Hunter and Prey

This was more difficult than she had expected. Hermione stared at the ceiling. She thought about the taste of the toast. It had been slightly overcooked and her mouth was dry. A bit of jam would have improved it but she hadn’t noticed any in the fridge. Perhaps it was in the pantry. Or perhaps they were simply out of jam. Such things happened though in her experience there was always a semi-fossilised jar of preserve somewhere in a kitchen.

The room was getting hot. Yes, dear, Hermione said to herself. It is the room getting hot. Not her. It wasn’t her blushing rosy as she climbed towards her peak. Not thinking about it wasn’t working. A werewolf’s tongue was large and rough. He could curl it into places where it felt so good... She dragged her mind sharply away from that thought.

Once she had got over the essentially unsanitary nature of copulation, she had liked the idea of oral sex. It seemed much more companionable than the usual act. One of her fondest ‘bedroom’ memories of her relationship with Ron was loafing in front of the TV one Sunday morning before they were married.

They’d gone down on each other, her first then him, just pulling their pyjama bottoms down and bonding. She’d felt very close to him as they cuddled afterwards watching a rerun of Dr Who. Science fiction fascinated Ron, a legacy from Arthur without doubt. She had been happy then. Hermione sighed then groaned aloud as her body reacted to Fenrir. Would she ever be able to enjoy this act again without thinking of him?

At her climax, he looked up. Their eyes met then Fenrir pointedly rolled onto his back. A jerk of his hips conveyed what he wanted. Hermione hesitated. She could do this, she told herself. Women did all the time. Rationalise it as coerced prostitution. Remember Andrea Dworkin and forgive yourself, Hermione thought and made herself straddle the werewolf.

He was hot, and very hard. She noticed unwillingly also that she found him easier to take than before. Yet another thing she did not wish to know. Hermione loved learning but as she grew older she accrued information she could happily do without. Right at this moment, she would like not to know the average litter for a wolf was six cubs and werewolves closely followed their lupine side in their procreational habits.

His behaviour had led her to believe he was serious about breeding with her. Werewolves were canny and often cruel. Fenrir himself was a poster boy for brutality. However, mindgames did not appeal to them. They liked to get their hands bloody. If all he had wanted was to sate his lust then he would have killed her already. In all likelihood, her team would have found her body at Hutchins’s farm.

It had not escaped her notice that he had brought her food in a ritual gesture. He thought of this as mating. That was the only hold she had over him. Who was it who said ‘diplomacy was the art of saying nice doggy until you found a big stick’? Hermione could not immediately recall but the quote was so apt. Except she wouldn’t need a big stick, just a wand.

Rolling her hips to settle more comfortably on him got her an appreciative sound almost like a woof. Her nerve nearly deserted her. She was pleasing him. How could she bear it? His hands smoothed up her thighs but he didn’t thrust into her. Clearly she was to do all the work.

Hermione pulled her dress off over her head. His eyes were on her breasts, on the marks he had made. She felt him stiffen inside her. That made her angry. It also gave her an idea. Make lemonade as the saying went. So she raked her nails down his chest and tightened her thighs against his. He responded with a grunt but did not retaliate.

She leant forward a little to find an angle that suited her then she rode him. As briskly as she could manage, Hermione bounced herself up and down. Her hands kneaded her breasts. She would need to find some disinfectant for those scratches she reminded herself as she flaunted. He was panting now, his hands clenching around her waist to hold her against him.

“You mocked my choice of mate.” Hermione spoke in a low voice mimicking his growl. Psychological warfare, asshole. I am the smartest witch of my generation and you are a dog with an attitude problem. What she said aloud was a little more circumspect. “Malfoy didn’t tell you that I rejected him because he was weak.” And he was, poor Ron. At the heart of it, he craved attention but didn’t have the sense to realise what he truly needed wouldn’t come from other people. Fenrir needed to learn that lesson too. “Show me you’re stronger and I’ll give you all the cubs you want.”