The Training of Hermione
folder
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Snape/Hermione
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
3
Views:
11,334
Reviews:
16
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Snape/Hermione
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
3
Views:
11,334
Reviews:
16
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
PAIN (et beurre)
PAIN (et beurre)
DISCLAIMER:
This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Reviews are welcome.
~
There are two kinds of pain, thinks Hermione Granger in her Dream, and she knows them both. One is the diffuse pain which hovers around a certain threshold like an aura, pulsing and oscillating, sometimes becoming confused with normal sensation, something merging with fever or nausea. This one, she knows, is bearable. It is the other kind that she cannot bear: the piercing, precise pain which penetrates her every nerve and sinew sendsends her senses crashing into a screeching overdrive.
This is the pain of Cruciatus. And it is what Snape is inflicting on her again, while fucking her at the same time. She can see his face, flushed and darkened, as he holds her frantic movements down and slams viciously into her, hurting, hurting, hurting. And it seems to her curiously disembodied mind, in the midst of her throes and thrashings, that it is precisely his copulating body that is placing the curse on her: that the curse travels through his body and into her by the place where their bodies join. For the most agonising pain is in her vagina, which convulses around him as if electrocuted, oozing pus, in a ghastly mockery of orgasm.
She sits up screaming, again. Then realises where she is – her darkened rooms, in Oxford – and drops back against the pillows.
Then she takes a piece of parchment and a quill from her bedside table, quickly jots down the content of her dream, and goes to fetch her owl, which is quite happy to get out at this time of the night. She owls the note to Snape, who has asked her to keep a record of her nightmares and send them to him as soon as possible. She goes to the bathroom, washes her face with cold water and stares at her pale reflection in the mirror. Then smirks, wondering what he will make of this one.
His penis is his wand. Talk about Freudian.
~~~~~
He arrives the next Saturday, with, of all things, a picnic box under his arm.
Hermione looks up from the book she is annotating as he steps out of the chimney place. “You must be joking.”
“Why? Is the dour Potions Master not allowed to go on a picnic every once in a while?”
“Right. And what’s next? Watching a Disney film while eating popcorn?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing.” She shuts the book, puts her things away, and stands up. “Well. Where do you
want me to take you then?”
“Take me? I had no intention of going anywhere. It’s cold as hell out there.” He opens the picnic box, and starts taking out a whole set of cutlery, dishes, and glasses, a tablecloth, and a whole series of little cardboard boxes which he proceeds to open. “Right. Let’s see – this is the salad… the boiled eggs… sandwiches… this is cucumber, this is tuna, and this is – cheese, I think… Some kidney pie… Rolls and butter… Salami… Olives…” He goes on for a while, extracting ever more delicacies from the little boxes and arranging them on the tablecloth, which he has carefully laid out on the floor before the chimney place.
“You’ve been reading Elizabeth David again, haven’t you?”
“Who?” he replies with false innocence. “Come down here,” and pats the floor next to him.
“Minute. Bathroom.”
He follows her with his eyes as she moves away, calculating. It has been weeks since they last had sex, not because of any complaint on her side – she did say that she was tired, or had had a bad day, but didn’t explicitly refuse – but because of the increasing reticence which he detects in her. Not a conscious reticence, he is quite sure of that, it is truly involuntary – the occasional flinch when he touches her, a shudder of disgust, her anguished face as she tosses by his side in bed, half-asleep, seeking to evade contact with his skin. And all the time, he can practically smell the sheer bodily fear leaking through – fear that he will hurt her as her body, if not her conscious mind, knows he can.
She returns from the bathroom and plumps down by his side. “Mmm. Exploiting the house elves thoroughly, I see. Where shall we start?”
“How about here?” purrs Snape, and softly bites down on her neck. She arches back in response, and quickly his hands close around her torso, sliding beneath her blouse, roving. Her hackles go up under his cool touch, he notices, whether in pleasure or in fright it is hard to tell. He draws back and kisses her, gently, on her lower lip. Still he feels the apprehension, even though she kisses him back and presses her body against his.
He takes hold of her body and very gently makes her lie down, his eyes on hers. “Hermione, believe me, I’m not going to hurt you.” Then raises his hand and begins to unbutton her blouse. Then follows her trousers, which he takes off with a couple of practiced jerks and her collaboration. She follows the trail of his hand, mesmerized, as his fingers linger over her breasts, just above the lace of her bra, then pull down the bra straps and undo its clasps.
She is panting, and again it is unclear whether from fear or desire or both. Also, she has started to tremble. She brings Snape down on top of her, though, and deftly removes her knickers with one hand. “I know you won’t hurt me, Severus,” she says hoarsely, and kisses him hard.
My brave lioness, he thinks, overcome with pride and love, as he kisses her back and caresses every contour of her body, desperate to bring her pleasure. His fingers move all over her anatomy, cupping her cunt, sliding lightly over her inner thighs. Pausing at the cleft of her bottom. Then she suddenly sits up, leaning on an elbow, and grasps him by the collar of his tabard. “Snape. Don’t you be afraid,” she hisses.
He stares at her for a moment, and she holds his gaze almost in defiance, despite the fact that her whole body is now shaking with a slight tremor. Silently, he leans over and grabs the bar of butter which he had intended to spread over the buns.
Well, they still are buns anyway.
He stands up, pulls down his briefs and trousers, and lubricates his rising penis with a good chunk of butter. Then he kneels down again, to where Hermione is waiting for him with an expression of intense amusement. “Buttered sausage?”
“I swear it, the day I write my memories I think I’ll leave this part out…” He puts another chunk of butter on his thumb and carefully spreads it all over her anus. He moves forward, and very carefully inserts his penis into her hole.
“Then I’ll be able to blackmail you,” she retorts between clenched teeth as his penis snakes its way through the tight, tight passage. “I can already see the headlines in the tabloids: I Was Snape’s Sex Muffin…” And she groans as she enters her fully.
It feels so full, so tight, it’s astonishing, she thinks as he moves inside her slowly and deliberately, afraid to hurt her but dying to move inside her narrowness. She can hear his heavy breathing, straining over her, can see his face, darkly flushed with his oncoming orgasm. Which she has seen and heard before. In the Dream.
He sees how her face changes as the memory strikes her, her body, which had laid itself open with desire, now paralysed at the sudden recall. He goes still inside of her, allowing her to feel her fullness, the warm weight of him on her body. “I won’t hurt you,” he softly says again. “I will go away if you want me to.”
She shivers and looks into his eyes, at tiny sob hitching in her throat.
He caresses her face and carefully starts to withdraw.
And then her anus clenches around him.
“Don’t go,” she whispers. “Fill me.”
He nods, then holds her tight while drives his penis into her as much as he can. His other hand moves down to her crotch, and she heaves her legs onto his shoulders, so that he can both reach her clitoris and enter her to the hilt.
He is so excited already, and she is so tight, that he is about to climax. Yet he waits her out, increasing the pressure of his hand on her crotch as she sighs and moans more and more. Only when she stiffens one last time and cries out does he allow himself to run loose: spilling his seed into her, on his own clothes, onto the tablecloth and the wooden floor.
They lie side by side on the floor, she sweaty with the exertion, he sticky with his own fluids. And the butter, everywhere. “Gods, what a mess,” he murmurs drowsily.
“Well,” retorts Hermione, stroking his cheek. “Now that didn’t hurt that much, did it?”
~~~~~
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Well, obviously I’ve seen Last Tango in Paris, yes. My erotic imagination seems to be rather fond of films. Hey, at least I didn’t rip off 9 ½ Weeks.
\"Pain et beurre\" means \"Bread and butter\" in French.
~~~~~
DISCLAIMER:
This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Reviews are welcome.
~
There are two kinds of pain, thinks Hermione Granger in her Dream, and she knows them both. One is the diffuse pain which hovers around a certain threshold like an aura, pulsing and oscillating, sometimes becoming confused with normal sensation, something merging with fever or nausea. This one, she knows, is bearable. It is the other kind that she cannot bear: the piercing, precise pain which penetrates her every nerve and sinew sendsends her senses crashing into a screeching overdrive.
This is the pain of Cruciatus. And it is what Snape is inflicting on her again, while fucking her at the same time. She can see his face, flushed and darkened, as he holds her frantic movements down and slams viciously into her, hurting, hurting, hurting. And it seems to her curiously disembodied mind, in the midst of her throes and thrashings, that it is precisely his copulating body that is placing the curse on her: that the curse travels through his body and into her by the place where their bodies join. For the most agonising pain is in her vagina, which convulses around him as if electrocuted, oozing pus, in a ghastly mockery of orgasm.
She sits up screaming, again. Then realises where she is – her darkened rooms, in Oxford – and drops back against the pillows.
Then she takes a piece of parchment and a quill from her bedside table, quickly jots down the content of her dream, and goes to fetch her owl, which is quite happy to get out at this time of the night. She owls the note to Snape, who has asked her to keep a record of her nightmares and send them to him as soon as possible. She goes to the bathroom, washes her face with cold water and stares at her pale reflection in the mirror. Then smirks, wondering what he will make of this one.
His penis is his wand. Talk about Freudian.
~~~~~
He arrives the next Saturday, with, of all things, a picnic box under his arm.
Hermione looks up from the book she is annotating as he steps out of the chimney place. “You must be joking.”
“Why? Is the dour Potions Master not allowed to go on a picnic every once in a while?”
“Right. And what’s next? Watching a Disney film while eating popcorn?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing.” She shuts the book, puts her things away, and stands up. “Well. Where do you
want me to take you then?”
“Take me? I had no intention of going anywhere. It’s cold as hell out there.” He opens the picnic box, and starts taking out a whole set of cutlery, dishes, and glasses, a tablecloth, and a whole series of little cardboard boxes which he proceeds to open. “Right. Let’s see – this is the salad… the boiled eggs… sandwiches… this is cucumber, this is tuna, and this is – cheese, I think… Some kidney pie… Rolls and butter… Salami… Olives…” He goes on for a while, extracting ever more delicacies from the little boxes and arranging them on the tablecloth, which he has carefully laid out on the floor before the chimney place.
“You’ve been reading Elizabeth David again, haven’t you?”
“Who?” he replies with false innocence. “Come down here,” and pats the floor next to him.
“Minute. Bathroom.”
He follows her with his eyes as she moves away, calculating. It has been weeks since they last had sex, not because of any complaint on her side – she did say that she was tired, or had had a bad day, but didn’t explicitly refuse – but because of the increasing reticence which he detects in her. Not a conscious reticence, he is quite sure of that, it is truly involuntary – the occasional flinch when he touches her, a shudder of disgust, her anguished face as she tosses by his side in bed, half-asleep, seeking to evade contact with his skin. And all the time, he can practically smell the sheer bodily fear leaking through – fear that he will hurt her as her body, if not her conscious mind, knows he can.
She returns from the bathroom and plumps down by his side. “Mmm. Exploiting the house elves thoroughly, I see. Where shall we start?”
“How about here?” purrs Snape, and softly bites down on her neck. She arches back in response, and quickly his hands close around her torso, sliding beneath her blouse, roving. Her hackles go up under his cool touch, he notices, whether in pleasure or in fright it is hard to tell. He draws back and kisses her, gently, on her lower lip. Still he feels the apprehension, even though she kisses him back and presses her body against his.
He takes hold of her body and very gently makes her lie down, his eyes on hers. “Hermione, believe me, I’m not going to hurt you.” Then raises his hand and begins to unbutton her blouse. Then follows her trousers, which he takes off with a couple of practiced jerks and her collaboration. She follows the trail of his hand, mesmerized, as his fingers linger over her breasts, just above the lace of her bra, then pull down the bra straps and undo its clasps.
She is panting, and again it is unclear whether from fear or desire or both. Also, she has started to tremble. She brings Snape down on top of her, though, and deftly removes her knickers with one hand. “I know you won’t hurt me, Severus,” she says hoarsely, and kisses him hard.
My brave lioness, he thinks, overcome with pride and love, as he kisses her back and caresses every contour of her body, desperate to bring her pleasure. His fingers move all over her anatomy, cupping her cunt, sliding lightly over her inner thighs. Pausing at the cleft of her bottom. Then she suddenly sits up, leaning on an elbow, and grasps him by the collar of his tabard. “Snape. Don’t you be afraid,” she hisses.
He stares at her for a moment, and she holds his gaze almost in defiance, despite the fact that her whole body is now shaking with a slight tremor. Silently, he leans over and grabs the bar of butter which he had intended to spread over the buns.
Well, they still are buns anyway.
He stands up, pulls down his briefs and trousers, and lubricates his rising penis with a good chunk of butter. Then he kneels down again, to where Hermione is waiting for him with an expression of intense amusement. “Buttered sausage?”
“I swear it, the day I write my memories I think I’ll leave this part out…” He puts another chunk of butter on his thumb and carefully spreads it all over her anus. He moves forward, and very carefully inserts his penis into her hole.
“Then I’ll be able to blackmail you,” she retorts between clenched teeth as his penis snakes its way through the tight, tight passage. “I can already see the headlines in the tabloids: I Was Snape’s Sex Muffin…” And she groans as she enters her fully.
It feels so full, so tight, it’s astonishing, she thinks as he moves inside her slowly and deliberately, afraid to hurt her but dying to move inside her narrowness. She can hear his heavy breathing, straining over her, can see his face, darkly flushed with his oncoming orgasm. Which she has seen and heard before. In the Dream.
He sees how her face changes as the memory strikes her, her body, which had laid itself open with desire, now paralysed at the sudden recall. He goes still inside of her, allowing her to feel her fullness, the warm weight of him on her body. “I won’t hurt you,” he softly says again. “I will go away if you want me to.”
She shivers and looks into his eyes, at tiny sob hitching in her throat.
He caresses her face and carefully starts to withdraw.
And then her anus clenches around him.
“Don’t go,” she whispers. “Fill me.”
He nods, then holds her tight while drives his penis into her as much as he can. His other hand moves down to her crotch, and she heaves her legs onto his shoulders, so that he can both reach her clitoris and enter her to the hilt.
He is so excited already, and she is so tight, that he is about to climax. Yet he waits her out, increasing the pressure of his hand on her crotch as she sighs and moans more and more. Only when she stiffens one last time and cries out does he allow himself to run loose: spilling his seed into her, on his own clothes, onto the tablecloth and the wooden floor.
They lie side by side on the floor, she sweaty with the exertion, he sticky with his own fluids. And the butter, everywhere. “Gods, what a mess,” he murmurs drowsily.
“Well,” retorts Hermione, stroking his cheek. “Now that didn’t hurt that much, did it?”
~~~~~
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Well, obviously I’ve seen Last Tango in Paris, yes. My erotic imagination seems to be rather fond of films. Hey, at least I didn’t rip off 9 ½ Weeks.
\"Pain et beurre\" means \"Bread and butter\" in French.
~~~~~