Needs Must (Chapters 5 and 6)
Author: Melusin
Title: Needs Must
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Severus/Hermione
Wordcount: 8,042
Warnings: BDSM, solo, references to D/S practices - usual stuff
Disclaimer: All characters depicted belong to JK Rowling. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no money has changed hands.
Summary: Human sexuality covers a wide spectrum. Most of us fit into a very small part of it. This is a story about two people who don't. A BDSM love story. AU since DH.
A/N: I can only apologise for taking so long to update this story. I won't bore you with excuses. Many thanks to septentrion1970 for agreeing to beta for me, and to darkheartwalsh for her encouragement, invaluable help on the d/s lifestyle and general hand-holding. Links for prior chapters below.
5. Correspondence (i): Hermione.
I close the door and let out a long sigh. That was… surreal. What would Harry say? - not that I’d ever tell him of course. I turn the idea over in my head and suppress a giggle. Severus Snape as a sub - Sub Severus. A bit of a mouthful, that; I’ll just have to think up something else to call him. Slut-boy? Fuck-Toy? I can’t prevent the giggle this time. A suitable name will no doubt present itself; it usually does. I sigh again and shake my head, glancing at the clock. Twenty minutes to go before my next client arrives; plenty of time for another cuppa. I walk over to the window, stir my tea and try to put my thoughts into some kind of order.
Taking a sip of the hot liquid, my eyes are drawn to the hustle and bustle that is Diagon Alley. Dispassionately, I observe the wizarding community as it goes about its business - young couples, business wizards, children and old crones - I am an outsider now, although I suppose it could be argued that I never truly belonged. A swarm of humanity passes under my window each day, but I never venture out into Diagon Alley when it’s busy like this - chock-full of people finishing work and heading for the Leaky, or running some last minute errands before the shops close. I would panic in such a crowd. Anything I have to do, I usually do first thing in the morning when there are fewer people about, and even that can be a struggle…
Snape… After all this time… The cup rattles on its saucer. I look down and notice my hand is shaking. Oh God, I must be mad to be even considering this.
‘Stop it! Stop it this instant!’
I put my tea down and try to calm myself with some deep breathing. My next client will be here soon, and I cannot look like a scared rabbit when he arrives. Walking into the bedroom, I give myself a bit of a talking to. I am always, always professional. I am Mistress Roxanne; Hermione Granger has no business here. Feeling more in control now, I quickly strip off my suit and hang it up in the wardrobe. I already have a corset on underneath, so all I need to do is add a matching wrap around skirt, which reveals a lot of thigh, and pull on my long boots. A quick bit of wand work secures my hair and I’m ready.
A few moments later, there’s a knock on the door.
‘Enter.’
He’s early.
‘Come in, Poxy. You’re late.’
He looks crestfallen. ‘But, Mistress-’
‘No buts. Have you got your Marigolds?’
The grey haired wizard nods. ‘Yes, Mistress.’
‘Then, get in that kitchen, elf, and start scrubbing.’
He takes off his cloak, puts on his rubber gloves, then looks down at his sensible boots.
‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ I say airily. ‘What shall it be today? Red sling-backs?’
He tries not to look disapproving. He thinks sling-backs are common.
‘Court shoes, then?’
‘Please, Mistress.’
I Transfigure his boots into the customary six-inch stilettos and he minces off towards the kitchen happily. I don’t know how he walks in them. I know I couldn’t.
‘Oh, and Poxy.’
‘Yes, Mistress?’
‘Take the tea tray with you.’
He does a little dip to pick the tray up from the table, and then balances it on one hand before sauntering off again. With his long hair and wiggling hips, he looks like some strange travesty of a Bunny Girl.
‘I shall be there to inspect in fifteen minutes, and I want to see those surfaces shining.’
‘Very good, Mistress.’
Dear old Poxy. He’s been one of my regulars for about five years now, and he does so love to do the cleaning, particularly as I allow him to use Muggle products. He’s as happy as Larry and it saves me having to employ someone to do the housework. Best of all, I’m twenty Galleons the richer for it.
I leave him to it and go back to my window gazing. It’s overcast and drizzling out. People are rushing from one shop to another, casting charms to keep themselves dry. The rain lends a dreary greyness to Diagon Alley, leaching all the colour out of the place. When I first came here as a child, agog with the wonder of it all, the bustle and brightness was the first thing that struck me. A perfect, garishly painted mediaeval street in the middle of London, unharmed by the Blitz or the town planners that followed with their plans for ‘modernisation’. But even in the sunshine, for me, the colour is long gone. For me, there are only shades of black and white, and a shadow in a window is all that’s left of that awe-struck little Muggle-born. I rub my arms, feeling cold suddenly.
Unbidden, my thoughts drift back to Snape… How had he reacted to his first sighting of his mother’s world, I wonder? How much did she tell him before he came here for the first time? Did he come here before he was eleven? Did he have eyes like saucers the first time he saw a chocolate frog? No doubt he was excited at the prospect of going to a school where he wouldn’t feel like an outsider - somewhere he would be able to fit in at long last. How soon was it before he realised that Hogwarts held its own terrors?
Poxy, whistling in the kitchen, interrupts my musings. He knows it gets on my nerves, which is why he does it, of course. Responding to it will only encourage him, so I shall ignore him for the time being. Anyway, I really need to get some of my thoughts down on paper while they’re still fresh in my mind. I Summon a Dictaquill and parchment from my bureau and make a start.
‘Okay… early years… Let’s start with the parents… Seemingly a loving couple. Mother a witch, father a Muggle. Client remembers a mother who was strong and able to sort his father out when drunk. Felt safe with her… Query jealous of her control… or even his father’s love for her. A figure of comfort, certainly…’ The sound of what could loosely be described as, ‘singing’, disturbs my train of thought.
‘If I ruled the worr-ld, ev’ry day would be the first day of sprrr-inng…’ Poxy is pushing his luck.
‘Father. Probably loved his son in his own way, but I doubt he could relate to him. Client experienced first arousal when beaten by him. Much guilt about sex and disgust of genitalia…’
‘Every heart would have a new song to si-innng…’
I wouldn’t mind so much if he could sing in tune, but Poxy, as they say, can’t hold a note in a bucket. I let out an aggravated sigh.
‘First point. Control of sexual activity. Hmm… Enforced celibacy an option as he is not in any kind of relationship. Query chastity belt. Granting permission to masturbate and orgasm desirable.’ Relieving him of the responsibility of acting (or not) on his urges may free him of some guilt, I feel. ‘CBT likely.’
‘Da-da-daa-dee-da-da-daa-da-dee-da…’
For fuck’s sake. ‘Second point. Desire/need to be punished. Also goes back to childhood/early adolescence but more modern events obviously apply.’ I think about his dream. Does he harbour a secret desire for public humiliation due to his sense of guilt? Hmm… It will be very interesting to see how this develops.
‘Third point-’
‘And we’d sing of the JOY EV’RY MORN-ING WOULD BRI-INNNG’
My patience has just run out. ‘POXY, STOP THAT INFERNAL RACKET AT ONCE!’
‘Yes, Mistress. Sorry, Mistress.’
‘I should think so.’ Now, where was I? Um… Oh, yes. ‘Third point. Leather association. Many possibilities here. Clothes, whips, floggers, restraints, etc. Play on childhood association with father’s belt. Emotional reaction may be strong, however. Some caution required, I think.’
The whistling starts up again, but I choose to ignore it, irritating though it is - anything’s better than that bloody awful caterwauling. I huff in annoyance and rub my forehead. How can anyone be expected to concentrate when there’s a wizard with a latex fetish blundering around the place?
I try again. ‘Fourth point. Anal penetration…’ Well, that’s non-negotiable. He did not mention a preference for it - or experience of it for that matter. I smirk at the thought that I may have anal virgin on my hands. Severus Snape, you don’t know it yet, but your arse is mine.
‘Um… Fifth point. Approval...
I bite my lower lip. I really have to think this one through very carefully. I am on dangerous ground here, I know. One of the reasons I am so good at my job is my ability to see past the obvious desires of my clients and get to the core issues, thereby giving them what they need rather than what they think they want. Snape is no exception (and I’ve a feeling approval is the last thing he’s expecting). An idea is forming in my mind, which is not without risk. With someone as inexperienced as him, I have to take into account the likelihood of emotional involvement - more emotional involvement than I am prepared to tolerate, at any rate. I know the signs, and will end our association before it gets that far, I hope, but I have to consider the very real possibility that Snape will fall in love with me. I’m really not sure I should play these kinds of mind games with him, though. He could end up in a worse state than he is now, and I wouldn’t want to be responsible for that. Still… he’s the one who approached me, so I will do what he is paying me for - and to the best of my ability.
Which brings me to the subject of money. The quill waits patiently as I debate with myself. I tend to charge what I think the client can afford, but even so my services are not cheap. Snape said that money was not a problem, but he is on a teacher’s salary so I doubt he is that well off, and yet I don’t want him to think he’s a charity case either. There is also a lot of preparatory work involved which will take up a great deal of my time. I decide finally on 25 Galleons a session even though I often demand twice that, but then those men can easily afford it.
There is a loud crash from the kitchen. I don’t suppose I can ignore Poxy any longer.
‘Now, what have you done, elf?’ I shout.
‘N-nothing, Mistress,’ he replies.
‘That didn’t sound like nothing to me. You had better not have broken anything; that’s my best china you’ve got there.’ I pick up my riding crop and walk into the kitchen, only to discover a broken bottle and milk all over the floor. I step in the puddle deliberately.
‘So sorry, Mistress, so sorry,’ he says, banging his head against the worksurface. ‘Poxy is a bad, bad elf.’
He really shouldn’t be doing that at his age.
‘Banging your head isn’t going to clear up the mess, now is it?’ I say. ‘Get a cloth at once.’
Poxy totters on his high heels towards the sink.
‘Look in the cupboard.’
He bends over and I give him a sharp smack with the crop.
‘Oh, yes, Mistress. Punish poor Poxy. Poxy is a clumsy fucker of an elf.’
‘He most certainly is,’ I agree. ‘Now, get to it. And watch the broken glass; I don’t want you cutting yourself and bleeding over the floor. Understand? Any more mess, and I’ll personally slam your bollocks in the oven door.’
He looks hopeful.
‘But first, you may clean my boots.’
‘Thank you, Mistress.’ He gets down on his knees to polish them.
‘And, no whistling.’
‘Poxy is happy to serve, Mistress.’
‘I shall be in the living-room. No more ‘accidents.’ Are we clear?’
‘Yes, Mistress.’
~ * ~
I ward the door after Poxy leaves and make my way to the bedroom. There is little to tidy up before I leave for home. Oh, I didn’t mention that I don’t live here, did I? Well, I don’t. This flat is my place of work - my ‘dungeon’, if you like.
I unlace the corset and push it to the floor, glad to be able to breathe freely once more. It’s a relief to be out of it, I can tell you. You’d think the wizarding world would have come up with something better than whalebone, but unfortunately, there is nothing like it for moulding the figure into that hourglass look.
I strip off the rest of my clothes and perform a Cleansing Charm. It will have to do until I can have a bath. I grab some clean underwear from a drawer, my comfy trousers and a sweatshirt from the wardrobe, and dress hurriedly. Everything that is Mistress Roxanne is now on the floor. I stuff all of it away, drop my glamour and Apparate home.
~ * ~
Crookshanks greets me with a yowl as soon as I appear in my living room. The poor old thing’s getting a bit long in the tooth now, but then, aren’t we all? I give him an affectionate scratch behind the ear. You know, I’m probably destined to turn into the stereotypical old crone, complete with cat, warts and pointy hat - the only thing missing will be the broomstick - but I’d still rather have him around than live entirely on my own. Feeding him is my first priority; knowing it’s time for supper, he winds his way around my legs as we head for the kitchen together. Once he’s happily tucking in, I put the water on for the pasta. Then, while I’m waiting for it to boil, I pour myself a glass of Chablis and wander out into the garden.
Ahh… lovely. Much better than smelly old London. It’s so nice to be out in the fresh air, too. The weather is unseasonably warm for this time of year, and I intend making the most of it. My garden, although a little on the small side, is pretty, totally secluded and a haven for wildlife as well as a refuge for me. This place used to be my parents’ holiday cottage. During the war, the house was put under the Fidelius Charm, and Mum and Dad lived here for a bit when things got really scary, but with no electricity they were soon climbing the walls with boredom. Australia seemed a better option.
When I first came here to live, I kept up the tight security, allowing only my parents and a few close friends in on the secret. Nowadays, though, with the threat of Death Eater attacks long gone, I only keep up strong wards at night or when I am at work. This allows me to have a few Muggle conveniences like a telly, computer and music player for relaxation. Otherwise, I have my books and my research in Arithmancy, Transfiguration and Charms, which I consider to be my profession (I’ve had my work published in several periodicals), even though the financial rewards are modest - as opposed to my part-time day job, which is extremely lucrative. However, most of my spare cash goes towards funding my book habit, which is my one real pleasure in life. Other than that, and indulging in excellent wine from time to time, I live quite frugally.
My usual evening routine, after I’ve eaten and had a quick bath, is to curl up on the sofa, book in hand, with Crookshanks on my lap. I don’t have to go back to London for four days, so I have plenty of time to catch up on my reading and to complete the review my publishers need by the end of the month. This evening, however, after twenty minutes of staring at the same page, I give up and put the book down, my mind having wandered off on its own accord to reassess this afternoon’s interview. I should stress that it’s very unlike me to think about work when I’m at home like this. Actually, I’m usually quite ruthless about leaving Mistress Roxanne in the wardrobe in Diagon Alley, together with my corsets. She has no place in Hermione Granger’s cottage, but even so…
I have been shown a side of Severus Snape that I never knew existed until today, and I don’t think I’ve taken it all in yet. It was quite obvious from his appearance and general manner this afternoon, that he had gone out of his way to make a favourable impression on me; he’d looked well scrubbed, cleanly shaven and had washed his hair. His clothes, as ever, were immaculate. As he reached out to take the cup and saucer off me, I noticed his hands and nails, which I recall from my schooldays being either stained with ink or potions ingredients, were absolutely spotless.
I had already begun to consider my options by the time he’d stirred his tea, wondering why the Bat of the Dungeons would want my services… Bat?… Hmm… now, there’s an idea… no, no I couldn’t call him that; it would be too cruel, and I never liked others using that particular nickname. He looks nothing like one, anyway - if anything, he reminded me more of a stork when I was in school - all angles and corners from the crook of that beak of a nose to the sharp edges of his cheekbones, and thin to the point of emaciation. And yet, in spite of all of those shortcomings, he is still an imposing wizard, possessing a natural, fluid grace that can be quite mesmerising - all precision and economy of movement. Nothing hurried or awkward about him at all, but with the ability to strike like a cobra and overpower an enemy in the blink of an eye, should he choose to do so.
The little nagging voice in the back of my head is telling me it’s a big risk taking on such a dangerous man, but I know in my heart of hearts he means me no harm. Normally, I wouldn’t even entertain interviewing a new client before running a rigorous background check, or without insisting on a personal recommendation, but I dispensed with both in his case. Apart from my closest friends, Severus Snape is probably the one man in the world I would trust completely to be in the same room alone with me.
It will be strange, certainly, and he does present something of a challenge. Physically, he at least seemed to be in good shape for his age. I know his body was much abused in his youth, but it doesn’t seem to have affected him that much. Still, it is essential to bear that in mind when I subject him to punishment, as I’m sure he’s the sort to be too proud to mention that he suffers from the after effects of injuries inflicted years ago. I shall be able to assess that better when I see his skin …
I am going to see Severus Snape naked….
And, finally it hits me. There it is, like the proverbial elephant in the living room. I have been treating this like some… academic exercise, not fully acknowledging the enormity of this undertaking. It isn’t a game. This isn’t some stranger off the street; I am going to be disciplining one of the most powerful wizards in the country. Snape will undoubtedly have noticed that I wear a glamour - he’s not an idiot. If he discovers my identity… No, no, he won’t. Why should he even suspect it’s me? I rub my temples - this is giving me a headache. I don’t need all this aggro. It’s not too late to cancel. Maybe, it would be for the best. Quickly, before I have time to change my mind again, I go over to my writing desk and pick up a quill. ‘Due to unforeseen circumstances…,’ but I find I can’t write it. My hand refuses to move. I don’t know why - perhaps it’s to do with the life-debt - but … I can’t. I will have to go through with it now; I owe him too much to let him down.
Instead, I write, ‘Good evening, sub-Severus. I trust you are well…’
~*~
It’s long after midnight before I stop writing. I’ve designed a little training programme for my new sub. The first letter was easy; get him used to being naked, but also get him to start appreciating his sexuality. I will send it to him in a few days; the anticipation will have built up nicely by then. Oh, I’m so evil. I’ve also decided to charm the letters to speak. It’s important that he gets used to the sound of my voice and learns to obey my commands immediately and without question - if he forgets my instruction to open them when he’s alone… well, it will be a timely lesson in the consequences of disobedience. He will be desperate to see me again by the time he’s completed my little tasks. I will forbid him from masturbating, too - by the time he gets my second letter… which reminds me, I need to print some information off the computer for him, and… Now where did I leave those wizarding photographs?
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
6. Correspondence (ii): Severus.
‘Ohhh... God.’
What time is it? I know it’s early; I am far too familiar with the rhythms of this pile of old stones to think otherwise. As I fumble for the clock, bleary-eyed and disoriented, I become aware of two things: a rock-hard morning erection and a cold damp patch on the sheet. Fuck. On inspection, it appears I have not actually ejaculated during the night, but I am disgustingly wet. I reach for my wand, then hesitate as the threads of a memory weave their way into consciousness. Gods... “The Dream...”
It was as vivid as ever. I could feel the whip on my back. I was running, hunched over, trying to protect my head and cover my genitals. But… something was… wrong - different. I did not wake up at the usual point. I recall stumbling… yes, I tripped over a kerbstone and fell - hard - onto my knees. A crowd gathered, jeering, and then… a-a pair of red-booted feet - small, dainty feet - came into my line of vision… That’s when I awoke. Like this.
The clock says, “Go back to sleep.” Unthinking, I Summon my wand and perform a quick Cleansing Charm. I feel a peculiar sense of relief that my dream did not cause me to lose control - as if that would have let Mistress Roxanne down, somehow - although, to my mind, it would have hardly qualified as masturbating...
I snort. Mistress Roxanne, my arse.
I seem to be in danger of losing track who I’m dealing with, here. I flop back on the pillow and put my hands behind my head. Staring at the bed’s canopy, I wonder why I care about letting her down. It’s all rather confusing. I sigh, glancing at the clock again. Still no need to get up yet...
Yesterday was hell.
I spent the entire day in a state of constant arousal, barely able to concentrate on my work, wondering - hoping that she would contact me. Such a lapse cannot be tolerated again - my negligence almost caused an explosion. Every movement set my nerves jangling; every brush of my robes against my legs... By yesterday evening, I was at my wits’ end - so much so that, when I returned to my chambers after dinner, I began to tear at my clothes before I had put up the wards on the door. Being naked was a respite from all that-that tickling. I groan, knowing today will be no easier. In fact, it is likely to be be a whole lot worse.
For someone who has always prided himself on his intellect and for whom the desires of the flesh were an inconvenience to be largely ignored, the last few days have been something of a revelation. Somewhere along the line, my brain seems to have decided to take up residence in my groin. I do not think I have ever been so obsessed with sex in my life - not even when I was a teenager did I feel so-so governed by these basest of urges. All this sudden want, despite the fact that there is not the slightest hope of me ever fucking... And yet, against all reason, I have this... yearning to please her, my would-be mistress, to do her bidding, to yield to her command. My cock aches just thinking about it; I long to wank myself off, but if - and it’s a big ‘if’ since I still don’t know what Miss Granger’s game is - if I choose to continue my... association with her, I will have to comply with her instructions. What’s left of my logical brain tells me not to be so stupid and give in to the demands of my body.
Instead, I turn my attention to an even more pressing need. I roll over and get out of bed, struggling to think of something to make my erection go down since I am now desperate to empty my bladder.
MinervasnoggingFilchsnoggingAlbusshaggingHagrid. The shuddering horror invoked by those particular images has the desired effect by the time I reach the toilet. Gods, that’s a relief! I shake the drips and head for the shower. Washing myself hurriedly, I am careful to avoid any prolonged intimate contact. Then, as the first twinges of arousal make their presence felt, I turn the tap to cold, brace my hands against the wall and let the water cascade down my back.
With sanity restored, albeit temporarily, by the cold water, I try to rationalise my predicament. To begin with, I remind myself for what seems like the hundredth time, it was me who felt the need to seek out the services of a Dominatrix, me who insisted on the best. I wanted this; I was the one desperate for an interview with Mistress Roxanne. There was no coercion on her part.
It must be said that, with our world being so small, I had to reconcile myself early on in my search to the possibility that my ideal mistress, whenever I found her, would once have attended Hogwarts. To avoid this unwanted complication, I had initially considered extending my search to the Muggle world but quickly dismissed the idea, deciding that it might prove too risky. I would never have been completely at ease - and in any case, no Muggle could ever truly dominate me, which would have defeated the object of the exercise. I was therefore incredibly relieved, when I eventually met the mysterious, elusive, Mistress Roxanne, that she was not someone I knew. I suppose, looking back, that fact alone should have immediately aroused my suspicions.
Let’s be honest here; the first time I laid eyes on the woman, I was attracted to her. Not just physically - I connected with her. She made me feel safe and accepted, and I opened up to her - even when I felt the first inkling of recognition, I kept pouring out my heart to her against my instincts and better judgment... On some level, my mind refuses to acknowledge that Mistress Roxanne could possibly be Hermione Granger. There is no way I could be attracted to that girl. I was never interested in her - ever, although she was pretty enough, I suppose… No. No, I don’t want to believe that she could be the answer to my prayers, yet I know… Mistress Roxanne… could. That is my quandary. I want to be dominated by Mistress Roxanne, not Hermione Granger. A shiver runs down my spine which has nothing to do with the cold water. The thought of kneeling, bound, at her feet, awaiting- I slam my hand against the shower wall in annoyance, raging against the unfairness of it all, my stupidity, and Granger’s duplicity for deceiving me so.
Getting out of the shower, I reach for a towel and dry myself briskly. I wonder… what if the woman behind the glamour had turned out to be... one of my Slytherins, say - or one of the many nondescript, uninspiring, totally forgettable females that have passed through my dungeon classroom? I suppose I would have been initially uncomfortable, but with a few assurances, I would still have gone ahead. But Granger… why did it have to be the one witch who reminds me of a time in my life that I would very much rather forget...
‘Ah, we have a guest. Join us, Severus. I’m afraid Bella’s ruined the Mudblood’s cunt, but her arse is still quite tight- ’
‘Don’t waste your breath, Lucius. Severus would rather be on the receiving end, wouldn’t you, pet?’
Bella… Oh, Fuck! What must she have thought when I was waxing lyrical about Bella? It’s a wonder she didn’t throw me out on my ear. Will she want revenge for having to listen to my pathetic whining? I know it’s inappropriate, but the thought of punishment has the predictable effect.
I Summon my wand and cast a Drying Charm on my hair. There can be no doubt that a bond was formed between us the day I gave up my freedom to save her. I did not hesitate to fetch the Aurors, even though I knew I would be arrested, and if I had my time over, I would do it again without a second thought. Seeing her at her most vulnerable, though… Hmm, that does put me in a position of power over her which might compromise our… relationship. Perhaps she recognises it, too. Perhaps she only agreed to see me out of some sense of obligation. I’m not sure how that makes me feel.
As for the glamour… Disguising her appearance must go with the job; I don’t think I should take that personally. I assume she uses a glamour with all her clients - otherwise word would soon have got out that one of the Golden Trio was into whips and chains in a professional capacity. I snigger a bit at that, imagining the headlines in the Daily Prophet. I think we can discount blackmail, Severus, old boy… Another thought occurs to me; she presumably believes that the glamour has fooled me, and that I am ignorant of her true identity. Hmm... I may not have the upper hand here, but there may be some yet unseen advantage to be gained…
I sigh, gazing at my face in the shaving mirror. What must she think of me? I know I’m not much to look at; I know there is no way she could find me attractive. That would be too much to hope for and completely unnecessary, anyway. So, why do I care what she thinks? Why, in spite of all my reservations, do I still want to go along with it? It simply does not make any sense. I lather up some shaving soap and brush it onto my face. Hermione Granger. Why am I putting myself through all this... torment for you? I pick up the razor, then stop. The answer is really quite simple. Because, Severus, you sad old bastard, you have never felt so alive in all of your pathetic excuse of a life.
~*~
At breakfast, I am partly disappointed, partly relieved to see there is no letter for me this morning. I will have to get through another day somehow and try not to think about Mistress Roxanne and the next task she has planned for me. Yes, it’s Mistress Roxanne, now. I have decided, for my own peace of mind, it is easier to think of her only as that - unless and until Miss Granger puts in a surprise appearance.
At lunch, I find I have little appetite. The idea of food is nauseating. Poppy looks at me with concern and tries to foist some stodgy pudding on me. I know she means well; she’s one of the few women of my acquaintance who has always had my best interests at heart. Nonetheless, Spotted Dick and custard is the last thing I feel like at the moment. I return to the dungeons early to prepare for my afternoon classes.
In the last period of the day, an owl swoops into the Potions classroom and drops a small parcel with a letter attached to it on my desk. I recognise the writing immediately and hastily put it into my robe pocket. There are another twenty minutes of this lesson to go according to the hour-glass which, I know, are going to feel like an eternity, but I can neither open the package nor leave the classroom unattended. I feel my cock hardening and thank the gods that my teaching robes cover a multitude of sins. Please don’t let these imbeciles fuck anything up. I’m afraid that if I have to move in a hurry to contain someone’s cauldron, I might do myself a mischief.
As soon as the little miscreants have gathered their belongings and left, I clean up the classroom in a frenzy of wand-waving, anxious to get back to my chambers. Unfortunately, one of my Slytherins calls my attention to a scuffle that has broken out in the corridor, and I have to go and intervene. Just my luck. By the time the hexes have stopped flying, and I have sorted out the carnage, cleaned up the blood, assigned detentions and escorted an hysterical first-year Hufflepuff to the Hospital Wing, it is almost time for dinner. As I turn to leave, Poppy, who has administered a Calming Draught to the over-excited child, offers to accompany me to the Great Hall. I try my best to put her off but find myself on the receiving end of one of her best nursing stares when I say that I’m not hungry. I realise with a sigh that she is not going to take no for an answer. Madam Pomfrey can be one determined witch when she feels the need to reprimand someone for not taking care of themselves properly, and I know when not to cross her. Hungry or not, I know I’ll have to eat something or I’ll never hear the end of it.
So, after being escorted, if not frogmarched, to the High Table, I try to make a show of eating something. I pick at my food for a bit, pushing it around the plate and half-heartedly discuss the forthcoming Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match with Minerva. Eventually, I manage to extricate myself from the riveting conversation, say my goodnights and leave. It’s hard not to break out into a run as I stride towards my rooms, turning over the package in my pocket, the sense of excitement building as I wonder what she has in store for me tonight.
~*~
Finally. Leaning against the door, slightly out of breath, I take the package out of my pocket and just stare at it for a moment, savouring the anticipation. Separating the letter, I bring it up to my nose and inhale, hoping for some lingering scent of my mistress, but there is none. My fingers are itching to open it but, suddenly mindful of the fact that I am in my chambers and still fully clothed, I walk over to the hearth rug and place the parcel on my chair instead. Reverently, I kiss the letter, prop it up against the package and imagine that it is Mistress Roxanne sitting there, watching me. I undress and kneel on the rug as if awaiting her command, tingling at the thought. Only then do I open the letter. It flies out of my hands immediately and hovers in the air above me.
‘Good evening, Sub Severus,’ says the voice of my mistress. ‘I am assuming that you are listening to this, alone, in your chambers. You should therefore be naked, preferably on your knees. If that is not the case, strip now, Transfigure the nearest suitable object into a ruler and smack your arse with it - hard - thirty times. You may then kneel down and listen to the rest of my letter…’
I feel my breath catch in my throat at her words. I have narrowly avoided punishment.
‘… if, however, you were already naked, say, ‘I have been a good boy, Mistress.’
‘I-I have been a good boy, Mistress.’
‘That pleases me, sub. You may open your present. A Finite Incantatem will restore it to its normal size.’
‘Accio wand!’ True to her word as I mutter the spell, the parcel expands.
‘You will see that there are, in fact, two bundles,’ she continues. ‘The top one contains some general information which you may find useful, and also some detailed descriptions of the kind of behaviour expected in a good submissive. Some things are more pertinent than others; I have highlighted some basic requirements for your conduct the next time we meet and made my own notes in the margins. You are to read this material in your own time and familiarise yourself with those points I consider essential. The second bundle contains photographs of various fetishes. This is your task for this evening. Make yourself comfortable and work your way through them. Take your time; I want you to look at each one for at least thirty seconds, then sort them into three piles: yes, no and possibly. Be honest with yourself; do not go by your initial reaction, but note how your body responds rather than your mind.’ She laughs. ‘You may be pleasantly surprised by your reactions or... not. Begin whenever you are ready. Say, “I have finished, mistress,” when you reach the end.’
Fetishes? I thought we had already discussed this. Is this some sort of test? Burning with curiosity, I discard the top bundle without looking at it. Time for that later. The pile of photographs underneath are held neatly together by a black ribbon. I ease myself into my armchair and undo the bow. Not exactly sure what to expect, I take a deep breath and examine the first photograph.
Ohh, ye-ss. A man is kneeling, hands tied above his head while his mistress (beautifully dressed in a black corset, I might add) flogs him with a small whip. Of course, I cannot hear the swish of each lash or the cries of the man, but I see the look of pleasure on his face. As if it were not self-evident, a caption in the corner says, ‘Flogging.’ Yes, I want this. Very much. Smiling, I start the ‘yes’ pile by placing it on the table next to me.
I turn my attention to the second one, in which a man with some sort of harness around his head and… Good God, he’s got a tail growing out of his arse! His mistress is making him prance around in circles on a lead, occasionally correcting his movements with a long whip. Well, my cock responds to that, but the concept… no, not for me. I drop the first of the ‘no’ pile on the floor.
A few minutes later, the no pile has increased somewhat as I discard in quick succession photographs of men dressed up in French maids outfits doing the laundry, a woman dressed in some bizarre interpretation of a mediwitch’s robes (I may have to Obliviate myself since the vision of Poppy so dressed has imprinted itself on my brain) giving a bound and blindfolded submissive an enema and a man, in what looks to be a nappy, sucking milk out of a baby’s bottle. I have absolutely no idea what that’s all about, and I have no desire to enquire further.
The next one, however, is much more to my liking. The sub is lying flat on his back with his mistress sitting, fully clothed, on his face. I’m not sure if he’s still breathing, but what a way to go. The woman picks up a book, adjusts her seat and appears to read. Occasionally, she picks up a crop and beats him with it. I am rather intrigued with this idea and add it to the yes pile.
Over the next hour, I apply myself diligently to my allotted task, and the stack gradually diminishes. Conscientiously, I give each image my full attention for the required amount of time: some arouse my curiosity but nothing more, some I stare at longingly, others I have to force myself to look at. Some make me cringe - this one here where the woman is pushing a metal rod inside the man’s penis, for example, is making my eyes water, but I keep looking. Somewhere during the past thirty seconds, I notice, I have unconsciously crossed my legs.
The one thing that strikes me about them all, however, is the look of peace on the faces of the submissives. I want that. Whatever it is they have, I want it. Sighing, I work my way through a tableau depicting different bondage scenes, aching to be the man subjected to the ropes and restraints that suspend him off the floor, helpless and totally at the mercy of the Dominatrix. As she pinches his nipples and attaches clamps to them, I pinch mine and wonder what it would feel like… Trance-like, I watch her tugging his balls and binding his scrotum with a leather strap, to which she then add weights… ‘Cock and ball Torture (CBT)’ announces the caption, helpfully. It looks exquisitely painful. Soon, soon, it will be my turn to experience such delights for real. It goes on the ‘yes’ pile.
The very last photograph brings me out of my reverie with a jolt. A man, wearing only leather shorts and a collar, is led to a square metal frame on a dais where his hands and feet are spread wide and fastened by restraints at the four corners. An audience, in various states of undress watch the scene intently. Once secured, his mistress pulls down the two zips on each side of his shorts that hold the material together, then removes them, leaving him exposed and erect… I throw it on the no pile, but my heart is racing. ’Be honest…’ I pick it up again and quickly put it on the ‘possible’ pile, even though such a thing is totally impossible. My task for the evening is now complete. I look at the sum of my endeavours; the ‘no’ pile is by far the biggest of the three. I smirk. Seems I’m not as kinky as I thought. Well, no point delaying any further; I suppose I’d better find out what’s next…
‘I have finished, Mistress.’
‘Excellent. I trust you found that exercise worthwhile. Now, I want you to look at the ‘possible’ pile again and pick out the one you find the most appealing. Say, ‘I have chosen, Mistress,’ when you are ready.’
I look through the photographs. It is hard for me to do this, very hard, but I still pick up the one that shows the man having the flogging in public.
‘I have chosen, Mistress.’
‘Good. Now - I’m assuming you are sitting in a chair - put your legs over the arms.’
This I do. It’s murder on the back, but I try to make myself as comfortable as possible.
‘With the photograph floating in front of you, I want you to touch yourself as I tell you. You will begin with your face…’
I follow her instructions to the letter, running my fingertips over my face, down my neck to my chest. I tease my nipples as she tells me, pinching and pulling, closing my eyes as I give myself up to the sensations. My cock is so hard; I think I am going to come soon whether she gives me permission to masturbate or not.
‘… Drag your nails up your inner thighs. That’s right and down again… Now, cup your balls with your left hand. Are they nice and full, Sub Severus? I bet they are.’ She laughs.
Oh, gods. Much more of this and-
‘I bet they’ve risen up close to your cock, too. So, I want you to grip them nice and firmly and gently pull them down and away…’
Ooooh… The stretch is uncomfortable but not really painful. It certainly takes the edge off. In the photograph, the mistress pulls down the zips… Please, Mistress Roxanne…Don’t…
‘… Play with your balls with both hands. Enjoy the feel of them, the weight of them. Separate them, rub them with you thumbs…’
I. Want. To. Come.
‘Does that feel good?’
‘What the fuck do you think?’
‘Trail your left hand underneath and stroke the skin there. When you reach your anus, I want you to insert your little finger.’
What?
‘Do it, now, Sub Severus. You may as well get used to it.’ The sound of her laughter fills the room again.
I hesitate and wet my finger with my saliva before complying. What does she mean, ‘get used to it?’
‘Move it in and out for me like the good little sub you are. You like that, don’t you, you dirty boy?’
‘Ye-esss.’ It feels surprisingly… good.
‘Is your cock leaking now?’
Oh, yes. I watch the woman attaching the nipple clamps… - ‘You want this, Sub Severus. I know you do.’ -
‘I want you to smear some of that lovely spunk on the fingers of your right hand and lick it off. Have you done that before?’
Only out of curiosity when I was a teenager. I find the idea distasteful, but do as she commands.
‘Good. Now, spread some more over your cock and start stroking it. But, you are not to come until you have counted to a hundred.’
A hundred? She must be joking! I doubt I’ll get to ten! But I start counting - quickly.
‘ …fifteen, sixteen, seventeen…’ The man in the picture silently screams as his mistress wields the whip. I manage to avert disaster by tugging hard on my scrotum…
‘… Thirty… thirty-one …’ She pulls the nipple clamps off. Shit! I’m going to lose it. Flogging, flogging… Mercy, mistress. I’m panting, soaked in sweat. ‘I can’t… can’t…’
‘…sixty-three…sixty-four…’ The woman grabs her sub’s cock roughly… Sweet Nimue…
‘… seventy-nine… eighty…’ The man throws back his head as he ejaculates. Mustn’t…
‘…Ninety-five… ninety-six.’ I let go of my aching balls… ‘One- Holybuggeringfuckingsodding hell!’
~ * ~
I am resting, my head lolling on the back of the chair, trying to calm my breathing. Totally spent, I can’t move, and I don’t want to, covered as I am in several days worth of rapidly cooling pent up frustration.
‘Was that worth waiting for, my little sub?’
Fuck, yes.
‘Now, you dirty little boy, rub all that mess you’ve made all over you. Rub it into your skin; over your balls, thighs, torso and face. I want you inhale the smell of your sex, suck your fingers and savour it. You are going to go to bed tonight and wake up tomorrow reeking of sex.’
I am too exhausted to even think about what she is asking me to do. I just do it.
‘When you have recovered, gather the photographs together and send them back to me. At this stage, you may write me a short note with any questions that are bothering you. I will be in touch within a couple of days. Needless to say, I expect you to remain chaste until then.’
In this state of post-orgasmic bliss, I remain in my chair feeling limp and languorous. I still don’t feel like moving particularly, but I will fall asleep here if I do not. Wearily, I stand up.
‘Oh, I almost forgot.’ The sound of her voice startles me. ‘From now on, you will wear nothing under your robe during the daytime other than your boots and socks. Goodnight, sub. Sleep well.’
Oh, fuck.
Chapters 1 and 2
Chapters 3 and 4
Title: Needs Must
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Severus/Hermione
Wordcount: 8,042
Warnings: BDSM, solo, references to D/S practices - usual stuff
Disclaimer: All characters depicted belong to JK Rowling. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no money has changed hands.
Summary: Human sexuality covers a wide spectrum. Most of us fit into a very small part of it. This is a story about two people who don't. A BDSM love story. AU since DH.
A/N: I can only apologise for taking so long to update this story. I won't bore you with excuses. Many thanks to septentrion1970 for agreeing to beta for me, and to darkheartwalsh for her encouragement, invaluable help on the d/s lifestyle and general hand-holding. Links for prior chapters below.
5. Correspondence (i): Hermione.
I close the door and let out a long sigh. That was… surreal. What would Harry say? - not that I’d ever tell him of course. I turn the idea over in my head and suppress a giggle. Severus Snape as a sub - Sub Severus. A bit of a mouthful, that; I’ll just have to think up something else to call him. Slut-boy? Fuck-Toy? I can’t prevent the giggle this time. A suitable name will no doubt present itself; it usually does. I sigh again and shake my head, glancing at the clock. Twenty minutes to go before my next client arrives; plenty of time for another cuppa. I walk over to the window, stir my tea and try to put my thoughts into some kind of order.
Taking a sip of the hot liquid, my eyes are drawn to the hustle and bustle that is Diagon Alley. Dispassionately, I observe the wizarding community as it goes about its business - young couples, business wizards, children and old crones - I am an outsider now, although I suppose it could be argued that I never truly belonged. A swarm of humanity passes under my window each day, but I never venture out into Diagon Alley when it’s busy like this - chock-full of people finishing work and heading for the Leaky, or running some last minute errands before the shops close. I would panic in such a crowd. Anything I have to do, I usually do first thing in the morning when there are fewer people about, and even that can be a struggle…
Snape… After all this time… The cup rattles on its saucer. I look down and notice my hand is shaking. Oh God, I must be mad to be even considering this.
‘Stop it! Stop it this instant!’
I put my tea down and try to calm myself with some deep breathing. My next client will be here soon, and I cannot look like a scared rabbit when he arrives. Walking into the bedroom, I give myself a bit of a talking to. I am always, always professional. I am Mistress Roxanne; Hermione Granger has no business here. Feeling more in control now, I quickly strip off my suit and hang it up in the wardrobe. I already have a corset on underneath, so all I need to do is add a matching wrap around skirt, which reveals a lot of thigh, and pull on my long boots. A quick bit of wand work secures my hair and I’m ready.
A few moments later, there’s a knock on the door.
‘Enter.’
He’s early.
‘Come in, Poxy. You’re late.’
He looks crestfallen. ‘But, Mistress-’
‘No buts. Have you got your Marigolds?’
The grey haired wizard nods. ‘Yes, Mistress.’
‘Then, get in that kitchen, elf, and start scrubbing.’
He takes off his cloak, puts on his rubber gloves, then looks down at his sensible boots.
‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ I say airily. ‘What shall it be today? Red sling-backs?’
He tries not to look disapproving. He thinks sling-backs are common.
‘Court shoes, then?’
‘Please, Mistress.’
I Transfigure his boots into the customary six-inch stilettos and he minces off towards the kitchen happily. I don’t know how he walks in them. I know I couldn’t.
‘Oh, and Poxy.’
‘Yes, Mistress?’
‘Take the tea tray with you.’
He does a little dip to pick the tray up from the table, and then balances it on one hand before sauntering off again. With his long hair and wiggling hips, he looks like some strange travesty of a Bunny Girl.
‘I shall be there to inspect in fifteen minutes, and I want to see those surfaces shining.’
‘Very good, Mistress.’
Dear old Poxy. He’s been one of my regulars for about five years now, and he does so love to do the cleaning, particularly as I allow him to use Muggle products. He’s as happy as Larry and it saves me having to employ someone to do the housework. Best of all, I’m twenty Galleons the richer for it.
I leave him to it and go back to my window gazing. It’s overcast and drizzling out. People are rushing from one shop to another, casting charms to keep themselves dry. The rain lends a dreary greyness to Diagon Alley, leaching all the colour out of the place. When I first came here as a child, agog with the wonder of it all, the bustle and brightness was the first thing that struck me. A perfect, garishly painted mediaeval street in the middle of London, unharmed by the Blitz or the town planners that followed with their plans for ‘modernisation’. But even in the sunshine, for me, the colour is long gone. For me, there are only shades of black and white, and a shadow in a window is all that’s left of that awe-struck little Muggle-born. I rub my arms, feeling cold suddenly.
Unbidden, my thoughts drift back to Snape… How had he reacted to his first sighting of his mother’s world, I wonder? How much did she tell him before he came here for the first time? Did he come here before he was eleven? Did he have eyes like saucers the first time he saw a chocolate frog? No doubt he was excited at the prospect of going to a school where he wouldn’t feel like an outsider - somewhere he would be able to fit in at long last. How soon was it before he realised that Hogwarts held its own terrors?
Poxy, whistling in the kitchen, interrupts my musings. He knows it gets on my nerves, which is why he does it, of course. Responding to it will only encourage him, so I shall ignore him for the time being. Anyway, I really need to get some of my thoughts down on paper while they’re still fresh in my mind. I Summon a Dictaquill and parchment from my bureau and make a start.
‘Okay… early years… Let’s start with the parents… Seemingly a loving couple. Mother a witch, father a Muggle. Client remembers a mother who was strong and able to sort his father out when drunk. Felt safe with her… Query jealous of her control… or even his father’s love for her. A figure of comfort, certainly…’ The sound of what could loosely be described as, ‘singing’, disturbs my train of thought.
‘If I ruled the worr-ld, ev’ry day would be the first day of sprrr-inng…’ Poxy is pushing his luck.
‘Father. Probably loved his son in his own way, but I doubt he could relate to him. Client experienced first arousal when beaten by him. Much guilt about sex and disgust of genitalia…’
‘Every heart would have a new song to si-innng…’
I wouldn’t mind so much if he could sing in tune, but Poxy, as they say, can’t hold a note in a bucket. I let out an aggravated sigh.
‘First point. Control of sexual activity. Hmm… Enforced celibacy an option as he is not in any kind of relationship. Query chastity belt. Granting permission to masturbate and orgasm desirable.’ Relieving him of the responsibility of acting (or not) on his urges may free him of some guilt, I feel. ‘CBT likely.’
‘Da-da-daa-dee-da-da-daa-da-dee-da…’
For fuck’s sake. ‘Second point. Desire/need to be punished. Also goes back to childhood/early adolescence but more modern events obviously apply.’ I think about his dream. Does he harbour a secret desire for public humiliation due to his sense of guilt? Hmm… It will be very interesting to see how this develops.
‘Third point-’
‘And we’d sing of the JOY EV’RY MORN-ING WOULD BRI-INNNG’
My patience has just run out. ‘POXY, STOP THAT INFERNAL RACKET AT ONCE!’
‘Yes, Mistress. Sorry, Mistress.’
‘I should think so.’ Now, where was I? Um… Oh, yes. ‘Third point. Leather association. Many possibilities here. Clothes, whips, floggers, restraints, etc. Play on childhood association with father’s belt. Emotional reaction may be strong, however. Some caution required, I think.’
The whistling starts up again, but I choose to ignore it, irritating though it is - anything’s better than that bloody awful caterwauling. I huff in annoyance and rub my forehead. How can anyone be expected to concentrate when there’s a wizard with a latex fetish blundering around the place?
I try again. ‘Fourth point. Anal penetration…’ Well, that’s non-negotiable. He did not mention a preference for it - or experience of it for that matter. I smirk at the thought that I may have anal virgin on my hands. Severus Snape, you don’t know it yet, but your arse is mine.
‘Um… Fifth point. Approval...
I bite my lower lip. I really have to think this one through very carefully. I am on dangerous ground here, I know. One of the reasons I am so good at my job is my ability to see past the obvious desires of my clients and get to the core issues, thereby giving them what they need rather than what they think they want. Snape is no exception (and I’ve a feeling approval is the last thing he’s expecting). An idea is forming in my mind, which is not without risk. With someone as inexperienced as him, I have to take into account the likelihood of emotional involvement - more emotional involvement than I am prepared to tolerate, at any rate. I know the signs, and will end our association before it gets that far, I hope, but I have to consider the very real possibility that Snape will fall in love with me. I’m really not sure I should play these kinds of mind games with him, though. He could end up in a worse state than he is now, and I wouldn’t want to be responsible for that. Still… he’s the one who approached me, so I will do what he is paying me for - and to the best of my ability.
Which brings me to the subject of money. The quill waits patiently as I debate with myself. I tend to charge what I think the client can afford, but even so my services are not cheap. Snape said that money was not a problem, but he is on a teacher’s salary so I doubt he is that well off, and yet I don’t want him to think he’s a charity case either. There is also a lot of preparatory work involved which will take up a great deal of my time. I decide finally on 25 Galleons a session even though I often demand twice that, but then those men can easily afford it.
There is a loud crash from the kitchen. I don’t suppose I can ignore Poxy any longer.
‘Now, what have you done, elf?’ I shout.
‘N-nothing, Mistress,’ he replies.
‘That didn’t sound like nothing to me. You had better not have broken anything; that’s my best china you’ve got there.’ I pick up my riding crop and walk into the kitchen, only to discover a broken bottle and milk all over the floor. I step in the puddle deliberately.
‘So sorry, Mistress, so sorry,’ he says, banging his head against the worksurface. ‘Poxy is a bad, bad elf.’
He really shouldn’t be doing that at his age.
‘Banging your head isn’t going to clear up the mess, now is it?’ I say. ‘Get a cloth at once.’
Poxy totters on his high heels towards the sink.
‘Look in the cupboard.’
He bends over and I give him a sharp smack with the crop.
‘Oh, yes, Mistress. Punish poor Poxy. Poxy is a clumsy fucker of an elf.’
‘He most certainly is,’ I agree. ‘Now, get to it. And watch the broken glass; I don’t want you cutting yourself and bleeding over the floor. Understand? Any more mess, and I’ll personally slam your bollocks in the oven door.’
He looks hopeful.
‘But first, you may clean my boots.’
‘Thank you, Mistress.’ He gets down on his knees to polish them.
‘And, no whistling.’
‘Poxy is happy to serve, Mistress.’
‘I shall be in the living-room. No more ‘accidents.’ Are we clear?’
‘Yes, Mistress.’
~ * ~
I ward the door after Poxy leaves and make my way to the bedroom. There is little to tidy up before I leave for home. Oh, I didn’t mention that I don’t live here, did I? Well, I don’t. This flat is my place of work - my ‘dungeon’, if you like.
I unlace the corset and push it to the floor, glad to be able to breathe freely once more. It’s a relief to be out of it, I can tell you. You’d think the wizarding world would have come up with something better than whalebone, but unfortunately, there is nothing like it for moulding the figure into that hourglass look.
I strip off the rest of my clothes and perform a Cleansing Charm. It will have to do until I can have a bath. I grab some clean underwear from a drawer, my comfy trousers and a sweatshirt from the wardrobe, and dress hurriedly. Everything that is Mistress Roxanne is now on the floor. I stuff all of it away, drop my glamour and Apparate home.
~ * ~
Crookshanks greets me with a yowl as soon as I appear in my living room. The poor old thing’s getting a bit long in the tooth now, but then, aren’t we all? I give him an affectionate scratch behind the ear. You know, I’m probably destined to turn into the stereotypical old crone, complete with cat, warts and pointy hat - the only thing missing will be the broomstick - but I’d still rather have him around than live entirely on my own. Feeding him is my first priority; knowing it’s time for supper, he winds his way around my legs as we head for the kitchen together. Once he’s happily tucking in, I put the water on for the pasta. Then, while I’m waiting for it to boil, I pour myself a glass of Chablis and wander out into the garden.
Ahh… lovely. Much better than smelly old London. It’s so nice to be out in the fresh air, too. The weather is unseasonably warm for this time of year, and I intend making the most of it. My garden, although a little on the small side, is pretty, totally secluded and a haven for wildlife as well as a refuge for me. This place used to be my parents’ holiday cottage. During the war, the house was put under the Fidelius Charm, and Mum and Dad lived here for a bit when things got really scary, but with no electricity they were soon climbing the walls with boredom. Australia seemed a better option.
When I first came here to live, I kept up the tight security, allowing only my parents and a few close friends in on the secret. Nowadays, though, with the threat of Death Eater attacks long gone, I only keep up strong wards at night or when I am at work. This allows me to have a few Muggle conveniences like a telly, computer and music player for relaxation. Otherwise, I have my books and my research in Arithmancy, Transfiguration and Charms, which I consider to be my profession (I’ve had my work published in several periodicals), even though the financial rewards are modest - as opposed to my part-time day job, which is extremely lucrative. However, most of my spare cash goes towards funding my book habit, which is my one real pleasure in life. Other than that, and indulging in excellent wine from time to time, I live quite frugally.
My usual evening routine, after I’ve eaten and had a quick bath, is to curl up on the sofa, book in hand, with Crookshanks on my lap. I don’t have to go back to London for four days, so I have plenty of time to catch up on my reading and to complete the review my publishers need by the end of the month. This evening, however, after twenty minutes of staring at the same page, I give up and put the book down, my mind having wandered off on its own accord to reassess this afternoon’s interview. I should stress that it’s very unlike me to think about work when I’m at home like this. Actually, I’m usually quite ruthless about leaving Mistress Roxanne in the wardrobe in Diagon Alley, together with my corsets. She has no place in Hermione Granger’s cottage, but even so…
I have been shown a side of Severus Snape that I never knew existed until today, and I don’t think I’ve taken it all in yet. It was quite obvious from his appearance and general manner this afternoon, that he had gone out of his way to make a favourable impression on me; he’d looked well scrubbed, cleanly shaven and had washed his hair. His clothes, as ever, were immaculate. As he reached out to take the cup and saucer off me, I noticed his hands and nails, which I recall from my schooldays being either stained with ink or potions ingredients, were absolutely spotless.
I had already begun to consider my options by the time he’d stirred his tea, wondering why the Bat of the Dungeons would want my services… Bat?… Hmm… now, there’s an idea… no, no I couldn’t call him that; it would be too cruel, and I never liked others using that particular nickname. He looks nothing like one, anyway - if anything, he reminded me more of a stork when I was in school - all angles and corners from the crook of that beak of a nose to the sharp edges of his cheekbones, and thin to the point of emaciation. And yet, in spite of all of those shortcomings, he is still an imposing wizard, possessing a natural, fluid grace that can be quite mesmerising - all precision and economy of movement. Nothing hurried or awkward about him at all, but with the ability to strike like a cobra and overpower an enemy in the blink of an eye, should he choose to do so.
The little nagging voice in the back of my head is telling me it’s a big risk taking on such a dangerous man, but I know in my heart of hearts he means me no harm. Normally, I wouldn’t even entertain interviewing a new client before running a rigorous background check, or without insisting on a personal recommendation, but I dispensed with both in his case. Apart from my closest friends, Severus Snape is probably the one man in the world I would trust completely to be in the same room alone with me.
It will be strange, certainly, and he does present something of a challenge. Physically, he at least seemed to be in good shape for his age. I know his body was much abused in his youth, but it doesn’t seem to have affected him that much. Still, it is essential to bear that in mind when I subject him to punishment, as I’m sure he’s the sort to be too proud to mention that he suffers from the after effects of injuries inflicted years ago. I shall be able to assess that better when I see his skin …
I am going to see Severus Snape naked….
And, finally it hits me. There it is, like the proverbial elephant in the living room. I have been treating this like some… academic exercise, not fully acknowledging the enormity of this undertaking. It isn’t a game. This isn’t some stranger off the street; I am going to be disciplining one of the most powerful wizards in the country. Snape will undoubtedly have noticed that I wear a glamour - he’s not an idiot. If he discovers my identity… No, no, he won’t. Why should he even suspect it’s me? I rub my temples - this is giving me a headache. I don’t need all this aggro. It’s not too late to cancel. Maybe, it would be for the best. Quickly, before I have time to change my mind again, I go over to my writing desk and pick up a quill. ‘Due to unforeseen circumstances…,’ but I find I can’t write it. My hand refuses to move. I don’t know why - perhaps it’s to do with the life-debt - but … I can’t. I will have to go through with it now; I owe him too much to let him down.
Instead, I write, ‘Good evening, sub-Severus. I trust you are well…’
~*~
It’s long after midnight before I stop writing. I’ve designed a little training programme for my new sub. The first letter was easy; get him used to being naked, but also get him to start appreciating his sexuality. I will send it to him in a few days; the anticipation will have built up nicely by then. Oh, I’m so evil. I’ve also decided to charm the letters to speak. It’s important that he gets used to the sound of my voice and learns to obey my commands immediately and without question - if he forgets my instruction to open them when he’s alone… well, it will be a timely lesson in the consequences of disobedience. He will be desperate to see me again by the time he’s completed my little tasks. I will forbid him from masturbating, too - by the time he gets my second letter… which reminds me, I need to print some information off the computer for him, and… Now where did I leave those wizarding photographs?
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
6. Correspondence (ii): Severus.
‘Ohhh... God.’
What time is it? I know it’s early; I am far too familiar with the rhythms of this pile of old stones to think otherwise. As I fumble for the clock, bleary-eyed and disoriented, I become aware of two things: a rock-hard morning erection and a cold damp patch on the sheet. Fuck. On inspection, it appears I have not actually ejaculated during the night, but I am disgustingly wet. I reach for my wand, then hesitate as the threads of a memory weave their way into consciousness. Gods... “The Dream...”
It was as vivid as ever. I could feel the whip on my back. I was running, hunched over, trying to protect my head and cover my genitals. But… something was… wrong - different. I did not wake up at the usual point. I recall stumbling… yes, I tripped over a kerbstone and fell - hard - onto my knees. A crowd gathered, jeering, and then… a-a pair of red-booted feet - small, dainty feet - came into my line of vision… That’s when I awoke. Like this.
The clock says, “Go back to sleep.” Unthinking, I Summon my wand and perform a quick Cleansing Charm. I feel a peculiar sense of relief that my dream did not cause me to lose control - as if that would have let Mistress Roxanne down, somehow - although, to my mind, it would have hardly qualified as masturbating...
I snort. Mistress Roxanne, my arse.
I seem to be in danger of losing track who I’m dealing with, here. I flop back on the pillow and put my hands behind my head. Staring at the bed’s canopy, I wonder why I care about letting her down. It’s all rather confusing. I sigh, glancing at the clock again. Still no need to get up yet...
Yesterday was hell.
I spent the entire day in a state of constant arousal, barely able to concentrate on my work, wondering - hoping that she would contact me. Such a lapse cannot be tolerated again - my negligence almost caused an explosion. Every movement set my nerves jangling; every brush of my robes against my legs... By yesterday evening, I was at my wits’ end - so much so that, when I returned to my chambers after dinner, I began to tear at my clothes before I had put up the wards on the door. Being naked was a respite from all that-that tickling. I groan, knowing today will be no easier. In fact, it is likely to be be a whole lot worse.
For someone who has always prided himself on his intellect and for whom the desires of the flesh were an inconvenience to be largely ignored, the last few days have been something of a revelation. Somewhere along the line, my brain seems to have decided to take up residence in my groin. I do not think I have ever been so obsessed with sex in my life - not even when I was a teenager did I feel so-so governed by these basest of urges. All this sudden want, despite the fact that there is not the slightest hope of me ever fucking... And yet, against all reason, I have this... yearning to please her, my would-be mistress, to do her bidding, to yield to her command. My cock aches just thinking about it; I long to wank myself off, but if - and it’s a big ‘if’ since I still don’t know what Miss Granger’s game is - if I choose to continue my... association with her, I will have to comply with her instructions. What’s left of my logical brain tells me not to be so stupid and give in to the demands of my body.
Instead, I turn my attention to an even more pressing need. I roll over and get out of bed, struggling to think of something to make my erection go down since I am now desperate to empty my bladder.
MinervasnoggingFilchsnoggingAlbusshaggingHagrid. The shuddering horror invoked by those particular images has the desired effect by the time I reach the toilet. Gods, that’s a relief! I shake the drips and head for the shower. Washing myself hurriedly, I am careful to avoid any prolonged intimate contact. Then, as the first twinges of arousal make their presence felt, I turn the tap to cold, brace my hands against the wall and let the water cascade down my back.
With sanity restored, albeit temporarily, by the cold water, I try to rationalise my predicament. To begin with, I remind myself for what seems like the hundredth time, it was me who felt the need to seek out the services of a Dominatrix, me who insisted on the best. I wanted this; I was the one desperate for an interview with Mistress Roxanne. There was no coercion on her part.
It must be said that, with our world being so small, I had to reconcile myself early on in my search to the possibility that my ideal mistress, whenever I found her, would once have attended Hogwarts. To avoid this unwanted complication, I had initially considered extending my search to the Muggle world but quickly dismissed the idea, deciding that it might prove too risky. I would never have been completely at ease - and in any case, no Muggle could ever truly dominate me, which would have defeated the object of the exercise. I was therefore incredibly relieved, when I eventually met the mysterious, elusive, Mistress Roxanne, that she was not someone I knew. I suppose, looking back, that fact alone should have immediately aroused my suspicions.
Let’s be honest here; the first time I laid eyes on the woman, I was attracted to her. Not just physically - I connected with her. She made me feel safe and accepted, and I opened up to her - even when I felt the first inkling of recognition, I kept pouring out my heart to her against my instincts and better judgment... On some level, my mind refuses to acknowledge that Mistress Roxanne could possibly be Hermione Granger. There is no way I could be attracted to that girl. I was never interested in her - ever, although she was pretty enough, I suppose… No. No, I don’t want to believe that she could be the answer to my prayers, yet I know… Mistress Roxanne… could. That is my quandary. I want to be dominated by Mistress Roxanne, not Hermione Granger. A shiver runs down my spine which has nothing to do with the cold water. The thought of kneeling, bound, at her feet, awaiting- I slam my hand against the shower wall in annoyance, raging against the unfairness of it all, my stupidity, and Granger’s duplicity for deceiving me so.
Getting out of the shower, I reach for a towel and dry myself briskly. I wonder… what if the woman behind the glamour had turned out to be... one of my Slytherins, say - or one of the many nondescript, uninspiring, totally forgettable females that have passed through my dungeon classroom? I suppose I would have been initially uncomfortable, but with a few assurances, I would still have gone ahead. But Granger… why did it have to be the one witch who reminds me of a time in my life that I would very much rather forget...
‘Ah, we have a guest. Join us, Severus. I’m afraid Bella’s ruined the Mudblood’s cunt, but her arse is still quite tight- ’
‘Don’t waste your breath, Lucius. Severus would rather be on the receiving end, wouldn’t you, pet?’
Bella… Oh, Fuck! What must she have thought when I was waxing lyrical about Bella? It’s a wonder she didn’t throw me out on my ear. Will she want revenge for having to listen to my pathetic whining? I know it’s inappropriate, but the thought of punishment has the predictable effect.
I Summon my wand and cast a Drying Charm on my hair. There can be no doubt that a bond was formed between us the day I gave up my freedom to save her. I did not hesitate to fetch the Aurors, even though I knew I would be arrested, and if I had my time over, I would do it again without a second thought. Seeing her at her most vulnerable, though… Hmm, that does put me in a position of power over her which might compromise our… relationship. Perhaps she recognises it, too. Perhaps she only agreed to see me out of some sense of obligation. I’m not sure how that makes me feel.
As for the glamour… Disguising her appearance must go with the job; I don’t think I should take that personally. I assume she uses a glamour with all her clients - otherwise word would soon have got out that one of the Golden Trio was into whips and chains in a professional capacity. I snigger a bit at that, imagining the headlines in the Daily Prophet. I think we can discount blackmail, Severus, old boy… Another thought occurs to me; she presumably believes that the glamour has fooled me, and that I am ignorant of her true identity. Hmm... I may not have the upper hand here, but there may be some yet unseen advantage to be gained…
I sigh, gazing at my face in the shaving mirror. What must she think of me? I know I’m not much to look at; I know there is no way she could find me attractive. That would be too much to hope for and completely unnecessary, anyway. So, why do I care what she thinks? Why, in spite of all my reservations, do I still want to go along with it? It simply does not make any sense. I lather up some shaving soap and brush it onto my face. Hermione Granger. Why am I putting myself through all this... torment for you? I pick up the razor, then stop. The answer is really quite simple. Because, Severus, you sad old bastard, you have never felt so alive in all of your pathetic excuse of a life.
~*~
At breakfast, I am partly disappointed, partly relieved to see there is no letter for me this morning. I will have to get through another day somehow and try not to think about Mistress Roxanne and the next task she has planned for me. Yes, it’s Mistress Roxanne, now. I have decided, for my own peace of mind, it is easier to think of her only as that - unless and until Miss Granger puts in a surprise appearance.
At lunch, I find I have little appetite. The idea of food is nauseating. Poppy looks at me with concern and tries to foist some stodgy pudding on me. I know she means well; she’s one of the few women of my acquaintance who has always had my best interests at heart. Nonetheless, Spotted Dick and custard is the last thing I feel like at the moment. I return to the dungeons early to prepare for my afternoon classes.
In the last period of the day, an owl swoops into the Potions classroom and drops a small parcel with a letter attached to it on my desk. I recognise the writing immediately and hastily put it into my robe pocket. There are another twenty minutes of this lesson to go according to the hour-glass which, I know, are going to feel like an eternity, but I can neither open the package nor leave the classroom unattended. I feel my cock hardening and thank the gods that my teaching robes cover a multitude of sins. Please don’t let these imbeciles fuck anything up. I’m afraid that if I have to move in a hurry to contain someone’s cauldron, I might do myself a mischief.
As soon as the little miscreants have gathered their belongings and left, I clean up the classroom in a frenzy of wand-waving, anxious to get back to my chambers. Unfortunately, one of my Slytherins calls my attention to a scuffle that has broken out in the corridor, and I have to go and intervene. Just my luck. By the time the hexes have stopped flying, and I have sorted out the carnage, cleaned up the blood, assigned detentions and escorted an hysterical first-year Hufflepuff to the Hospital Wing, it is almost time for dinner. As I turn to leave, Poppy, who has administered a Calming Draught to the over-excited child, offers to accompany me to the Great Hall. I try my best to put her off but find myself on the receiving end of one of her best nursing stares when I say that I’m not hungry. I realise with a sigh that she is not going to take no for an answer. Madam Pomfrey can be one determined witch when she feels the need to reprimand someone for not taking care of themselves properly, and I know when not to cross her. Hungry or not, I know I’ll have to eat something or I’ll never hear the end of it.
So, after being escorted, if not frogmarched, to the High Table, I try to make a show of eating something. I pick at my food for a bit, pushing it around the plate and half-heartedly discuss the forthcoming Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match with Minerva. Eventually, I manage to extricate myself from the riveting conversation, say my goodnights and leave. It’s hard not to break out into a run as I stride towards my rooms, turning over the package in my pocket, the sense of excitement building as I wonder what she has in store for me tonight.
~*~
Finally. Leaning against the door, slightly out of breath, I take the package out of my pocket and just stare at it for a moment, savouring the anticipation. Separating the letter, I bring it up to my nose and inhale, hoping for some lingering scent of my mistress, but there is none. My fingers are itching to open it but, suddenly mindful of the fact that I am in my chambers and still fully clothed, I walk over to the hearth rug and place the parcel on my chair instead. Reverently, I kiss the letter, prop it up against the package and imagine that it is Mistress Roxanne sitting there, watching me. I undress and kneel on the rug as if awaiting her command, tingling at the thought. Only then do I open the letter. It flies out of my hands immediately and hovers in the air above me.
‘Good evening, Sub Severus,’ says the voice of my mistress. ‘I am assuming that you are listening to this, alone, in your chambers. You should therefore be naked, preferably on your knees. If that is not the case, strip now, Transfigure the nearest suitable object into a ruler and smack your arse with it - hard - thirty times. You may then kneel down and listen to the rest of my letter…’
I feel my breath catch in my throat at her words. I have narrowly avoided punishment.
‘… if, however, you were already naked, say, ‘I have been a good boy, Mistress.’
‘I-I have been a good boy, Mistress.’
‘That pleases me, sub. You may open your present. A Finite Incantatem will restore it to its normal size.’
‘Accio wand!’ True to her word as I mutter the spell, the parcel expands.
‘You will see that there are, in fact, two bundles,’ she continues. ‘The top one contains some general information which you may find useful, and also some detailed descriptions of the kind of behaviour expected in a good submissive. Some things are more pertinent than others; I have highlighted some basic requirements for your conduct the next time we meet and made my own notes in the margins. You are to read this material in your own time and familiarise yourself with those points I consider essential. The second bundle contains photographs of various fetishes. This is your task for this evening. Make yourself comfortable and work your way through them. Take your time; I want you to look at each one for at least thirty seconds, then sort them into three piles: yes, no and possibly. Be honest with yourself; do not go by your initial reaction, but note how your body responds rather than your mind.’ She laughs. ‘You may be pleasantly surprised by your reactions or... not. Begin whenever you are ready. Say, “I have finished, mistress,” when you reach the end.’
Fetishes? I thought we had already discussed this. Is this some sort of test? Burning with curiosity, I discard the top bundle without looking at it. Time for that later. The pile of photographs underneath are held neatly together by a black ribbon. I ease myself into my armchair and undo the bow. Not exactly sure what to expect, I take a deep breath and examine the first photograph.
Ohh, ye-ss. A man is kneeling, hands tied above his head while his mistress (beautifully dressed in a black corset, I might add) flogs him with a small whip. Of course, I cannot hear the swish of each lash or the cries of the man, but I see the look of pleasure on his face. As if it were not self-evident, a caption in the corner says, ‘Flogging.’ Yes, I want this. Very much. Smiling, I start the ‘yes’ pile by placing it on the table next to me.
I turn my attention to the second one, in which a man with some sort of harness around his head and… Good God, he’s got a tail growing out of his arse! His mistress is making him prance around in circles on a lead, occasionally correcting his movements with a long whip. Well, my cock responds to that, but the concept… no, not for me. I drop the first of the ‘no’ pile on the floor.
A few minutes later, the no pile has increased somewhat as I discard in quick succession photographs of men dressed up in French maids outfits doing the laundry, a woman dressed in some bizarre interpretation of a mediwitch’s robes (I may have to Obliviate myself since the vision of Poppy so dressed has imprinted itself on my brain) giving a bound and blindfolded submissive an enema and a man, in what looks to be a nappy, sucking milk out of a baby’s bottle. I have absolutely no idea what that’s all about, and I have no desire to enquire further.
The next one, however, is much more to my liking. The sub is lying flat on his back with his mistress sitting, fully clothed, on his face. I’m not sure if he’s still breathing, but what a way to go. The woman picks up a book, adjusts her seat and appears to read. Occasionally, she picks up a crop and beats him with it. I am rather intrigued with this idea and add it to the yes pile.
Over the next hour, I apply myself diligently to my allotted task, and the stack gradually diminishes. Conscientiously, I give each image my full attention for the required amount of time: some arouse my curiosity but nothing more, some I stare at longingly, others I have to force myself to look at. Some make me cringe - this one here where the woman is pushing a metal rod inside the man’s penis, for example, is making my eyes water, but I keep looking. Somewhere during the past thirty seconds, I notice, I have unconsciously crossed my legs.
The one thing that strikes me about them all, however, is the look of peace on the faces of the submissives. I want that. Whatever it is they have, I want it. Sighing, I work my way through a tableau depicting different bondage scenes, aching to be the man subjected to the ropes and restraints that suspend him off the floor, helpless and totally at the mercy of the Dominatrix. As she pinches his nipples and attaches clamps to them, I pinch mine and wonder what it would feel like… Trance-like, I watch her tugging his balls and binding his scrotum with a leather strap, to which she then add weights… ‘Cock and ball Torture (CBT)’ announces the caption, helpfully. It looks exquisitely painful. Soon, soon, it will be my turn to experience such delights for real. It goes on the ‘yes’ pile.
The very last photograph brings me out of my reverie with a jolt. A man, wearing only leather shorts and a collar, is led to a square metal frame on a dais where his hands and feet are spread wide and fastened by restraints at the four corners. An audience, in various states of undress watch the scene intently. Once secured, his mistress pulls down the two zips on each side of his shorts that hold the material together, then removes them, leaving him exposed and erect… I throw it on the no pile, but my heart is racing. ’Be honest…’ I pick it up again and quickly put it on the ‘possible’ pile, even though such a thing is totally impossible. My task for the evening is now complete. I look at the sum of my endeavours; the ‘no’ pile is by far the biggest of the three. I smirk. Seems I’m not as kinky as I thought. Well, no point delaying any further; I suppose I’d better find out what’s next…
‘I have finished, Mistress.’
‘Excellent. I trust you found that exercise worthwhile. Now, I want you to look at the ‘possible’ pile again and pick out the one you find the most appealing. Say, ‘I have chosen, Mistress,’ when you are ready.’
I look through the photographs. It is hard for me to do this, very hard, but I still pick up the one that shows the man having the flogging in public.
‘I have chosen, Mistress.’
‘Good. Now - I’m assuming you are sitting in a chair - put your legs over the arms.’
This I do. It’s murder on the back, but I try to make myself as comfortable as possible.
‘With the photograph floating in front of you, I want you to touch yourself as I tell you. You will begin with your face…’
I follow her instructions to the letter, running my fingertips over my face, down my neck to my chest. I tease my nipples as she tells me, pinching and pulling, closing my eyes as I give myself up to the sensations. My cock is so hard; I think I am going to come soon whether she gives me permission to masturbate or not.
‘… Drag your nails up your inner thighs. That’s right and down again… Now, cup your balls with your left hand. Are they nice and full, Sub Severus? I bet they are.’ She laughs.
Oh, gods. Much more of this and-
‘I bet they’ve risen up close to your cock, too. So, I want you to grip them nice and firmly and gently pull them down and away…’
Ooooh… The stretch is uncomfortable but not really painful. It certainly takes the edge off. In the photograph, the mistress pulls down the zips… Please, Mistress Roxanne…Don’t…
‘… Play with your balls with both hands. Enjoy the feel of them, the weight of them. Separate them, rub them with you thumbs…’
I. Want. To. Come.
‘Does that feel good?’
‘What the fuck do you think?’
‘Trail your left hand underneath and stroke the skin there. When you reach your anus, I want you to insert your little finger.’
What?
‘Do it, now, Sub Severus. You may as well get used to it.’ The sound of her laughter fills the room again.
I hesitate and wet my finger with my saliva before complying. What does she mean, ‘get used to it?’
‘Move it in and out for me like the good little sub you are. You like that, don’t you, you dirty boy?’
‘Ye-esss.’ It feels surprisingly… good.
‘Is your cock leaking now?’
Oh, yes. I watch the woman attaching the nipple clamps… - ‘You want this, Sub Severus. I know you do.’ -
‘I want you to smear some of that lovely spunk on the fingers of your right hand and lick it off. Have you done that before?’
Only out of curiosity when I was a teenager. I find the idea distasteful, but do as she commands.
‘Good. Now, spread some more over your cock and start stroking it. But, you are not to come until you have counted to a hundred.’
A hundred? She must be joking! I doubt I’ll get to ten! But I start counting - quickly.
‘ …fifteen, sixteen, seventeen…’ The man in the picture silently screams as his mistress wields the whip. I manage to avert disaster by tugging hard on my scrotum…
‘… Thirty… thirty-one …’ She pulls the nipple clamps off. Shit! I’m going to lose it. Flogging, flogging… Mercy, mistress. I’m panting, soaked in sweat. ‘I can’t… can’t…’
‘…sixty-three…sixty-four…’ The woman grabs her sub’s cock roughly… Sweet Nimue…
‘… seventy-nine… eighty…’ The man throws back his head as he ejaculates. Mustn’t…
‘…Ninety-five… ninety-six.’ I let go of my aching balls… ‘One- Holybuggeringfuckingsodding hell!’
~ * ~
I am resting, my head lolling on the back of the chair, trying to calm my breathing. Totally spent, I can’t move, and I don’t want to, covered as I am in several days worth of rapidly cooling pent up frustration.
‘Was that worth waiting for, my little sub?’
Fuck, yes.
‘Now, you dirty little boy, rub all that mess you’ve made all over you. Rub it into your skin; over your balls, thighs, torso and face. I want you inhale the smell of your sex, suck your fingers and savour it. You are going to go to bed tonight and wake up tomorrow reeking of sex.’
I am too exhausted to even think about what she is asking me to do. I just do it.
‘When you have recovered, gather the photographs together and send them back to me. At this stage, you may write me a short note with any questions that are bothering you. I will be in touch within a couple of days. Needless to say, I expect you to remain chaste until then.’
In this state of post-orgasmic bliss, I remain in my chair feeling limp and languorous. I still don’t feel like moving particularly, but I will fall asleep here if I do not. Wearily, I stand up.
‘Oh, I almost forgot.’ The sound of her voice startles me. ‘From now on, you will wear nothing under your robe during the daytime other than your boots and socks. Goodnight, sub. Sleep well.’
Oh, fuck.
Chapters 1 and 2
Chapters 3 and 4