For the Potions Master\'s Amusement

For the Potions Master's Amusement

Chapter 11: The Reckoning


Excerpts from the Journal of Miss Hermione Granger:

Sunday, 9 November

The dictionary definitions of “submissive” and “submission” all have to do with the surrender of power or control of one’s self or actions to another. I find that idea very appealing, for a variety of reasons, but the most compelling one may be because it makes me feel weak with want.

Monday, 10 November

The other girls who live in my dormitory worry all the time about making themselves attractive to boys. They worry about their hair and their make-up and their clothes. I have always scorned that behaviour. Yet for the first time in my life, I find that I want to make myself attractive to a Dominant man, and that has caused me to consider how I would go about it. It occurs to me that the Dominant cares much less about the outward adornment of the submissive than about her readiness to yield her will to his. Perhaps he finds averted eyes, respectful silence, and prompt compliance to his requests to be far more alluring than stylish clothing and expensive cosmetics.

Wednesday, 12 November

I want to submit. I want to empty myself of my own overweening agenda and lay myself completely open to the will of a Dominant—yes, to be used for his pleasure, therein receiving my pleasure, as well—but also to be relieved of the burden of decision for that period of time. I want to be the blank canvas upon which a Dominant, in whom I have complete trust, will paint scenes in which I may spend times of fulfilment and contentment.

Friday 14 November

I am not a weak woman. I am intelligent, I am capable, and I am confident in my abilities. Yet when I consider yielding my will to the control of a trusted Dominant, I am liquid with desire. I wish to be disciplined to his service, and in so doing, to transcend everyday life for that slice of bliss which sustains me.


Hermione finished re-reading her last journal entry and put her journal away, locking it safely in her bedside table. She had returned to her room after eating a hurried dinner in the Great Hall and washed carefully before changing into a skirt and pulling her school robes on over her clothes. Her heart pounded in her chest as she walked down the staircases from Gryffindor Tower to the dungeons. She was desperate to see him again, for though she had seen him in the past week, she was fairly sure he had not seen her. At every meal, his eyes were elsewhere when she looked to the staff table, and in his classroom, he neither looked at nor spoke to her—not even to taunt her potion-making abilities. It was very strange of him, and it made her very uncomfortable.

There were a few people in the entrance hall as she moved to the dungeon stairs, but it was no one she knew, so she did not have to explain her destination. As she approached his office, breathing became more difficult, and she wiped her damp palms on her robes before knocking on his office door. She was relieved when the door opened to admit her to his darkened office, and she immediately slipped her robes off and stashed them beneath his desk. She had just enough time to snatch her skirt up and tuck it into the waistband before the secret doorway glowed green, and the door swung open.

‘Enter,’ he said, and Hermione slipped through the doorway and stopped, willing her racing heart to slow so that she would be able to hear him over the pounding in her ears.

He sat at the table, writing in the green leather journal which she recognised as the twin of hers. He wore the forest green jumper, and his damp hair gleamed like a raven’s wing beneath the oil lamp over the table. Her eyes drank him in hungrily, but he did not look up; his quill scratched over the page, and all Hermione could do was stand and wait with slightly shaking hands.

The ticking of the clock was testament to the passing of time, and soon enough, her heart rate slowed, as did her breathing. She realised he was testing her, and she willed herself to acceptance. He had given her a great deal of pleasure and had asked for little in return other than respect and obedience.

The clock on the mantel chimed the half-hour before Professor Snape laid down his quill and looked at her. She immediately averted her eyes, though it felt as if her heart had tripped and fallen to her feet.

‘Good evening, Hermione,’ he said quietly.

‘Good evening, sir,’ she replied softly, darting a small smile at him before lowering her eyes again.

He stood and crossed the room to her in three quick strides; as he drew near, she caught his scent, and she shivered with the pleasure of it.

‘Have you followed my instructions?’ he asked, standing very close to her.

‘Yes, sir,’ she said, resisting the urge to wipe her sweat-damp palms on her skirt.

‘You have not touched yourself sexually?’ he asked her.

‘I have not,’ she agreed, staring at the gloss of his boots.

‘Look into my eyes, Hermione—let me see.’

She raised her face willingly, glad of the opportunity to study him close-up—but he was immediately in her mind, and she was taken up with his perusal of her memories. It appalled her that he began on the day of the Quidditch match. He watched their conversation as they walked to the pitch, feeling her excitement and euphoria, experienced her anticipation leading up to their meeting, and the utter desolation she felt as he expressed his displeasure. Next he went through each day between now and then, dipping into taste her emotions as well as exploring her actions. At last, he released her mind, and she immediately felt his absence as a loss.

He stepped back from her. ‘I have enjoyed your journal entries regarding your thoughts on submission, Hermione,’ he said, his tone warmer now that he had verified the truth of her assertion that she had obeyed his instructions. ‘Am I correct in understanding that you trust me?’

Hermione swallowed and felt her face flush. How odd that she could stand before this man with her private parts uncovered without blushing, but one slightly personal word had her colouring up like a firstie. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said.

He reached a hand into his trousers pocket and withdrew a silky black handkerchief. ‘Will you permit me to blindfold you, Hermione?’

A very distant alarm rang through her mind. What sort of idiot allows a Slytherin to blindfold them, Hermione? Harry’s voice shouted, but she pushed it away. Submission to his will meant unquestioning trust. ‘Please, sir,’ she said, and he stepped behind her, deftly flipping the cloth to a long strip before placing it over her eyes and knotting it at the back of her head.

‘Good girl,’ he breathed into her ear, stirring her hair against her cheek, and her quim flooded with an aching warmth.

Had he forgiven her?

‘Come with me,’ he told her, and he took her hand, leading her across the floor. ‘You may sit,’ he said and guided her to the floor, where she settled herself upon a cushion. She felt the warmth of the fire upon her front, and as he settled behind her, bracketing her with his knees, she realised she was sitting at his feet before the sofa. ‘May I brush your hair?’ he asked, and Hermione felt as if she had melted into a lump of pure happiness. Had he not said that Dominants conferred such acts upon submissives when they were pleased?

‘Yes, please, sir,’ she said, surrendering herself to the bliss of his hands upon her hair.

‘I was very pleased that you so readily understood your error upon our last meeting,’ he said, beginning at the bottom of her hair and gently moving the bristles through it. ‘So many young submissives forget themselves in the flush of their sexual need, but you reasoned through to the correct answer on your own, Hermione. I was mightily impressed by that.’

She revelled in his words, as well as the touch of his fingers upon her scalp, smoothing along in the wake of the brush. She wanted to ask questions, but he had not invited her to do so, and she was uncertain whether it was permitted. Succumbing to his voice and hands, she relaxed into one of his strong, long legs, her cheek pressed blissfully to his knee, as if she could not hold her head up unaided.

‘Sometimes, a Dominant will help the submissive to focus her attention on particular stimuli by depriving her of her other senses—in this case, we are using a blindfold.’ His fingertips strayed from her hair onto her cheek before lightly stroking over her covered eyes. ‘Sensory deprivation can be a useful tool in many ways, but tonight we are restricting your sight so that you can more fully enjoy physical sensation.’

A moment of silence fell, although his hands did not vary their brushing and stroking of her hair, so Hermione said, ‘Thank you, sir,’ her voice sounding sleepy, for she was relaxed almost into a coma-state.

‘Do you like the blindfold, Hermione?’ he asked, his head now lowered very close to hers, his breath redolent of toothpaste.

‘Yes, sir,’ she breathed, turning her face towards his, her heart racing at the mere notion that her lips might touch his face.

‘Let’s see,’ he said, and she felt his chest press against her shoulder as he reached down, seeking and finding her exposed quim. He slid his fingers deep, past her wanton nub into the slick pool at her opening, then he stroked up, rubbing a gentle circle around her pleasure centre. ‘Oh, you do like it,’ he purred, and she arched her neck, groaning aloud to have his fingers in her quim again. He chuckled, a low, dark sound which resonated within her body like a pealing bell. ‘Are you ready now to claim the spanking you won last week?’

Even as he asked the question, he was straightening up, away from her, and she was twisting her body around, following him.

‘Come on, then,’ he said, and she clambered into his lap, struggling to situate herself by touch alone. ‘Eager little slut, aren’t you?’ he said, his tone teasing … almost affectionate. It was almost as if her blindness freed him to more expressions of personal interest—or was it that her own attitude adjustment helped her to perceive his actions differently?

He flipped her skirt up, exposing her naked bottom to the cold air, and his right arm pulled her properly across his lap, just the way he had done before. Hermione shuddered with anticipation, feeling an emotion of powerful need, seasoned with the equally powerful feeling of being in her proper place, thus situated over her professor’s knee—of being home.

‘You asked for your hairbrush, didn’t you, little one?’ he asked, now cupping her cunt with his left hand and giving it a squeeze.

‘Yes, please,’ she cried, need overcoming the careful decorum she had maintained to this point.

The smooth, cold back of her hairbrush stroked over her flesh as he chuckled again, leaning over her, his lips very near her ear. ‘That’s right, Hermione—let the sensations overtake you—let the blindfold do its work.’

And the first blow of the hairbrush back slapped her arse, startling a low moan of pleasure from her throat, almost like a cat in heat.

‘That’s my girl,’ he purred, bringing the hairbrush down on her other cheek. ‘Just let it go.’

Deprived of sight, Hermione was reduced to her remaining senses: the divine stinging blows upon her bottom, translating seamlessly to molten need in her cunt; the sound of the brush impacting her body and of her professor’s disturbed breathing; the smell of her own arousal upon the hand which clamped her torso to him and of the wood smoke rising up the chimney into the cold autumn night; the rough weave of the sofa upholstery beneath her knees and against her cheek—and best of all, the proud, insistent hardness of his straining erection against her side. Sweet Merlin, it made him hot to take her over his knee and spank her bum, and surely she could use that to her advantage, somehow.

And then he moved into the next phase of her spanking, the blows landing harder and faster upon her buttocks, and there was no more coherent though, only feeling and reacting. Tears began to fall from her eyes—tears of thankfulness that he would spank her, and tears of release, as she was transformed into an empty vessel to be filled.

When he set aside the hairbrush, she lay weeping over his lap, and he immediately began to massage an oil into the skin of her bottom. It reduced the sting significantly, but did nothing for the torrent of need he had created within her. Slowly, her tears dried, and she pushed her bottom into the hand with the oil, deriving what pleasure she could from the contact of his hand upon her flesh.

Still wordless, he shifted her so that she was cradled in his lap, his strong right arm holding her against his chest, her face in the crook of his neck. His left hand stroked gently over her belly, just above the apex of her thighs, and she had the strong feeling he was looking at her, though whether at her face or her private parts she could not say. She shifted experimentally on his lap and ascertained that his erection was still present, if less rampant than when he had been spanking her. With a purr of pleasure, she positioned herself and ground her bottom against the hardness.

‘No more of that, little one,’ he said, and although he was reproving her, he did not sound angry. ‘Instead, open up your legs for me, and show me your hot little cunt.’ The hand stroking her belly slipped down to spread her labia, and she spread her thighs wider with a whimper. ‘That’s right,’ he encouraged her. ‘Don’t you want to come for me?’

‘Yes,’ she gasped, and he slid a finger inside of her, pumping it in, out, and in again.

‘Yes what?’ he whispered into her hair, adding a second finger to the one fucking her.

‘Yes sir,’ she cried, bucking up against his hand.

‘I’m very pleased with you, Hermione,’ he said, allowing his thumb to circle her clitoris as his fingers continued their in and out motion. ‘How many times can you come for me?’

She clutched at him, pressing her face against the side of his neck. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, raising her hips to press against his hand.

‘Well, our time isn’t unlimited,’ he said, ‘but let’s see what we can do.’

Thirty more seconds of his thumb expertly rubbing her clitoris brought her to a shuddering climax in his lap, and he wrapped both arms about her as she came down from it, rocking her and praising her. Soon, he was gently rubbing his hand down her flanks, then her thighs, pausing to cup and squeeze her mound at intervals.

‘I want to lick your cunt, little one,’ he murmured into her hair. ‘Will you let me do that for you?’

‘Oh God—yes, please,’ she moaned, earning one of his laughs.

He levitated her then, rising and moving with her across the room, until she was on the tabletop.

‘Scoot back a bit, so you can put your heels on the edge of the table,’ he instructed her, and Hermione complied, pleased when he cast a Cushioning Charm on the top of the table, making her more comfortable.

She felt movement near her feet, which were resting on the surface, her knees raised, and then his large, warm hands were upon her thighs, opening her legs, before moving to her cunt and opening her labia wide.

‘Did you like it before when I licked your clit?’ he asked, his breath warm upon her exposed parts.

‘Yes, I loved it,’ she admitted,

‘So did I,’ he said, and then his tongue was on her, light, tantalising licks, until she was hot again and aching for him. He seemed to read her whimpers, for he buried his nose in the curls and wrapped his lips around her clitoris, pulling it and the surrounding flesh into his mouth and flattening his tongue upon her. His lips moved convulsively to suck as his tongue tormented her with stroke after perfect stroke. She had her fingers tangled in his hair, thrusting wildly against his face when her orgasm came upon her, and he completely distracted her by choosing that moment to thrust two fingers deep inside her vagina. The tips of his fingers hit her sweet spot, once, twice, thrice, and she screamed, shattering into pieces on his study table, holding him so forcefully against her spasming cunt that later, she wondered how he had been able to draw breath.

‘Hermione,’ he groaned, almost as if in protest, and he scooped her off the tabletop onto his lap, settling her wide open, wet quim atop his erect prick and thrusting against her. She couldn’t see and could scarcely situate herself; her feet did not touch the floor, but she could grab the back of the chair in which he sat and steady herself as he thrust up and up and up, grinding his hips and speaking filthy, erotic words to her until he grunted and came in his pants, holding her hips in a vise-like grip as he gasped again, ‘Hermione.’