Fic, Spare the Rod, Bellatrix/Voldemort, R.
Title: Spare the Rod
Author: Sionnain
Pairing: Voldemort/Bellatrix
Word Count: 2080
Rating: A soft R, mainly for subject matter.
Warnings: Mostly psychological mindgames, though I will warn for BDSM and implied torture.
Summary: He that spares the rod, spoils the child. Voldemort spares her nothing.
AN: Written for the Darkones Dementor's Kiss Challenge. My phobia assigned was Rhabdophobia- Fear of being severely punished or beaten by a rod, or of being severely criticized.. Thanks to Jazzypom and Kethlenda for the beta.
Spare the Rod
The pleasing punishment that women bear. Shakespeare, The Comedy of Errors. Act i. Sc. 1.
“Bellatrix, you have displeased me.”
His words carried easily in the small dark chamber to which she’d been brought, and they seemed to curl around her and slide inside, filling her with dread and a curious sort of excitement.
Bellatrix Black knelt before Lord Voldemort, shivering a bit in the damp, chilly air of the dungeon, hands bound behind her. The stone floor was frigid yet singed her, icy-hot, through the fabric of her dress robes, and the rough rope that bound her hands scratched and irritated her skin.
None of this registered as much as his disapproval, which lashed her worse than any whip could possibly do.
If there were others in the chamber she did not see them; her focus was only on him, standing like a monolith in the shadows before her. He had a way of filling a room with his voice, so that everything else faded away, like the stars folding back into the night when the sun rose.
Have you anything to say for yourself?
His voice was disdainful, vaguely bored, as if she were hardly worth his notice. What was frightening was that he didn’t speak, but she heard him, in her head, and she was too afraid to properly block him as she’d been taught.
Her breathing was erratic, and she watched it escape her lips and form small puffs in the cold room as she struggled to control her emotions. Anger, that he would be so callous and treat her as if she were merely some acolyte come to kneel before him and beg his favor, because she wasn’t, she was so much more…
Then there was the fear, because of what she saw in his hand. A slender rod made of slick mahogany wood, reflecting the candlelight so that it looked like it burned orange. It would make her burn, of that she had no doubt, and it would light her skin afire as surely as if it were made out of flames.
They said the Dark Lord knew your darkest fears, knew what would make you tremble and cower before him, and she knew in that moment that they were right. A cleverly cast crucio would hurt her but never break her, and if all she had to fear in this dank chamber was a writhing under the considerable power of his skill with the Cruciatus, she would count herself blessed to have escaped so easily.
My Bella, he said, and his voice was all charm and false concern, as if he were sitting across from her and offering her tea. Except that all she heard of him was the light fall of his breath, as his voice was entirely in her mind. So full of fire and passion that it is a wonder you do not singe the very flesh from your bones.
If there was fire in her blood now, it was banked by the cruelly constructed tendrils of fear that he sent to embrace her as she knelt before him, head bowed submissively.
He circled her with long slow steps as if he was dancing for her, his captive audience. If she had not been terrified she would have smiled at the irony of that, and she pulled lightly on the ropes that bound her wrists, finding the sting not entirely unpleasant.
You’re like a bitch who has failed to bring back the fox to her master, Voldemort continued in her head, tapping the rod he held in his palm in perfect time with his steps, like some fiendish military march.
The very sound of the rod hitting flesh echoed loudly in the confines of the chamber, especially since she could not hear him actually speak, and the noise hummed through her entire body, as if it were already striking her. Tears pricked hot at the back of her eyelids, but she blinked rapidly, refusing them escape.
That’s what you are, isn’t it, Bella? Just a dog who’s failed to please.
He was standing so close to her now she could see the fabric of his robes, she could hear the pulse of the rod as he hit his palm, faster and faster… combined with the continuing, relentless presence of his voice in her mind, she felt hysteria spring to sudden, vivid life inside of her and her breath came so fast she could not control it.
You must be punished, just like an errant little puppy. He laughed, and there was an eagerness throbbing in that rasping sound that terrified her further, especially because his physical self was absolutely, utterly silent.
He’s going to beat you like a dog, Bellatrix, with that rod. Ignoble and utterly without respect to your station or your standing as a Death Eater.
His answer was a low hissing noise-dry and earthy, it crawled over her skin like the scales of a snake. He was behind her now, and he grabbed her hair and pulled her head back so that he could stare down at her, a thousand needles of pain piercing the tender flesh of her scalp. The shadows were thick in his eyes, and she saw no hint of forthcoming mercy etched in the cruel lines of his impassive face.
Even pureblood whelps need discipline, my dear Miss Black, he mentally taunted her, smiling in a way that made her breath catch in her throat and made her whimper like the puppy he was comparing her to.
He pulled tight on her hair and she went to stand, but he laughed and shoved her back down. No, I don’t think so. You’ll cower before me just like a good dog does when its master is displeased.
Oh, but he knew how to break her. Treat her as if she were worthless, beneath him, all the things she swore in her passionate devotion that she would never be. Her eyes were dilated and the slight spill of light hurt her, bored into her skull, and the soft silk robes drove her mad as they irritated her skin, sensitive from fright.
He took the rod and rubbed it on her back-the wood slid easily over the midnight-blue silk and pressed lightly against the delicate bones of her back. Do you know what fascinates me about you, Bella?
She couldn’t answer, caught up in the web of terror he’d so skillfully woven around her. Her answer was a quick, jerky move of her head, dark hair hanging in her face and whipping against her eyes.
The rod, that horrible implement of punishment reserved for dogs and---and filthy Muggles that they tortured, that rod was sliding all over her, not hitting, just touching, and she felt so dirty…
You’re so wonderfully afraid, aren’t you? I know why you hate this, of course, how debasing of me to do this to you-but you…down inside it excites you, does it not?
She felt shame blossom up inside of her and threaten to overflow the dam of her self-control, which was cracked further with each press of the hated rod against her body, because he was right. Her face was flushed and her nipples hardened beneath the bodice of her robe, even as her distress made her stomach clench and roll as if she’d been tossed off a broom.
Get on all fours for me, like a good little bitch. He pressed the rod against the back of her neck forcefully, the polished wood pulling forth goosebumps on her nape as it caressed her with all the skill of a lover with smooth, unblemished fingers.
She did what he asked, though tears ran down her cheeks in silent agony and fell noiselessly to the stones beneath her. Please just let it be over, let him start so that it will be over….
The Dark Lord knew enough about torture to know that all of the preliminaries-rubbing her body with that rod, voice in his mind telling her how bad it would hurt when he struck her with it-all of this was causing her more suffering than if he would just commence with her punishment.
That makes you hope, doesn’t it? That perhaps I shall not do it, after all, and be content merely to threaten you? He put the rod underneath her, on her stomach, rubbing her with it as if he were giving a favored pet a caress.
Her hands were slipping on the stones as she tried to hold herself upright, because her body was shaking so hard she was afraid she’d collapse and shatter on the stones like a piece of glass. Yes. Yes. That is what I hope.
So worthless, he mocked her, standing behind her, and the rod slid between her thighs. Useless, Bellatrix. You’re useless.
She sobbed as the wood nestled between her legs, in that place where she was so shamefully wet. He laughed delightedly in her head at her miniscule sound of suffering, as if she’d given him a present he had wanted for years.
He began pressing the rod against her, moving it rhythmically between her legs, and continued speaking. It hurts, you know, to be beaten with a rod. Perhaps not the same pain as Crucio, for that makes your entire body scream-your blood, your bones, your mind-don’t you think? Still, there is…why, Bellatrix, I’ve never heard you cry so loudly…a satisfying sort of sound a rod on flesh makes that is hard to duplicate with a spell.
The fear was a cold pit in her stomach that filled her veins with ice, but growing steadily was arousal from the press of polished wood between her thighs, and she hated him and herself for the fact that her legs were tightening to keep it there.
Like a bitch in heat, aren’t you? Well, in a moment we’ll see if you’re still as excited, when I break you with this. It will hurt, my dear, though less than I know you’ve suffered at my hands before….what was that?
Her whimpers had grown into cries, and were slowly building to a scream. P-please, my l-lord…
Begging, already? And here I thought I’d at least strike you a few times before you did that. Don’t disappoint me, Bellatrix. His voice became hard, though the relentless push of the rod between her legs did not stop.
D-don’t h-hurt me… Her sobs were wild and heartfelt, and while she was pushing her hips down and rubbing herself frantically against the wood, she didn’t really want to…
I know you like it, my dear. It will make your screams of pain all the more lovely, I think. He laughed again. And it will hurt. Oh, will it hurt…perhaps you will see stars. The dark voice in her mind spoke this almost dreamily.
She did, at that, because his threats and her fear and that damned slide of the rod between her legs finally made her come, and it burst over her in a wave of bliss and despair both. She threw her head back and wailed, the sound rising up from the very depths of her soul, and he’d broken her without a single blow or a spoken word, but it wouldn’t matter, because that wouldn’t stop him…
Yesss…he hissed, and abruptly the warmth of the wooden rod was removed from between her legs, and as humiliating as it was, she wanted to beg for it back.
“Are you ready to take your punishment now, my disobedient little bitch?”
Overcome, Bellatrix began twitching in the aftermath of her pleasure and her growing terror. Her body sank bonelessly to the cold stone floor and she pressed her flushed face against the moss-covered granite, gulping in great mouthfuls of air.
“Yes.” She spoke so softly she wondered for the briefest moment if he’d even heard her.
The first strike of the rod hit her between the shoulder blades, and she heard his voice, leashed with excitement, as pain drenched her with sharp claws of biting agony. Scream for me, Bella. Scream for me, and see the stars…
She did, because she could do nothing else, and pain was white-hot and immediate. Beneath the lids of her eyelids she saw them, great exploding stars of red and gold and white, just as he’d commanded in the twisted, dark place her mind had become.
~Finis
Author: Sionnain
Pairing: Voldemort/Bellatrix
Word Count: 2080
Rating: A soft R, mainly for subject matter.
Warnings: Mostly psychological mindgames, though I will warn for BDSM and implied torture.
Summary: He that spares the rod, spoils the child. Voldemort spares her nothing.
AN: Written for the Darkones Dementor's Kiss Challenge. My phobia assigned was Rhabdophobia- Fear of being severely punished or beaten by a rod, or of being severely criticized.. Thanks to Jazzypom and Kethlenda for the beta.
Spare the Rod
The pleasing punishment that women bear. Shakespeare, The Comedy of Errors. Act i. Sc. 1.
“Bellatrix, you have displeased me.”
His words carried easily in the small dark chamber to which she’d been brought, and they seemed to curl around her and slide inside, filling her with dread and a curious sort of excitement.
Bellatrix Black knelt before Lord Voldemort, shivering a bit in the damp, chilly air of the dungeon, hands bound behind her. The stone floor was frigid yet singed her, icy-hot, through the fabric of her dress robes, and the rough rope that bound her hands scratched and irritated her skin.
None of this registered as much as his disapproval, which lashed her worse than any whip could possibly do.
If there were others in the chamber she did not see them; her focus was only on him, standing like a monolith in the shadows before her. He had a way of filling a room with his voice, so that everything else faded away, like the stars folding back into the night when the sun rose.
Have you anything to say for yourself?
His voice was disdainful, vaguely bored, as if she were hardly worth his notice. What was frightening was that he didn’t speak, but she heard him, in her head, and she was too afraid to properly block him as she’d been taught.
Her breathing was erratic, and she watched it escape her lips and form small puffs in the cold room as she struggled to control her emotions. Anger, that he would be so callous and treat her as if she were merely some acolyte come to kneel before him and beg his favor, because she wasn’t, she was so much more…
Then there was the fear, because of what she saw in his hand. A slender rod made of slick mahogany wood, reflecting the candlelight so that it looked like it burned orange. It would make her burn, of that she had no doubt, and it would light her skin afire as surely as if it were made out of flames.
They said the Dark Lord knew your darkest fears, knew what would make you tremble and cower before him, and she knew in that moment that they were right. A cleverly cast crucio would hurt her but never break her, and if all she had to fear in this dank chamber was a writhing under the considerable power of his skill with the Cruciatus, she would count herself blessed to have escaped so easily.
My Bella, he said, and his voice was all charm and false concern, as if he were sitting across from her and offering her tea. Except that all she heard of him was the light fall of his breath, as his voice was entirely in her mind. So full of fire and passion that it is a wonder you do not singe the very flesh from your bones.
If there was fire in her blood now, it was banked by the cruelly constructed tendrils of fear that he sent to embrace her as she knelt before him, head bowed submissively.
He circled her with long slow steps as if he was dancing for her, his captive audience. If she had not been terrified she would have smiled at the irony of that, and she pulled lightly on the ropes that bound her wrists, finding the sting not entirely unpleasant.
You’re like a bitch who has failed to bring back the fox to her master, Voldemort continued in her head, tapping the rod he held in his palm in perfect time with his steps, like some fiendish military march.
The very sound of the rod hitting flesh echoed loudly in the confines of the chamber, especially since she could not hear him actually speak, and the noise hummed through her entire body, as if it were already striking her. Tears pricked hot at the back of her eyelids, but she blinked rapidly, refusing them escape.
That’s what you are, isn’t it, Bella? Just a dog who’s failed to please.
He was standing so close to her now she could see the fabric of his robes, she could hear the pulse of the rod as he hit his palm, faster and faster… combined with the continuing, relentless presence of his voice in her mind, she felt hysteria spring to sudden, vivid life inside of her and her breath came so fast she could not control it.
You must be punished, just like an errant little puppy. He laughed, and there was an eagerness throbbing in that rasping sound that terrified her further, especially because his physical self was absolutely, utterly silent.
He’s going to beat you like a dog, Bellatrix, with that rod. Ignoble and utterly without respect to your station or your standing as a Death Eater.
His answer was a low hissing noise-dry and earthy, it crawled over her skin like the scales of a snake. He was behind her now, and he grabbed her hair and pulled her head back so that he could stare down at her, a thousand needles of pain piercing the tender flesh of her scalp. The shadows were thick in his eyes, and she saw no hint of forthcoming mercy etched in the cruel lines of his impassive face.
Even pureblood whelps need discipline, my dear Miss Black, he mentally taunted her, smiling in a way that made her breath catch in her throat and made her whimper like the puppy he was comparing her to.
He pulled tight on her hair and she went to stand, but he laughed and shoved her back down. No, I don’t think so. You’ll cower before me just like a good dog does when its master is displeased.
Oh, but he knew how to break her. Treat her as if she were worthless, beneath him, all the things she swore in her passionate devotion that she would never be. Her eyes were dilated and the slight spill of light hurt her, bored into her skull, and the soft silk robes drove her mad as they irritated her skin, sensitive from fright.
He took the rod and rubbed it on her back-the wood slid easily over the midnight-blue silk and pressed lightly against the delicate bones of her back. Do you know what fascinates me about you, Bella?
She couldn’t answer, caught up in the web of terror he’d so skillfully woven around her. Her answer was a quick, jerky move of her head, dark hair hanging in her face and whipping against her eyes.
The rod, that horrible implement of punishment reserved for dogs and---and filthy Muggles that they tortured, that rod was sliding all over her, not hitting, just touching, and she felt so dirty…
You’re so wonderfully afraid, aren’t you? I know why you hate this, of course, how debasing of me to do this to you-but you…down inside it excites you, does it not?
She felt shame blossom up inside of her and threaten to overflow the dam of her self-control, which was cracked further with each press of the hated rod against her body, because he was right. Her face was flushed and her nipples hardened beneath the bodice of her robe, even as her distress made her stomach clench and roll as if she’d been tossed off a broom.
Get on all fours for me, like a good little bitch. He pressed the rod against the back of her neck forcefully, the polished wood pulling forth goosebumps on her nape as it caressed her with all the skill of a lover with smooth, unblemished fingers.
She did what he asked, though tears ran down her cheeks in silent agony and fell noiselessly to the stones beneath her. Please just let it be over, let him start so that it will be over….
The Dark Lord knew enough about torture to know that all of the preliminaries-rubbing her body with that rod, voice in his mind telling her how bad it would hurt when he struck her with it-all of this was causing her more suffering than if he would just commence with her punishment.
That makes you hope, doesn’t it? That perhaps I shall not do it, after all, and be content merely to threaten you? He put the rod underneath her, on her stomach, rubbing her with it as if he were giving a favored pet a caress.
Her hands were slipping on the stones as she tried to hold herself upright, because her body was shaking so hard she was afraid she’d collapse and shatter on the stones like a piece of glass. Yes. Yes. That is what I hope.
So worthless, he mocked her, standing behind her, and the rod slid between her thighs. Useless, Bellatrix. You’re useless.
She sobbed as the wood nestled between her legs, in that place where she was so shamefully wet. He laughed delightedly in her head at her miniscule sound of suffering, as if she’d given him a present he had wanted for years.
He began pressing the rod against her, moving it rhythmically between her legs, and continued speaking. It hurts, you know, to be beaten with a rod. Perhaps not the same pain as Crucio, for that makes your entire body scream-your blood, your bones, your mind-don’t you think? Still, there is…why, Bellatrix, I’ve never heard you cry so loudly…a satisfying sort of sound a rod on flesh makes that is hard to duplicate with a spell.
The fear was a cold pit in her stomach that filled her veins with ice, but growing steadily was arousal from the press of polished wood between her thighs, and she hated him and herself for the fact that her legs were tightening to keep it there.
Like a bitch in heat, aren’t you? Well, in a moment we’ll see if you’re still as excited, when I break you with this. It will hurt, my dear, though less than I know you’ve suffered at my hands before….what was that?
Her whimpers had grown into cries, and were slowly building to a scream. P-please, my l-lord…
Begging, already? And here I thought I’d at least strike you a few times before you did that. Don’t disappoint me, Bellatrix. His voice became hard, though the relentless push of the rod between her legs did not stop.
D-don’t h-hurt me… Her sobs were wild and heartfelt, and while she was pushing her hips down and rubbing herself frantically against the wood, she didn’t really want to…
I know you like it, my dear. It will make your screams of pain all the more lovely, I think. He laughed again. And it will hurt. Oh, will it hurt…perhaps you will see stars. The dark voice in her mind spoke this almost dreamily.
She did, at that, because his threats and her fear and that damned slide of the rod between her legs finally made her come, and it burst over her in a wave of bliss and despair both. She threw her head back and wailed, the sound rising up from the very depths of her soul, and he’d broken her without a single blow or a spoken word, but it wouldn’t matter, because that wouldn’t stop him…
Yesss…he hissed, and abruptly the warmth of the wooden rod was removed from between her legs, and as humiliating as it was, she wanted to beg for it back.
“Are you ready to take your punishment now, my disobedient little bitch?”
Overcome, Bellatrix began twitching in the aftermath of her pleasure and her growing terror. Her body sank bonelessly to the cold stone floor and she pressed her flushed face against the moss-covered granite, gulping in great mouthfuls of air.
“Yes.” She spoke so softly she wondered for the briefest moment if he’d even heard her.
The first strike of the rod hit her between the shoulder blades, and she heard his voice, leashed with excitement, as pain drenched her with sharp claws of biting agony. Scream for me, Bella. Scream for me, and see the stars…
She did, because she could do nothing else, and pain was white-hot and immediate. Beneath the lids of her eyelids she saw them, great exploding stars of red and gold and white, just as he’d commanded in the twisted, dark place her mind had become.
~Finis