The surface of the desk was handsome and polished, though its use showed when Hermione's gaze was close enough to see the light reflect over dents and scratches on the foreign worktop. Bits of her hair tickled over her cheek as George remained silent, shifting around behind her. She wondered what he was doing, but didn't move from her position hunched over his desk, using her forearms to prop herself up.

George's chair moved back, and Hermione heard him sit behind her, not far from her stance. Her eyes skirted over the selection of quills and scraps of parchment and, curiously, blueprints that were scattered about her line of vision.

Should she say something?

She thought, for a moment, that she felt something skim down the outside of her right thigh, featherlight, but before she could be sure, it was gone. Instead, Hermione jumped as George's hand wrapped around her ankles, one at a time, and carefully moved them farther apart.

"That's better," he commented when he sat up in his seat again, his voice low. Hermione saw his shoes appear between her spread ones, and realized precisely how close he must be sitting. Her heart was thumping, the adrenaline of not knowing precisely what he was about to do spurring her body's erratic response.

"What are you going to do?" she risked asking, already fairly certain she wouldn't receive a response from him that actually answered her question.

"What I stated I would do: show you how I use this," he said, holding the paddle in her line of vision for a moment before retracting again. "I guarantee I won't hurt you, but if it gets overwhelming, just tell me. Simple as that."

There was a gap in conversation.

"Alright?" he prompted her.

"Alright," she responded.

"Lay your shoulders flat to the desk." He moved on quickly.

Hermione dropped her chest down gently, laying the front of her body on the surface of the desk. Cool seeped through the front of her clothes and the muscles of her belly tightened as he brought the hem of her pullover up, pushing the fabric to sit at her lower back. She desperately wanted to crane her neck back to see just where his eyes were tracing, for she felt extremely vulnerable, and he had yet to make any comment. A fluttering pressure she imagined were his fingertips dusted over her behind, still shielded from his peering gaze by clothing.

She thought for sure he would have -

Thwap!

There was a sharp sound, and a slight impact on her right buttock causing her to jump in surprise.

"Did that hurt?" George asked her.

"No," she answered promptly. It hadn't. She had felt it of course, but it hadn't hurt. Not even close.

Thwap!

"Did that hurt?"

He had landed in the same spot, and it smarted for a fraction of a second but again -

"No."

Silence.

"Do you want me to do it again?"

"Yes," she heard herself say, feeling quite unattached to her body.

Now that her body was fairly certain he wasn't about to flog her to within an inch of her life, she relaxed. The blood was slowing to a quick pace from a racing one, and Hermione felt warm.

At her request, George smattered a number of quick snaps over her covered backside, varying the placement but remaining fairly even with his level of force. After half a dozen, and then a dozen, he stopped and Hermione let out the breath she had been holding.

"It doesn't sting that much," she answered, somewhat more breathily than she had ever heard her voice.

"That's because it's not on bare skin," he replied succinctly. "And I'm not hitting very hard."

George had barely touched her cotton-clad thighs or arse, just a brush here and there. The only thing that had been touching her consistently was the hard paddle and she felt a strong ache beginning to grow at her apex. She was bent over, legs spread enough to make her feel exposed and only a thin layer or two of fabric between her skin, and George's eyes and fingers. If he would just lay his hand against her, just for a second, it might help. On the other hand, maybe she would be mortified. What if he just reached up and slid a blunt finger over the seam there?

The ache throbbed to a minute point, very near to begging, and Hermione did her best to ignore it. While she pondered the sudden calming in her mind, George continued at a slower pace, almost as if he were choosing his exact target carefully.

"Harder?" he questioned.

"Yes, please," she breathed.

If he put more force behind the impact, would it make everything else go even more quiet? Or would it just hurt? She was going to find out.

Thwap!

This one was more forceful; it had more of a snap to it, and her toes clenched in response.

"Harder?" he asked again, with what sounded like hesitant hope in his voice.

"Yes, please," she repeated herself.

Thwap!

"Hard-"

"Yes, please."

Her eagerness made him chuckle lowly and shift closer in his chair, if that was possible. Again, she jumped when she felt his hand on her ankle, but this time, instead of directing her foot away from the other, his touch trailed up the inside of her calf. Hermione nearly choked on her breath as he skimmed deliberately over the inside of her knee and continued upward exceptionally slowly. Resisting the urge to shift under his hand, Hermione steeled her nerves.

George's palm remained flat to her as it glided up her inner thigh, pausing here and there to give a slight squeeze as if to make sure she was still there and not running for the hills. As if she could go anywhere else right now. He crept closer and closer to the junction of her thighs and Hermione inhaled sharply when he came within mere millimetres of touching her centre. George's hand stopped, still pressed and curved around the top of her thigh, the web between index finger and thumb sitting snug at the place where her leg met the rest of her body. His thumb curved back toward him, cradling the swell of her right cheek, and his index finger curved up the front of the junction, pointing toward her hip. The sensitive flesh he had in his grasp would have quivered in anticipation if she felt like she could have controlled her muscles at all, but seeing as that particular skill seemed to be lacking just now, she settled for letting her breath go shakily.

When his hold tightened minutely, she knew what was coming.

Except it didn't. She didn't feel the impact of the paddle at all. George removed his hand and she was about to turn around, disappointed, when he started the very same process on the left leg. Beginning at her ankle, he gently grasped the flesh of her inner leg from bottom to top yet again, stopping at the same place.

"One more?" he asked, his voice very near.

"Just one?"

That must have been the right answer, for his hand moved and -

He was touching her over her clothing, light and teasing. His finger stroked up the seam of her leggings and her knees almost buckled. George's other hand grasped her hip firmly and held her against the desk, stable, before he pressed his fingers harder between her legs.

It was in this moment, as her eyes rolled back in pleasure, that she realized he must be able to feel the dampness of her through a few layers of thin cotton, and she flushed hotly. Fire burned up the side of her neck and bloomed in her cheeks, her forehead, her chest.

And yet somehow she couldn't bring herself to be self-conscious about it. As long as he kept rubbing her gently, her brain was quite occupied.

"Once more each side," he started. "But on bare skin, unless you have objections."