A/N: You continue to stun me with your outpouring of love for this story. I would like to write a tiny word of caution. Many of you have contacted me about interest in the practices portrayed in this story, including the D/s lifestyle. I would like to say that this story, as are all the stories on this archive, is a fantasy. It is my ideal of Dominance and submission, with Severus Snape starring as the (almost) perfect Dominant. Please do not confuse this fantasy with the reality of the D/s lifestyle. And always, always take every precaution to safeguard yourself and your health.
For the Potions Master's Amusement
Chapter 46: Reunion
They arrived directly before the door, as if they had just stepped through and closed it behind them. Before she could draw breath, he shoved her ungently against the hard wood and kissed her again, a burning urgency in him which turned her very bones to mush. His teeth bit at her as he thrust his tongue into her mouth, his hands everywhere at once. In seconds he had mapped the contours of the boned corset bodice of her black dress, found the zip beneath her arm, and bared her to the waist.
'Were you enjoying yourself?' he demanded, his hands upon her breasts, squeezing them rhythmically, his teeth at her throat.
'No, sir,' she answered, her fingers buried in his hair, her eyes drinking in the sight of his bent head.
His head came up, and his eyes were staring into her own. 'Why not?' he asked.
'I was missing you too much,' she admitted, her hands deserting the oily hair to caress his face, fingertips rasping over his five o'clock shadow. 'Seeing them all together just made me want you more.'
And she welcomed him as he slipped into her mind, bathing himself in her emotions, flipping through her memories since last they had been together. Cradling his face in her hands, her mind caressed his as he satisfied himself as to the veracity of her assertion.
She could not repress the sigh of sadness as he withdrew from her, but scarce had she registered his loss before he manhandled the expensive party dress down her hips, allowing it to fall in a puddle at her feet. He smirked at the thong, magicking it away with a negligent, wandless motion. Then he was bent to her again, a bruising kiss at her throat as long, knowing fingers delved into her quim. He asked no more questions, spoke no more words, intent upon his purpose. A lone finger slipped up her channel, seeking and finding the slickness occasioned by his kisses and caresses. Her gasping reaction as his slick fingers slid over her clitoris brought a growl from him, feral and dangerous. She stared into his face, knowing a sane woman would feel fear or distaste, but the very primal element of his passion riveted her.
'You'd like it if I fucked you against the door, wouldn't you, little slut?' he said, his low voice slightly breathless, as if he, too, were unbearably aroused.
'Yes, Master!' Hermione cried, clutching at him as he plucked her clitoris.
'You'd like it if the whole house was standing in the hallway, hearing your back hit the door, knowing the rhythmic thumping was my cock ramming into your cunt, wouldn't you?'
Hermione's eyes closed, and she dutifully imagined what he described, feeling the combination of pride, arousal, and shame he meant to elicit. Good God, what did it mean that she wanted a houseful of strangers to be privy to her most personal relations with this man—this Dominant wizard—who had become her ideal, the man against whom all other men would henceforward be measured and found wanting in her estimation?
'Answer me, Hermione,' he commanded, his voice carrying a hint of warning.
'Yes!' she cried. 'Yes, I'd like that, sir.'
He kissed her then, tenderly, his tongue teasing and caressing hers as he fingered her, drawing her surely towards an easy orgasm. She rode his fingers, sucking his tongue, mindless of all save his mouth devouring hers, his fingertips rubbing her clitoris in that perfect circular motion.
His lips left hers and trailed to her ear, tracing its contours with the tip of his wicked tongue. 'Perhaps you'd like it even better if they were in the room with us,' he said hoarsely, grinding his still clothed erection against her hip, 'if they got to see your pretty little cunt and hear your whimpering cries while I fuck you to a screaming climax.'
Hermione turned her head to one side, unable to pull herself away from the pleasuring fingers but needing to register her protest. 'No, please,' she breathed. 'Please, Master—don't make me do it!'
And he stepped away from her, distancing his body from hers for the first time since he had borne her flying leap in the hallway. 'Do you mean to say "no" to me, Hermione?' he inquired, his tone suddenly casual.
She took a step towards him, pushing the fallen dress aside with her foot, her hands outstretched. 'I …' She swallowed. 'Please, sir—I would be embarrassed.'
One of his eyebrows rose. 'And does your embarrassment mitigate your obedience?' he asked.
Hermione took a steadying breath, trying to alleviate her panic. This was him—this was the way he was—and his ways were not going to change. He would always and forever be drawing her onward, opening her more, demanding that she reach and stretch to achieve her maximum potential. Life with Severus Snape would never be comfortable—not for very long. It was in his nature to challenge and taunt and tease until she had followed him to the brink of mental and physical exhaustion, and then he would reward her beyond her imaginings, drawing her body across the same chasms over which he had coaxed her obedience, until she became an empty vessel of light in his arms.
Either she moved forward, knowing what would be expected of her, or she acknowledged to herself that she was not up to the challenge of being this man's submissive and bowed out now.
Without demur, she dropped to her knees, assuming the submissive's pose, clad in nothing save her black stay-ups, her eyes trained deferentially upon his boots. 'No, Master,' she said softly. 'My embarrassment is of no consequence at all. I trust you.'
Something in him seemed to break, for in the next instant, he had dragged her up from the floor and propelled her across the room to the bed. 'On your back, knees raised, and arms above your head to receive your reward, my pet,' he purred into her hair, releasing her as she scrambled onto the mattress.
She didn't attempt to reason why; she simply obeyed. When her arms were extended over her head, the invisible silken restraints which were one of her Master's signature touches secured her wrists in position. He then insinuated himself between her thighs, spreading her quim before him and breathing deeply, as if partaking of perfume.
'Exquisite,' he murmured, and then he placed his lips around the swollen bud of her clitoris and slid two fingers inside. The sucking pressure he exerted upon her was perfection; she was stricken instantly to head thrashing incoherence by the intensity of the pleasure he delivered. She wanted it to go on forever—she wanted to come before she next drew breath—she wanted to retaliate in kind and drive him similarly mad with bliss.
She was still vibrating from the power of her climax when he penetrated her again.
'Look at me, pet,' he commanded, and at once, he was within her body and her mind.
Hermione did not need to be told to reach for him with her mind and her heart and her soul; she was helpless to do anything else. Her stocking clad legs hooked around his thighs as their nether parts slid exquisitely together, and she felt his need of her with every impact of his hipbones against the softness of her inner thighs.
Oh, fuck, she thought, undulating beneath him, her body racing impossibly to another climax.
Yes, he responded, his voice saturating her thoughts, and for an instant, she saw herself in the Grimmauld Place kitchen, him pinning her to the floor. I am fucking you—fucking you—mine, mine, mine, and with each repetition, his hips twisted, sending her spiralling along the trajectory he blazed, their very beings fused against the explosion of colour in the deep black oneness.
She dozed, clinging to him, floating in a cloud of happiness so complete she had no wish to move.
Later, she felt him move and cracked one eye to see him stand to pull up the trousers still encasing his legs to mid-thigh. When she stirred, he looked down at her, his fingers fastening his belt, and she smiled sleepily, reaching for him with both arms, hoping he would interpret the action as an invitation and a welcome, rather than an instruction of what to do.
Half a smile touched his beautifully formed lips, and he lay down again, coming into her embrace and burying his face between her breasts, hands pulling her tightly against him. For an untold space of time, he suckled her breasts, moving his mouth from one to the other and back, as if afraid one would take offence that the other had received too much attention. As he sucked, her quim began to ache with arousal.
At last, he rolled away from her, and he sat up, reaching into the cloak draped over the bedside chair. 'On your knees, little one—you never received your New Year's whipping.'
Hermione was instantly awake and alert. Whipping? What implement did the word 'whipping' imply? Assuming a position on her hands and knees, she watched her professor withdraw a small box and enlarge it with a flick of his fingers. He opened it, and Hermione recognised several of the toys with which they had played in his dungeon quarters at Hogwarts—but the one which he withdrew was the black and red leather riding crop, his last gift to her.
'I know you were disappointed, pet,' he said, extending the crop, handle first, before her face. 'Remember how to greet your crop?'
Feeling a bit silly, Hermione pressed her lips to the crop, the scent of the expensive leather sending anticipation skittering along her spine like a promise.
'Good girl,' he purred. 'Turn your arse toward me and crawl backward,' he instructed.
The first blow upon her bum stung like fire, drawing a sharp cry from her.
'It is a singular implement, is it not?' he said caressingly, delivering another fiery blow to her bottom. 'I am very fond of the crop, as you will be, too, Hermione.'
Hermione gasped aloud as the third snap of the leather thong fell upon her upper thigh. She would be fond of it? Oh, how she doubted that! But had he not proven her wrong time and again?
After ten thwacks of the crop, he tossed it aside and withdrew her hairbrush from the box. 'I think that's enough for a first time with the crop,' he said, 'but I believe you are in sore need of a good spanking—aren't you, pet?'
'Yes, Master,' Hermione said, suddenly longing for the intimacy of her place across his lap, her hairbrush thudding upon her bottom.
The room in Roissy House would always have different connotations for her, now, she realised as he secured her across his knees on the loveseat before the fire and spanked her. He spanked until her bottom was completely afire—until her cunt throbbed for relief—until her thankful tears had soaked the cushion beneath her face.
Then he gathered her to him, drying her face with his own handkerchief and cradling her to his chest until the sobs no longer wracked her body, and she lay quiescent in his arms.
'Thank you, Master,' she whispered, and he looked down at her, his midnight eyes knowing.
'I will always give you what you need, Hermione,' he told her. 'I will give you the discipline you need and the sexual satisfaction you crave. I am your Master.'
He kissed her and caressed her for a long time. Each time she came close to orgasm, he desisted, holding her and rocking her gently, crooning into her ear pet names and filthy words and suggestions of outrageous scenarios, until he began to touch and kiss her again. She was as clay in his hands, an empty pot to be formed and fired at his pleasure.
As the pale dawn sunlight peaked around the edge of the curtains, he put her to one side and stripped naked, then sat upon the loveseat and allowed her to impale herself upon his cock. He kissed her when she leaned in for his lips, fondled her breasts with the half-lidded sneer of a satyr, and when he drew close to completion, he reached between them to stimulate her pleasure centre, his upward thrusts meeting her downward plunges in a rhythmic dance as old as time.
'To whom do you belong?' he demanded, his free hand now gripping her hip mercilessly, forcing her down as he plunged upward.
'I belong to you, Master,' she panted, sweating through the potion in her hair, feeling the naturally bushy mass frizzing about her damp cheeks and forehead.
'Come with me,' he commanded, and the heel of his palm ground against her clitoris as he came undone beneath her, his eyes closed, his breathing ragged, his seed pulsing into her body. Staring down into his extremity, knowing that no one in the world had ever seen him thus unguarded, Hermione shattered atop him, feeling her womb contract with spasms even as she cried out his name, its syllables echoing around in the still of the room.
Dimly, she worried that he would reprimand her for saying his name, but sated and sweat soaked, he led her to the bed, seeming finally to have found a measure of peace. He twined his limbs with hers, his eyelids falling as he settled in to sleep.
'Severus,' Hermione murmured, as if to test the shape of his name upon her lips, and the sound of it remained in her ears as she followed him into sleep.
