A/N: In honour of the one year anniversary of the first posted chapter of For the Potions Master's Amusement, I offer Chapter 64. Please be sure to let me know what you think of the progression of events, for I read all of your comments eagerly. Come visit and chat about the story with us at ftpma_dishing on Live Journal:
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For the Potions Master's Amusement
Chapter 64: Chastisement and Cherishing
She became aware of herself as she was lifted from the floor, first by levitation, then into strong arms, and she subsided against a familiar, dear black jumper with a murmur of contentment. She was laid upon the bed and covered with a blanket, then a cool, damp flannel bathed her cheeks. She opened her eyes and looked into his beloved face, now free of anger and derision.
'I hope you can forgive me, little one,' he murmured, bathing the dried tears from her face with infinite gentleness. 'I behaved in a manner that was both inappropriate to our relationship and undeserved by you.'
Hermione listened to his voice, silky and comforting, but she did not speak.
'A Dominant should never, ever lose his temper in a discussion of discipline.' He looked into her eyes, his expression grave, even the black eye patch not detracting from his solemnity. 'It is unforgivable—yet I ask for your forgiveness.'
Hermione closed her eyes beneath his ministrations and remained thus, content, until the flannel ceased to rub her face. She opened her eyes then, feeling curiously remote, yet content.
Professor Snape watched her with a frown between his brows. 'What would you like?' he asked her quietly. 'You may have what you want.'
Hermione pushed herself into a sitting position. 'Will you brush my hair?' she asked, and in a twinkling, she sat between his legs before the fire as he slowly, methodically brushed her hair. Hermione rested a cheek against his leg, feeling the scratchy wool of his trousers, her mind curiously blank. 'Did you alter my memory?' she asked after a while.
The brush stilled for a moment, then continued its soothing progress through her unruly hair. 'No,' he said. 'Do you feel as if your memory has been tampered with?'
Hermione shrugged. 'I just feel … blank.'
The brushing halted, and she heard him place the brush on the table, then his lips were at her ear. 'May I hold you in my lap?' he asked.
Hermione climbed willingly onto his lap, and he wrapped her in a blanket, as he had so often done in his study at Hogwarts. She curled up against him, naked against his clothing, and pressed her ear to his chest, listening to the steady—if slightly fast—beating of his heart.
'You may be having a bit of an emotional withdrawal,' he said, his voice still calm, but with an undercurrent she could not identify. Was it uncertainty? 'It would be a perfectly reasonable response to my earlier behaviour with you.' She heard him swallow, and when he spoke again, his voice sounded strained. 'I assume you cried when I left you?'
'Yes,' she answered, almost listlessly.
And his arms tightened around her as his nose blazed the trail across her cheek to her ear, followed by his lips. 'It is … very difficult for me,' he said in his oddly choked voice, barely above a whisper, 'to speak of … emotional things. I am sorry, Hermione.'
And she woke up fully, her heart wrenched and brimming with a warm flood of love and forgiveness. 'It's all right, Severus,' she said, shifting so that she could embrace him, her face buried against his neck. 'I forgive you. People say things they don't mean when they row.'
Again, she heard the audible swallow, and his face moved from side to side, pressed into her freshly brushed hair. 'That's the problem,' he said. 'Dominants do not row with their submissives. It is a very serious breach of proper behaviour.'
She leaned back now, her palms cupping either side of his too-thin, narrow face. When she touched him, his eyes closed, as if in relief, and he pressed his face to one side, moving slightly against her hand, like a cat being stroked. Hermione said, 'But people do, Severus. Lovers quarrel—boyfriends and girlfriends quarrel—husbands and wives quarrel—didn't your parents?'
There was a long moment when he did not speak, when he seemed to be seeing beyond her—perhaps beyond the walls of Roissy House—then he returned his gaze to her face. 'I have no experience with any of those things,' he said awkwardly. 'I make mistakes with you I have never come close to making before.'
He shifted, putting his hand into his pocket and withdrawing her collar. She moved to accommodate him, a sudden spark of hope flaring to life in her chest.
'It is all of a piece, I believe,' he said musingly. 'I also have never offered my collar to a submissive, so obviously, our connection runs deeply.'
Hermione nodded, not wishing to break his train of thought. It came to her that he had turned to his mentor, Hadrian, to discuss the dilemma of their contretemps, and it was the products of that discussion she was hearing now.
He placed a hand beneath her hair and leaned forward to kiss her mouth. He was gentle in this kiss, tender and giving. When he ended the kiss, he pressed his forehead to hers, then held up the black leather strip which symbolised their relationship.
'May I return this to its proper place?' he asked quietly.
'Please,' she answered, and she was quite sure she saw a flash of relief before he secured the collar around the column of her throat. When it was in place, he pressed his lips to it, then kissed her mouth again, more hungrily than he had before, the dominance of his nature rising inexorably to the fore. He buried a fist in the hair at her nape and held her where he wanted her as he claimed her mouth for his own, his tongue quick and clever against hers.
At last he released her mouth, pulling back and regarding her slightly swollen lips with some satisfaction. Then he transferred her gently to the cushion beside him, tucking her blanket around her as he turned a bit so that he faced her. 'We have still to speak of your punishment,' he said.
Hermione tried not to let her disappointment show in her face. Had not crying herself to sleep been punishment enough? But she did not speak, simply nodded once.
'Before my regrettable loss of control,' he said, 'your punishment would have consisted of two parts, one private and one public.'
Public? How had she publicly disobeyed him? But the answer came to her almost before the question was fully formed in her mind. She had told Pitty when she left to go to Harry; Pitty would have immediately informed Hadrian and Elinore. It would be very odd, really, if everyone in the house was not aware of how she had disobeyed her Master's command. She had defied him publicly. The thought made her feel sad and penitent.
'I'm sorry, Master,' she said, meaning it.
'I have always enjoyed watching the emotions parade across your face, pet,' he said, his voice low and intimate, and when she reached for his hand, he clasped hers warmly. 'I feel that after my behaviour with you tonight, we can dispense with the public punishment. That leaves us with the private one.'
Hermione tightened her hold on his hand but did not speak.
'Your punishment will be this, Hermione: You are forbidden to leave Roissy House without express permission from me until further notice.'
Hermione felt her mouth drop open in horrified dismay, and she jerked her hand from him, but before she could speak, he laid his forefinger across her lips.
'The only exception to this rule is that you may visit t at St Mungo's,' he continued. 'She is expected to remain in custody there for another ten days or so.'
'She's not in custody!' Hermione objected. 'She's a patient there!'
A sly smile touched his lips. 'Try telling her that,' he suggested.
'But you're going to make me a prisoner here!' she blurted.
He looked around the room at the rich furnishings and indicated the remains of the lavish meal still on the low table. 'All of this and house-elves to do your bidding,' he said sardonically. 'I scarcely think the inmates at Azkaban would find your position at Roissy House to be onerous in the least.'
Hermione huffed. 'It's barbarous.'
'The wards of the house have already been set in compliance with your punishment,' he continued, as if she had not spoken. 'There is an Anti-Disapparition Jinx keyed only to you. In addition, your housemates, as well as the house-elves, have been informed you are not to leave the house.'
Hermione felt her cheeks flame. Here was a whole different sort of mortification, and she found she did not relish it in the least. 'It's humiliating!' she blurted. 'You've made me ridiculous to everyone in the house!'
He looked suddenly stern. 'And how have you made me appear to everyone in the house, Hermione?'
Oh.
She lowered her gaze to her hands, clasped now in her lap, and bit her lip. In its way, her punishment was both public and private.
'Look at me,' he said, his voice so soft she would not have heard him had she been sitting any farther from him than she was.
Hermione raised her face, making no effort to dispel the unhappy expression there.
'I require you to verbally accept your punishment, Hermione—and then, you must submit to Legilimency. I must be sure of your intention to obey.'
She raised her chin. 'I loathe the idea of being confined to this house!' she said. 'What if there's an earthquake? Or a fire?'
He regarded her patiently. 'In the event of a fire, flood, earthquake, or other natural disaster, you have permission to leave the house, and no one will prevent you from doing so.'
'I'll be able to Disapparate?' she persisted.
'Yes, in the event of a fire or other dire emergency, wherein the house is no longer safe, all wards drop. You'll be able to Disapparate.'
Hermione stood up suddenly, distressed. 'How can you ask this of me?'
He watched her, unperturbed. 'You have not proven yourself willing to take reasonable precautions to protect yourself. I am your Master, and your well-being is my responsibility.' He shrugged, as if that explained it all.
Hermione turned her back on him and paced across to the door, a tumult of emotions roiling in her breast. She felt as if he were burying her alive—as if she would never breathe freely again if he restricted her this way.
After a moment, he stood and crossed to her, turning her to face him.
'I am your Master,' he said again, 'and I find that I do not care to contemplate a future without you in it.' He looked no less stern—she knew that he would never back down from this punishment, no matter how she protested—but there was something else in his expression, as well. It was akin to tenderness but seemed to go even deeper. 'Tell me that you accept your punishment, Hermione.'
Was he expressing emotion? Trying to say something without actually saying it? She stared up into his face, and something in his glittering black eye made her believe it was so. How could she deny him something so small, when he gave everything he had to the greater good every single day?
She breathed in slowly. 'I accept my punishment, Master,' she said, and in that instant, he was in her mind, immersed in her thoughts and emotions.
She felt him there, and then he was gone.
'Good girl,' he murmured as he broke eye contact and gathered her into his arms. 'I know you will obey my wishes, in both the letter and the spirit of the request.' After a moment, he continued, 'Now, I must be away by morning, and I would like to spend the hours left to us in a mutually agreeable fashion—would that be acceptable to you?'
She was naked, bound hand and foot to the St Andrew's Cross in the dungeon. The silk of a handkerchief covered her eyes, and although she knew he was in the room with her, Professor Snape moved about with such stealth that she could not place him. Every so often, his fingertips trailed down her torso, fingered her quim, or pinched a nipple—but then he moved away from her again, and she was straining every nerve to locate him, to feel him. Never mind his earlier harsh words to her—she recognised jealousy when she saw it—and never mind the harsh punishment she would endure. What mattered most was that he was going away in mere hours, and she had no clue of when he would come back to her again. It could be mere days, or it could be weeks—months, even. Harry had the spell now, it was true, and once he was sure he could perform it properly, he could force a final confrontation with Voldemort—but when would that be? And would her professor return safely to her, when all was done?
'My pet,' he purred, and he stepped into her, one hand grasping her arse cheek, one hand kneading her breast, and his lips at her throat, sucking, licking, biting. He ground himself against her, and she could feel him, rigid, through his trousers. 'I'm going to flog you now—are you ready?'
'Yesss,' she breathed, and he groaned his approval, his lips finding hers, his tongue invading her mouth. The hand at her breast trailed down to her quim, and he expertly parted her labia before penetrating her opening.
'Your cunt is wet for me,' he murmured. 'You want my cock in it, don't you, little slut?'
'I do!' she cried, but he pulled away from her, leaving her bereft.
'Shall I call everyone down to watch me flog you?' he asked from several feet away.
Hermione pulled against her bindings, slightly panicked. 'No! Please, no, Master!' she cried. She knew he would not do it—he had told her they would have the Dungeon to themselves tonight—but there was something so erotic about the threat of being watched … and of begging him not to permit it. She didn't know why those things aroused her, but they did; there was no denying it.
'Now the flogger, little one,' he said, and the leather strands thudded against her upper thighs.
'Ahh!' she cried, arching into the touch, her nerve endings reporting the pain, her brain and her cunt translating it to pleasure. How long it had been since she had been bound and disciplined in this way—how she had missed it!
The flogger landed again, this time just below her breasts, stinging, flaying the very defiance from her spirit.
'Yield to me, Hermione,' he ordered, the habit of command so ingrained in him—and her habit of complying so fixed—that she felt herself slip her moorings, as if her consciousness would follow him into the ether, where subspace waited for her.
'Master, yes!'
And the flogger landed again and again, smacking her belly, stinging her breasts. He went no higher, for there would be danger of hitting her face, but he worked his way then back down her body, never hitting the same place twice in a row, until her body sang with sensation.
The he was before her; she felt his heat, and his hands reached for her blindfold, untying it and allowing it to fall unheeded to the floor.
She blinked once in the bright light, then focused on him. He was magnificent, exotically dashing with the eye patch, wearing an unfamiliar white lawn shirt with billowing sleeves gathered at the wrists and a froth of ruffles flowing down the front—a pirate shirt! His hair was wet with sweat, and she could smell it on him, along with the testosterone rolling from him like steam, enveloping her, making her ache to have him in her body, completing the act for which their complementary parts had been created.
'My God, little one,' he said roughly, his hands now busy freeing her wrists, 'you are so beautiful when you beg me to hurt you.'
He paused to ravage her mouth, ending the encounter with a nip at her lower lip, then he was kneeling at her feet, releasing her ankles from bondage. She looked down at his hanging black hair as he finished untying her leg, then he lifted his face, gazing up her body into her eyes, and his rapier-like tongue darted from his mouth and into her quim.
Hermione shuddered her pleasure, glad of the wooden structure at her back, for without it, she was sure she would have fallen. He lapped at her slick cunt like a man starving for the juice of her quim, his glittering black eye fixed on her face, the piratical eye patch and flowing pirate's shirt adding to the illusion of being ravaged by a romance novel buccaneer. His hands held her hips, but he did not touch her quim with his fingers; he did all the necessary work, finishing up the job the flogger had begun, with his lips, tongue, and sweet Nimüe—his teeth!
And in one or two brilliant instances, even with his impressive nose.
There was screaming, a ululating sound that bounced off the walls and reverberated in the room, but it wasn't until Hermione sagged limply into her Master's arms that she realised she had been one creating the cacophony.
'Perfect pet,' he murmured into her hair and lifted her up. It was the air moving against her over-heated skin that told her he was walking across the floor with her.
Hermione clung to him, her lips moving over his sweat-slick throat, until he settled her on a slightly raised platform beside a black leather-padded bench with a table-like ledge protruding from the top.
'On your knees, with your wrists on the surface, little one,' he said, and though his voice was soft, there was a compelling inflexibility in his tone. Declining to do as she was told was not an option.
With her body still humming from the stupendous orgasm he had given her, she forced her trembling legs to support her as she crawled onto the bench, where she knelt, while she rested her upper body on the table surface.
'Stretch out your arms,' he instructed, and when she did, clamps encased her wrists, securing her in place. 'Good girl,' he breathed, and when he bent over her to kiss her temple, she felt his bare chest against her back. Now he was naked, as well.
'I've attended to your front side, pet,' he crooned, positioning himself behind her, so that she felt the unmistakeable protrusion of his erection between her thighs, 'and now I'm going to take care of the back side, as well.' He leaned forward, sliding the head of his cock through her slick folds, rubbing her clitoris and drawing a guttural moan from her throat. 'Ask me to spank your bottom,' he instructed her.
And though her nerve endings still sang from the treatment she had already received from him, her very womb contracted in desire. 'Please, Master!' she cried, pushing back against his hardness, hoping it would slip into her cunt, and he would fuck her hard. 'Please, spank my bottom!'
And he met her desires, both the one spoken and the one unspoken, for he pushed his cock into her aching cunt, and as he fucked her, he slapped her arse.
'Filthy, slutty little girl,' he said, 'what should I do with you?'
But the question was purely rhetorical, for already, he was doing it, spanking and fucking, fucking and spanking. Hermione was beyond herself, lost in subspace, incapable of answering him had he required an answer.
Then he ceased to spank her and began to fuck her in earnest, grasping her hips with strong hands, jerking her back and thrusting forward with such force that their slick skin slapped together, echoing about the large, empty room, quiet now save for Hermione's whimpering exhalations of breath at the impact of every thrust, and the ever more laboured breathing of her Master.
'Mine,' he growled, his heavy scrotum slapping hard against Hermione's labia.
She cried out 'More!', unthinking, a being of only sensation—a being within a breath of her second earth-shattering climax in the space of mere minutes—a being too far gone in the shared experience to consider the niceties.
'Mine!' he shouted again, thrusting harder, and the impact sent her skittering over the edge, screaming his name over and over again, feeling the aftershocks rippling through her body even as his cooling seed dribbled down her inner thighs. He spoke the command to release her wrists, freeing her and pulling her up, turning her around to kiss her lips.
Hermione was too shattered to do aught but cling and cry, and he petted and praised her. 'You were magnificent, my precious,' he assured her. 'You were the best of good girls.' He sagged into a nearby sofa and pulled her down with him, rocking her against his chest as she floated down, out of subspace. 'You pleased me, little one—so much.'
And she quieted in his arms, gentled as an animal trainer would quiet a wild beast, feeling as if she had been dismantled and remade beneath his careful tuition and instruction, loving him with every cell of her body and every fibre of her being.
She stirred when he kissed her mouth, chastely and reverently.
'Severus?' she whispered, displaced and disoriented. How had she come to be in their bed, sleeping? Why was he showered and dressed, smelling of his aftershave and tasting of goodbye?
'You fell asleep in my arms downstairs,' he told her, smoothing hair from her face. 'You had quite a workout tonight, both emotionally and physically. I let you sleep.'
She pressed her cheek into his hand, emotion billowing painfully in her chest, making it hard for her to breathe.
'I'll have the journal again by nightfall,' he murmured against her lips. 'It is unlikely that we will meet like this again before Potter makes his attempt. Events are set in train—we are coming to the end, for good or ill.'
Her arms wrapped around his neck. 'No!' she cried. 'No, I'm not ready for you to go!'
He unwound her arms, kissed the palm of each hand, and held the hands down upon her chest.
'You're my reason,' he whispered, kissing her lips again. 'You're my home.'
Tears filled her eyes and fell upon her cheeks; she could taste their salt in the sweetness of his kiss.
'Be my good girl,' he adjured her.
'I love you!' she whispered, but he was already gone.
