over her revision materials, rubbing her thighs together and sketching her clamps in the margin of her parchment. She had thought that getting him—having him accept her offer of submission, giving her some assurance of his commitment to their relationship—would relieve her of some level of her obsession with him. Instead, she found that the deeper she followed him into their world of Dominance and submission, the more firmly he possessed her—mind, body, and soul.
And the most exhilarating—and frightening—feature of it all was that she wouldn't have it any other way.
Relieved to see that it was time for dinner, she abandoned her efforts at revision and packed up, heading for the Great Hall. Tonight, during the time she spent with her Master, if he permitted, she would continue reading The Story of O. She was very much enjoying the story of a woman who allowed her lover to send her away to the chateau at Roissy, in France, to learn to become submissive. Hermione wondered if Roissy was a real place or if there were other such places where submissives went to be trained. It was a thought at once both exciting and disturbing—as was her own submission to Severus Snape, to be honest.
Hermione noticed her Master's absence from the high table, but she nevertheless made a good meal of roast chicken and baked potatoes. After pudding, she went up to her room, packing her journal in her book bag with a change of clothes for the next day. She had spent every night since the holiday began with her professor and fully expected to be permitted to do so again this night.
Entering his study, she immediately took her collar from its place and fastened it about her throat. She saw that her Master sat at the table, marking papers with broad slashes of red ink. He was freshly showered and shaved, wearing the tight white jumper which so clearly emphasised his fit torso. Troubled, she approached him.
'Are you going out?' she said.
His head jerked up, his lips pressed in a thin line. His eyes blazed, and Hermione took a step back, realising her error.
'Is it your place to speak in this room before you are spoken to?' he demanded.
Oh, shit. Why couldn't she remember what she was supposed to do? Mutely, she shook her head in the negative.
'I see,' he said icily. 'You speak out of turn, and then when I ask you a direct question, you do not deign to answer me?'
'I apologize, Master,' Hermione said miserably, falling to her knees, and in so doing, she realised her second mistake. She was fully dressed, wearing jeans and a jumper.
Oh, shit.
'Get up,' he snapped at her.
Feeling ever more wrong-footed, Hermione scrambled back to her feet. Perhaps if she undressed now …
She grabbed the bottom of her jumper, preparing to pull it over her head, but a vise-like grip closed around her wrist. Hermione froze, unhappy to see that her Master had risen from his chair and was towering over her, displeasure radiating from him in waves.
'Did I tell you to do anything?' he demanded.
'You told me to stand up, sir,' she answered in a small voice.
'Then do not attempt to undress,' he said. 'It is a bit late for you to do so, is it not?'
Hermione bit her lip, feeling completely wretched. Why could she not keep her focus where it was supposed to be—where he wanted it? As long as she kept his instructions in the forefront of her mind and followed them, she stayed out of trouble, but when she started thinking about herself—about what she wanted, instead of his wishes—then everything went pear-shaped.
'Yes, Master,' she said miserably.
He released her wrist as if it were distasteful for him to touch her, and he turned away from her, taking up his cloak from the chair over which it was draped. 'I am going out,' he said tersely, fastening the black garment about his throat.
Tears filled her eyes, and Hermione rubbed them unhappily. He's angry with me so he's going to see that cow, she thought. I hate her! 'Please,' she whispered brokenly, stepping toward him with outstretched hands.
'Do not,' he spat, 'touch me.'
Hermione emitted a sob of despair, raising her hands instead to her face. 'Don't go to her!' she cried.
'I will not discuss this matter with you any further, at any time, do you understand me?' he thundered, anger lancing through his tone, seeming to flay her. 'I have permitted you a degree of license in questioning my actions that is unheard of between a Master and a submissive, and this is my thanks.' His lip curled disdainfully as he gestured down her body. 'Disobedience and disrespect!'
His words slapped at her with his scorn, and she sobbed outright, standing pathetically before him with tears and snot trailing down, too distraught to even wipe her face with her sleeve. She had frequently cried this hard in his presence, but it had been as a result of his physical discipline and had been followed by his handkerchief drying her tears. Now, he glared down at her as if he could not account for her presence in his study.
'You will stand in the corner until I return,' he said flatly, pulling black leather gloves from his pocket, jerking his head to indicate the corner in question, far from the bookcases. 'You will not move for any reason, nor will you entertain yourself in any way. You will think about what you have done, how you plan to make atonement, and what you feel will be a fair punishment for your behaviour.' He jerked the second glove into place and tossed his hair out of his face. 'Are these instructions clear to you?'
Hermione watched this unconscious movement of his, and was pierced with desperate want—how could a woman see him and not desire him? 'Yes, Master,' she said in a tiny voice, and he turned from her without another word, striding out of the room and closing the door behind him with a snap.
It was not unlike standing in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place upon his command, all those months before. She was sincerely glad that she had used the lavatory before leaving Gryffindor Tower, though. This was not how she had envisioned spending her Sunday evening! But, why, why could she not remember that he had a standing appointment with the shop girl every Sunday night? And it was true, they had spoken of it exhaustively. He was going to visit Taffy Smith in Hogsmeade once a week, whether Hermione liked it or not, and she had better accept it and stop complaining. He had never sought to hide it from her in any way; he had always been perfectly up-front about his meetings with the other woman. If he refused to enlighten her as to the tenor of his relationship with Miss Smith, Hermione was going to have to swallow her unhappiness about it and move on.
But how had her close, warm, intimate relationship with her Master gone so badly wrong so quickly? She had come into his study, and as soon as she had seen how he was dressed, all she could think of was that he was going to see the shop girl. She had forgotten the rules she had accepted for the study—that she would uncover her cunt and wait until he acknowledged her to approach him—she had forgotten everything except her desire for him to stay with her.
She shook her head, staring at the stone wall. She had known going into this relationship that it hinged on her willingness to accept his instruction and discipline. He gave her so much that she so desperately wanted and needed, and all he asked in return was that she be respectful and obedient. It some ways, it was a small mistake to make, to leave on her jeans and knickers and to speak before being spoken to—but in the mind of her Master, she had violated the very bedrock of their agreement—and it was high time for her to accept that his estimation of the importance of certain behaviours was far more important than her own. She had agreed to play by these rules, and she had to respect the rules as well as the man.
Now she frowned, considering the rest of her instructions. How, precisely, would her atonement differ from her punishment? She tilted her head to one side, thinking hard. Atonement was like making amends, so that would be an action on her part, while the punishment would be an action on his part. One of her errors had been to speak out of turn, so perhaps her atonement could be to keep silent for a period of time. It would be difficult, but that more difficult it was, the more he would value it.
But what would be a fair punishment? She knew he would not permit her to choose a punishment she enjoyed. Perhaps she could be tied and spanked with the belt without being permitted to orgasm.
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and closed her eyes for a moment. The carriage clock had chimed the quarter hour fourteen times since his departure—did he usually stay away for so long?
She was dozing when she heard him enter the room. She jerked awake, her heart pounding in her chest, somewhere between excitement and dread. He did not speak or approach her; she heard rustling as he removed his cloak, then the tinkle of china, followed by the mouth-watering aroma of tea. He had seated himself upon the sofa behind her and was drinking tea without acknowledging her. She felt a stab of hurt, and her tummy rumbled; she wanted tea and a biscuit.
Minutes ticked by and still he did not speak to her. She heard him pour a second cup of tea, then stand and walk away from her. At long last, his voice was heard.
'Do not turn around,' he said.
Hermione remained where she was, wringing her hands anxiously.
'Did you follow the instructions I gave you?' he asked.
'Yes, Master,' she answered, wanting to turn and to see his beloved face, but he had forbidden her to do so.
'We will discuss your atonement tomorrow,' he said. 'When I leave this room, you are to return to your dormitory. Your punishment will be not to share my bed, until I decide you may do so again.'
She heard the portrait open and close and knew he had entered his living quarters. Sagging to her knees upon the cold stone floor, Hermione wrapped her arms about her torso and rocked, too desolate to even shed a tear.
It was not until the lamps in the room were extinguished, leaving her with only the dying fire to light her way, that she took up her book bag and stumbled from the room.
