And She Was
Here's something a little new, a little different, an expansion from a drabble by the wonderful 
tamlane and posted with her permission. Be kind to Auntie, y'all!
And She Was
Title: And She Was
Author: auntbijou
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Hermione/Draco
Summary: She’ll make him pay.
Warning: D/s, femdom, anal, toys.
Words: 2608
Disclaimer: I do not own the wonderful Potterverse, J.K. does. I just like to play in it and make the characters do whatever I want. Obey!!
A/N: This is an expansion on a Saturday morning drabble by the wonderful Tamlane, who encouraged me to keep expanding on it, until I got THIS!
She didn't value his beauty.
She didn't show any outward appreciation of his nudity. Her expression was as impartial as nature, which sweeps in, at a whim, with wind and water that flattens entire cities, more effective in its brutality than any man can devise to be.
She cared little for his erection. His need. Or what she could gain from it. The look on her face was of one who acts not out of pleasure, but out of the simple knowledge that they can.
That look said, "What shall elicit the prettiest screams from your lips?"
He was an experiment.
She raised an eyebrow when he squirmed, discomfited by the intensity of her regard, and he froze. The tiniest uplift of each corner of her mouth spoke of amusement, but that wasn't comforting at all.
A hand moved just inches over the skin of his shoulders as she walked behind him, just a suggestion of warmth without any real contact, and to his embarrassment, he wanted that contact. Anything to make him feel real to her. To himself.
"You want this." It wasn't a question.
"Yes," he whispered.
"Don't close your eyes." He heard a sound. A creak, as of stiff leather. "I want to see it all. Do you understand?"
"Yes." And he did.
He wanted to turn, to look into her eyes and see if he was reflected, if she saw him at all, but he didn’t dare. Something told him she wouldn’t like it.
“I could have tied you up,” he heard her say. She was farther away from him than he realized. “I could have restrained you, so that you could blame me. So you could tell yourself that I was forcing you to do this. But... I’m not that kind, or merciful. You will stay there, restrained by your own will alone. If you move, if you get up, then we will stop, you will leave, and we will never mention this again. Am I making myself understood here? Are we clear?”
“Yes,” he nearly croaked, his mouth so dry it seemed his tongue would crack. He swallowed, almost closing his eyes until he remembered. “Yes,” he said a little more clearly. “I understand.”
“Very good,” she almost purred. “Remember. Keep your eyes open.”
Footsteps. She was walking around to stand in front of him, and she had something in her hands, something she was holding toward his mouth. Dear Merlin in the Summerland! When and where on earth did she ever learn to use a whip?? He stared up at her, not missing the curl of a smile at the corner of her mouth, the faint amusement behind her eyes as she held it to his mouth, and he realized what she was waiting for. The slightly bitter taste of leather as he kissed it, his eyes on hers, and one of her dark eyebrows went up. “Good boy,” she said, and tilted her head. How could she be so damn intimidating and scary in just her regular school uniform, he thought. The only leather on her was the belt around her waist, the shoes on her small feet, flat, practical, sturdy, and the whip in her hands. She nodded thoughtfully and gestured to the bench by the table. “Brace your hands on that,” she said, and moved behind him.
Dear gods, she was going to do it, she was going to do it and he was... he was going to let her? No... she was going to do it and he was going to take it, to show her what he was willing to bear for her, how far he would go... he closed his eyes. He heard the initial swings, the hiss of the tail as she warmed up, and then, a sting on his shoulder a bare nanosecond before the crack sounded, a brief kiss of sharpness that was gone. And then... the pain. He gritted his teeth and dug his fingers into the bench, uncaring of splinters. He could do this. He would do this. She was worth it... right? He needed this... he really needed this and...
The whip struck him again, and his body tensed as it licked along his spine. A gasp was all he allowed to escape from his lips, his fingers desperate on the wood of the bench. He heard her walking behind him, could imagine her tilting her head, considering the marks on his back, and where she would place the next one. When he heard the swish, this time, he relaxed, and the sting, the pain... he fought back the cry. He was harder than he’d ever been, and in more pain than he’d ever been in his pampered life, and she was the one doing it. She was the one making him go through this. By the fourth strike, across his buttocks, tears were working their way down his face, and when the lash struck for the last time, crossing the previous strike, his mouth was open as he gasped, struggling not to cry out. She walked around him again, presenting the whip, and he kissed it, panting, looking up at her. Her dark eyes held no compassion, no pity, just cool interest. “Water?”
“Please,” he said, keeping his eyes on hers.
“You may sit up.” She brought him a bottle, but wouldn’t let him hold it, instead holding it to his lips and watching dispassionately as he drank. Taking it away, she capped it and set it back on the table. “You’re hard,” she said, looking down between his legs.
He felt himself flushing. How was she doing that? He was no twittering virgin, but... he’d never done this before, either. “Yes.”
She nodded. “I didn’t say you could get hard.”
He stared up at her, stunned. “I...”
“We’ll have to do something about that.” She walked away from him, considering, and picked something up. “Since you’re already hard, why don’t we use a little something to keep you that way, and make sure you can’t... relieve yourself.”
His eyes widened when he saw what she held in her hands. No way! But his hands didn’t move, and he didn’t protest as she slipped the leather band around his cock, adjusting it and snapping so it fit tightly around the base. “There.” She stood and looked at him thoughtfully. “Do you have anything to say?”
He swallowed the lump of protest in his throat. He needed this. “No.”
“Good boy.” She walked away from him, and pulled a chair out to sit in front of him. “Remember. You are restrained by your own will alone. The moment you move, this is over. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” he said, remembering just in time not to frown. She almost smirked.
“Remember,” she said one more time, and slowly, slipped her hand under her skirt. When it shifted as she parted her legs, he realized she wasn’t wearing underwear. Oh gods. “This,” she said softly, as she caressed herself, and oh, she was bare, she was bare, she had evidently shaved or vanished her hair, oh gods, “is something you will never, ever have.” Slender fingers caressed pearly flesh, pearly damp flesh, and she arched her back. “This is not for you, and never will be.”
He stared, clenching his fists with the effort to not... to not touch himself, to not slide across the floor, to not move, because if he moved, she would stop, those fingers would stop sliding between those wet lips, she would stop making that sound, that little moan, her cheeks would stop flushing and... he struggled, fighting himself.
“Remember,” she said softly as she held herself open so he could see her erect little clit, and how her fingers circled and teased it. “If you move, this is over.”
He whimpered, trembling, and his cock was leaking, so hard it hurt, so hard, and there she was, all pink and rosy and so incredibly wet and flushed and...
“If you move... I stop... I walk away... and this is over.” She was getting close. Would she scream? Would she cry out his name? Would she...
It was very quiet, her orgasm. She denied him even that. Her mouth closed tight, her head went back, her body undulated, and she sighed... then looked at him, eyes cool, measuring, and she got up, crossing to him. Wet, fragrant fingers stopped within inches of his face, and he started to lean toward them.
“Don’t... move.”
He froze, staring at her fingers. His mouth was open, longing to taste them, wanting to lick them and taste her, to taste the dampness on her thighs, to worship her as she ought to be worshipped, to...
“Don’t... move.”
He panted, and looked up at her desperately. A slight smile touched her lips. “Tantalizing... isn’t it? You can smell it... and you want to taste it so badly, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“But you can’t.”
“Please...”
“What do you want?” She watched him with faint interest, fingers moving just a little closer, but... not close enough.
“To... to lick your fingers. To suck on them. To taste you...”
“No.” She stepped back, and picked up a towel to wipe her fingers on. “You haven’t earned it.” Her hands moved over the objects on the table, objects she had laid out with careful precision when they had entered. “Are you still willing to do whatever I ask?”
He was shaking now. Desperate. Needy. The lashes on his back stung as sweat ran into them, and he wanted so to close his eyes, to hide from her, to have a moment to center himself, but... her eyes on his were full of challenge now, as if she knew what he was feeling. How he wanted to hide and run away. “Yes.”
A smile, though small and not entirely warm. “Good boy.” She moved behind him, and he felt her fingertips ghosting through his hair. “Because I’m not done with you.” Her fingers were on his face now, picking up some of the tears left from the lashing. “Interesting. I never thought you were the type to cry. I didn’t think you knew how.”
He didn’t know how to answer that, so he stayed silent, and kept his eyes open. Her fingers moved over his shoulders, and he fought not to turn and grasp her, pull her down so he could...
A hand grasped his hair firmly, pulling his head back so he was forced to look up into her eyes. “Don’t... move. I won’t remind you again.” With a strength he didn’t know she possessed, she pushed his head away and shoved him down onto the floor. “Hands and knees.”
He obeyed. He didn’t want this to end. He... gods, he needed this. He needed this.
She was behind him, and he felt something cool and wet on his anus. Oh gods, was she... a finger slipped in. “It wouldn’t do to tear you... too much.”
“I...”
“Do you want me to stop?” she purred.
He froze. Did he? Her finger twisted within him, and he grimaced. No. No, he... “No.”
Another finger, and she was moving them, stretching him, and he wanted so to close his eyes, to concentrate on the feel of it, and ignore the other hand, the one that was tracing the welts on his back and buttocks, the nails scratching over them and making them burn, making them hurt, bringing tears to his eyes again, and his fingers clawed into the stone floor as he hissed in pain.
“Does it hurt?” A third finger was in him now, and he could feel her breath on his back. Oh, how he wanted...
“Yes.”
“I appreciate honesty,” she said coolly. Her fingers slipped out of him, and she walked in front of him. Something was poking up obscenely from under her skirt, something hard and black and... oh gods. “Kiss it.”
“What?”
She smirked. “Kiss the object of your defilement.”
He blinked, then obeyed, kissing the tip of it.
“You might want to get it wet, too. Otherwise, all the stretching in the world isn’t going to help when ...” she nearly laughed when he opened his mouth and took it in, drooling as best he could all over it. Gods, it was going to split him wide open!
He didn’t quite scream when she forced it into him. And he managed to keep his eyes wide open as she thrust it all the way into him in one move. What came from his open mouth was more like an agonized breathy wail than an actual scream. She barely gave him time to adjust before she was withdrawing, and then pushing it back into him, again, and again, and again, and again. He moaned, forcing himself to keep his eyes open, forcing his hands to stay in place on the floor, and not to grasp himself, to rip off the leather strap that was keeping him from exploding, and oh, oh, the pain, the pain of not coming, of needing it, wanting it, desperate for it, every time she hit his prostate, every time she drew her nails down his back, and he nearly sobbed with that need.
“Do you want it?” she asked softly as she thrust into him.
“Yes!” he almost shrieked.
She grasped a handful of his fine hair and pulled back, forcing him to arch his back and he felt her beginning to slam into him. Gods! It hurt! It hurt and he wanted to scream, but his head was pulled back, his mouth was open, and he was desperately struggling to keep his eyes open even as tears slid into his hair. “P... please!”
“Yes?” She might as well have been asking him to repeat what he wanted in his tea.
“Please... please... I ... I need to...”
“What do you need?” Her tone was almost kind.
“Gods, please, Hermione... let me come! Please!!!”
She released his head and suddenly shoved him to the floor. He lay there, gasping and shuddering, body slicked with sweat. He heard her moving, and then her leather shoes moved into his field of view. Slowly, he looked up her legs and up into her cold eyes. “So. Now we come to it. Begging the Mudblood for release, are we?” Slowly her foot came up, the toe resting on his forehead and she shoved, pushing him to sprawl on his back. “Wanting something from me so desperately, you’re willing to beg, to abase yourself to someone you consider lower than dirt, is that it?”
He stared up at her, trembling, sprawled wide open, vulnerable... she was standing between his legs, all it would take would be one foot swinging back. “Hermione...”
If anything, her face went even colder. “I don’t think so. You haven’t even come close to earning the right to call me by my name. You haven’t even earned the right to address me. Clean up. And you are not to touch yourself, or to make yourself come. I will owl you if I decide to use you again. Until then, Malfoy... you’re beneath my notice.”
He didn’t close his eyes until he heard the door close, and then his head fell back on the floor and he wondered, as he struggled not to touch himself, how the hell he was going to get the cock ring off without touching himself, or coming. When the solution she had left him came into his mind, only then did he truly understand the true humiliation she had just forced on him. He only hoped Blaise would let him live it down... eventually.
tamlane and posted with her permission. Be kind to Auntie, y'all!
And She Was
Title: And She Was
Author: auntbijou
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Hermione/Draco
Summary: She’ll make him pay.
Warning: D/s, femdom, anal, toys.
Words: 2608
Disclaimer: I do not own the wonderful Potterverse, J.K. does. I just like to play in it and make the characters do whatever I want. Obey!!
A/N: This is an expansion on a Saturday morning drabble by the wonderful Tamlane, who encouraged me to keep expanding on it, until I got THIS!
She didn't value his beauty.
She didn't show any outward appreciation of his nudity. Her expression was as impartial as nature, which sweeps in, at a whim, with wind and water that flattens entire cities, more effective in its brutality than any man can devise to be.
She cared little for his erection. His need. Or what she could gain from it. The look on her face was of one who acts not out of pleasure, but out of the simple knowledge that they can.
That look said, "What shall elicit the prettiest screams from your lips?"
He was an experiment.
She raised an eyebrow when he squirmed, discomfited by the intensity of her regard, and he froze. The tiniest uplift of each corner of her mouth spoke of amusement, but that wasn't comforting at all.
A hand moved just inches over the skin of his shoulders as she walked behind him, just a suggestion of warmth without any real contact, and to his embarrassment, he wanted that contact. Anything to make him feel real to her. To himself.
"You want this." It wasn't a question.
"Yes," he whispered.
"Don't close your eyes." He heard a sound. A creak, as of stiff leather. "I want to see it all. Do you understand?"
"Yes." And he did.
He wanted to turn, to look into her eyes and see if he was reflected, if she saw him at all, but he didn’t dare. Something told him she wouldn’t like it.
“I could have tied you up,” he heard her say. She was farther away from him than he realized. “I could have restrained you, so that you could blame me. So you could tell yourself that I was forcing you to do this. But... I’m not that kind, or merciful. You will stay there, restrained by your own will alone. If you move, if you get up, then we will stop, you will leave, and we will never mention this again. Am I making myself understood here? Are we clear?”
“Yes,” he nearly croaked, his mouth so dry it seemed his tongue would crack. He swallowed, almost closing his eyes until he remembered. “Yes,” he said a little more clearly. “I understand.”
“Very good,” she almost purred. “Remember. Keep your eyes open.”
Footsteps. She was walking around to stand in front of him, and she had something in her hands, something she was holding toward his mouth. Dear Merlin in the Summerland! When and where on earth did she ever learn to use a whip?? He stared up at her, not missing the curl of a smile at the corner of her mouth, the faint amusement behind her eyes as she held it to his mouth, and he realized what she was waiting for. The slightly bitter taste of leather as he kissed it, his eyes on hers, and one of her dark eyebrows went up. “Good boy,” she said, and tilted her head. How could she be so damn intimidating and scary in just her regular school uniform, he thought. The only leather on her was the belt around her waist, the shoes on her small feet, flat, practical, sturdy, and the whip in her hands. She nodded thoughtfully and gestured to the bench by the table. “Brace your hands on that,” she said, and moved behind him.
Dear gods, she was going to do it, she was going to do it and he was... he was going to let her? No... she was going to do it and he was going to take it, to show her what he was willing to bear for her, how far he would go... he closed his eyes. He heard the initial swings, the hiss of the tail as she warmed up, and then, a sting on his shoulder a bare nanosecond before the crack sounded, a brief kiss of sharpness that was gone. And then... the pain. He gritted his teeth and dug his fingers into the bench, uncaring of splinters. He could do this. He would do this. She was worth it... right? He needed this... he really needed this and...
The whip struck him again, and his body tensed as it licked along his spine. A gasp was all he allowed to escape from his lips, his fingers desperate on the wood of the bench. He heard her walking behind him, could imagine her tilting her head, considering the marks on his back, and where she would place the next one. When he heard the swish, this time, he relaxed, and the sting, the pain... he fought back the cry. He was harder than he’d ever been, and in more pain than he’d ever been in his pampered life, and she was the one doing it. She was the one making him go through this. By the fourth strike, across his buttocks, tears were working their way down his face, and when the lash struck for the last time, crossing the previous strike, his mouth was open as he gasped, struggling not to cry out. She walked around him again, presenting the whip, and he kissed it, panting, looking up at her. Her dark eyes held no compassion, no pity, just cool interest. “Water?”
“Please,” he said, keeping his eyes on hers.
“You may sit up.” She brought him a bottle, but wouldn’t let him hold it, instead holding it to his lips and watching dispassionately as he drank. Taking it away, she capped it and set it back on the table. “You’re hard,” she said, looking down between his legs.
He felt himself flushing. How was she doing that? He was no twittering virgin, but... he’d never done this before, either. “Yes.”
She nodded. “I didn’t say you could get hard.”
He stared up at her, stunned. “I...”
“We’ll have to do something about that.” She walked away from him, considering, and picked something up. “Since you’re already hard, why don’t we use a little something to keep you that way, and make sure you can’t... relieve yourself.”
His eyes widened when he saw what she held in her hands. No way! But his hands didn’t move, and he didn’t protest as she slipped the leather band around his cock, adjusting it and snapping so it fit tightly around the base. “There.” She stood and looked at him thoughtfully. “Do you have anything to say?”
He swallowed the lump of protest in his throat. He needed this. “No.”
“Good boy.” She walked away from him, and pulled a chair out to sit in front of him. “Remember. You are restrained by your own will alone. The moment you move, this is over. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” he said, remembering just in time not to frown. She almost smirked.
“Remember,” she said one more time, and slowly, slipped her hand under her skirt. When it shifted as she parted her legs, he realized she wasn’t wearing underwear. Oh gods. “This,” she said softly, as she caressed herself, and oh, she was bare, she was bare, she had evidently shaved or vanished her hair, oh gods, “is something you will never, ever have.” Slender fingers caressed pearly flesh, pearly damp flesh, and she arched her back. “This is not for you, and never will be.”
He stared, clenching his fists with the effort to not... to not touch himself, to not slide across the floor, to not move, because if he moved, she would stop, those fingers would stop sliding between those wet lips, she would stop making that sound, that little moan, her cheeks would stop flushing and... he struggled, fighting himself.
“Remember,” she said softly as she held herself open so he could see her erect little clit, and how her fingers circled and teased it. “If you move, this is over.”
He whimpered, trembling, and his cock was leaking, so hard it hurt, so hard, and there she was, all pink and rosy and so incredibly wet and flushed and...
“If you move... I stop... I walk away... and this is over.” She was getting close. Would she scream? Would she cry out his name? Would she...
It was very quiet, her orgasm. She denied him even that. Her mouth closed tight, her head went back, her body undulated, and she sighed... then looked at him, eyes cool, measuring, and she got up, crossing to him. Wet, fragrant fingers stopped within inches of his face, and he started to lean toward them.
“Don’t... move.”
He froze, staring at her fingers. His mouth was open, longing to taste them, wanting to lick them and taste her, to taste the dampness on her thighs, to worship her as she ought to be worshipped, to...
“Don’t... move.”
He panted, and looked up at her desperately. A slight smile touched her lips. “Tantalizing... isn’t it? You can smell it... and you want to taste it so badly, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“But you can’t.”
“Please...”
“What do you want?” She watched him with faint interest, fingers moving just a little closer, but... not close enough.
“To... to lick your fingers. To suck on them. To taste you...”
“No.” She stepped back, and picked up a towel to wipe her fingers on. “You haven’t earned it.” Her hands moved over the objects on the table, objects she had laid out with careful precision when they had entered. “Are you still willing to do whatever I ask?”
He was shaking now. Desperate. Needy. The lashes on his back stung as sweat ran into them, and he wanted so to close his eyes, to hide from her, to have a moment to center himself, but... her eyes on his were full of challenge now, as if she knew what he was feeling. How he wanted to hide and run away. “Yes.”
A smile, though small and not entirely warm. “Good boy.” She moved behind him, and he felt her fingertips ghosting through his hair. “Because I’m not done with you.” Her fingers were on his face now, picking up some of the tears left from the lashing. “Interesting. I never thought you were the type to cry. I didn’t think you knew how.”
He didn’t know how to answer that, so he stayed silent, and kept his eyes open. Her fingers moved over his shoulders, and he fought not to turn and grasp her, pull her down so he could...
A hand grasped his hair firmly, pulling his head back so he was forced to look up into her eyes. “Don’t... move. I won’t remind you again.” With a strength he didn’t know she possessed, she pushed his head away and shoved him down onto the floor. “Hands and knees.”
He obeyed. He didn’t want this to end. He... gods, he needed this. He needed this.
She was behind him, and he felt something cool and wet on his anus. Oh gods, was she... a finger slipped in. “It wouldn’t do to tear you... too much.”
“I...”
“Do you want me to stop?” she purred.
He froze. Did he? Her finger twisted within him, and he grimaced. No. No, he... “No.”
Another finger, and she was moving them, stretching him, and he wanted so to close his eyes, to concentrate on the feel of it, and ignore the other hand, the one that was tracing the welts on his back and buttocks, the nails scratching over them and making them burn, making them hurt, bringing tears to his eyes again, and his fingers clawed into the stone floor as he hissed in pain.
“Does it hurt?” A third finger was in him now, and he could feel her breath on his back. Oh, how he wanted...
“Yes.”
“I appreciate honesty,” she said coolly. Her fingers slipped out of him, and she walked in front of him. Something was poking up obscenely from under her skirt, something hard and black and... oh gods. “Kiss it.”
“What?”
She smirked. “Kiss the object of your defilement.”
He blinked, then obeyed, kissing the tip of it.
“You might want to get it wet, too. Otherwise, all the stretching in the world isn’t going to help when ...” she nearly laughed when he opened his mouth and took it in, drooling as best he could all over it. Gods, it was going to split him wide open!
He didn’t quite scream when she forced it into him. And he managed to keep his eyes wide open as she thrust it all the way into him in one move. What came from his open mouth was more like an agonized breathy wail than an actual scream. She barely gave him time to adjust before she was withdrawing, and then pushing it back into him, again, and again, and again, and again. He moaned, forcing himself to keep his eyes open, forcing his hands to stay in place on the floor, and not to grasp himself, to rip off the leather strap that was keeping him from exploding, and oh, oh, the pain, the pain of not coming, of needing it, wanting it, desperate for it, every time she hit his prostate, every time she drew her nails down his back, and he nearly sobbed with that need.
“Do you want it?” she asked softly as she thrust into him.
“Yes!” he almost shrieked.
She grasped a handful of his fine hair and pulled back, forcing him to arch his back and he felt her beginning to slam into him. Gods! It hurt! It hurt and he wanted to scream, but his head was pulled back, his mouth was open, and he was desperately struggling to keep his eyes open even as tears slid into his hair. “P... please!”
“Yes?” She might as well have been asking him to repeat what he wanted in his tea.
“Please... please... I ... I need to...”
“What do you need?” Her tone was almost kind.
“Gods, please, Hermione... let me come! Please!!!”
She released his head and suddenly shoved him to the floor. He lay there, gasping and shuddering, body slicked with sweat. He heard her moving, and then her leather shoes moved into his field of view. Slowly, he looked up her legs and up into her cold eyes. “So. Now we come to it. Begging the Mudblood for release, are we?” Slowly her foot came up, the toe resting on his forehead and she shoved, pushing him to sprawl on his back. “Wanting something from me so desperately, you’re willing to beg, to abase yourself to someone you consider lower than dirt, is that it?”
He stared up at her, trembling, sprawled wide open, vulnerable... she was standing between his legs, all it would take would be one foot swinging back. “Hermione...”
If anything, her face went even colder. “I don’t think so. You haven’t even come close to earning the right to call me by my name. You haven’t even earned the right to address me. Clean up. And you are not to touch yourself, or to make yourself come. I will owl you if I decide to use you again. Until then, Malfoy... you’re beneath my notice.”
He didn’t close his eyes until he heard the door close, and then his head fell back on the floor and he wondered, as he struggled not to touch himself, how the hell he was going to get the cock ring off without touching himself, or coming. When the solution she had left him came into his mind, only then did he truly understand the true humiliation she had just forced on him. He only hoped Blaise would let him live it down... eventually.