The Yorkshire Moors were completely silent other than for its animal life, with frogs croaking and snakes hissing more than usual. A small cottage is hidden amongst flooding plains at the lower marshes, darkened and impoverished, seemed lost in time.
There, a man and a woman live, together and alone. A certain Mr. Ominis Gaunt and his wife, a pair the few neighbours rarely ever see. She had a dignified, if down-trodden, countenance, as she accompanies her handicapped husband into town for their rare shopping, they would usually comment. Even though he cannot see, the man would do almost all of the talking and would not let her handle any money.
In fact, the only occasion one would consistently hear Mrs. Gaunt's voice is through her screams late at night that echoed through the land near their pathetic home in the wetlands.
Tonight, it was no different, if only one walks through the road a few ways from their doorstep, or it would be, if she could find her voice. Rosalie wants to scream, but she finds that there is no voice coming out of her throat. If it is a result of a spell or pure, unadulterated terror, she does not know and has no mental bandwidth to figure out.
Her husband's thumb strokes across the hollow of her throat, his other hands curled about the rest of it. It would take only the barest shift for him to be pressing the heel of his hand against her larynx, to be pressing down, to be severing her air supply and watching her choke on nothing.
His other hand, of course, is currently buried between her thighs. He is two fingers deep inside of her, the noise of his fingers scandalously loud and terribly wet, as he thrusts and curls them with a bright intensity lighting his empty, glassy eyes.
"You should not have screamed." He tells her coldly.
Rosalie stares at Ominis with furrowed brows and frightened eyes, desperate for him to not press her any further.
"Would you think that I do not take good enough care of you? Why would you want to leave me? Am I not meeting your standards?" He spats out the last word, mocking it. "Is this cottage not good enough for Miss Rosalie Beausoleil? Is that it? Am I not pureblood enough? Not rich enough?"
A particularly harsh thrust of his fingers, a particularly rough curl as the pads of said fingertips dig mercilessly against the spongy sweet spot inside of hers. She desperately bites her lip to stop from crying out, tears bubbling in the corners of her eyes.
"Come on. You can answer me." He encourages her, being even rougher on his treatment.
The woman supposes it is one mercy afforded to her, though her husband has said in no uncertain terms that she is not to scream or to whimper or to moan whilst he fucks orgasm after orgasm out of her, lest he decide to keep her quiet by choking her.
There is a pitch to his voice, Rosalie perceives. There is something behind the usual carefully composed demeanour that almost sounds genuinely hurt. He had always been a little sensitive to the solitude, since his Fifth Year, and while she had not left him, properly…
Perhaps she is, indeed, wrong. She had been a bit too naïve, reaching for things that should not be in her grasp.
"Speak up, love. I want to know what you have to say." He insists.
"I-I'm sorry!" She whispers, reaching for all of her forces to get those few words out her lips. "I g-got carried away…!"
"Am I not good enough?" He asks her again.
There is something there, in his eye, that suggests that whatever is going through Ominis' mind is more than mere surface level. The hand between her thighs slows down the desperate pumping for just a moment.
The slower rhythm is worse. She feels every joint of his bony fingers, the callous on his fingertips, as they leisurely stretch her open and her thighs tremble against her will. Despite the fear of being choked, she is wet, and she can feel, too, the droplets of slick sliding down her inner thighs, being pushed back inside of she with every stroke of his hand.
"N-No!" She says, desperately. "O-Of course not, Ominis, I am sorry! I j-just wanted to go out…!"
"What is wrong with my company?" He demands, shifting his weight. "What there is so wrong with me that everyone just leaves me alone?! It is all your fault!"
Her voice raises to the point it is almost a scream. "No! There's nothing wrong with you! Ominis, please."
After Sebastian Sallow murdered his uncle, Ominis denounced him to the headmaster. Rosalie backed him up on his decision, testifying against the boy to the Wizengamot when the time came, telling them about his foray into the Dark Arts and what he hoped to achieve.
Naturally, the trial reached for a conviction, and the teen was sent to Azkaban. A few weeks later, Anne Sallow, his sister, died at a hospice ward in St. Mungo's from the curse he hoped to cure. Eventually, he, himself, would perish to exposition, due to the harsh prison conditions.
In all of it, Ominis was alone, having to rely increasingly on the company of his erstwhile antagonist, the one he held responsible for not keeping his friend away from the Dark Arts, and later as the one who forced him to tattle on him to the authorities. This mix of despair, hatred and solitude eroded his already fragile state of mind, creating a weird obsession towards the woman who would become his wife, in which he cannot stand her company, nor the feeling he has when he is away from her.
Bearing down on top of her, his eyes shone bright and wild in his fervour. "Do you think that there is anyone out there who would be half as interesting as me? Who would want you half as much?"
"O-Of course not!" She is babbling.
The man can see that Rosalie is losing the thread of the conversation in her abject terror. He can practically feel her desperately squirming her way out of this line of questioning. Observing her react in this way is, he has to admit, adorable and terribly gratifying, but his annoyance that she tried to run has not faded.
He gives her a sharp smile. "Alright. Suppose I believe you. Just... Show me that you mean it. Show me that you can keep your pretty mouth shut, right? It is not hard, is it? All I am doing is fucking you on my fingers, I have done it a hundred times before…"
In spite of it all, she always likes it. She always comes apart for him. She always wails out his name, chokes back moans, wraps an arm about his neck and drags him into a kiss so that she is not quite so shamed by how easily she gives in to her captor and how much pleasure he brings her.
"I will!" She continues to babble.
His hand tightens imperceptibly on her throat at the same time as he plunges a third finger inside of her, as he slowly circles her clit with his thumb with that same pressure that always seems to do something inside of her. Her hips buck. Her back arches. Her mouth opens, and…
A soft cry falls from it. Tiny. A mouse squeak, so gentle that most people would never hear it, but Ominis would never have been able to navigate his handicap without being able to pick up on such tiny things. His grin sharpens, the stars of his pupils lightening up at her with something that is half tenderness and half savage glee.
"Sweetheart…" He purrs. "You lost."
He presses down. Her eyes widen as her airflow is cut off. Suddenly, what little air that is in her lungs is a precious commodity as his fingers squeeze, as Rosalie tries desperately to not choke it all out in a terrified gasp. It all feels so thin, where she is keeping it in her chest and her husband is still grinning, still enjoying himself, his fingers still inside of she as she tighten around them quite against her will.
Her vision briefly spots, and he eases off. He lets her take a great, heaving gasp, he lets the spots dissipate.
"One to me." He announces the score to her, relishing in the game he is making, of holding her life and her pleasure in his hands all the same. "You cannot imagine how tight you got around my fingers. Do you think you would do the same around my cock?"
Ominis shifts again. A heavy, hard heat presses against her inner thigh, inside of his loose trousers, proper to those who do not work in those times.
He smiles. "Let us see."
Many a sound escaped Rosalie that evening.