For the Potions Master\'s Amusement

For the Potions Master’s Amusement

Chapter 5: The Belt


He was removing his belt? Hermione began to stand.

‘Do not move,’ he hissed, and she froze in position, hearing his displeasure and afraid to continue.

‘I’m afraid,’ she said, straining to look over her shoulder to see what he was doing.

‘Your fear is part of your need, Hermione,’ he said. ‘I will, however, help you with that.’

Hermione calmed slightly, waiting for him to move over to the couch and invite her to join him there, but instead, she felt her wrists encircled and realised he had magically secured her arms so that she was held in position. She could neither back away from the table, nor could she stand. This was his idea of helping?

‘Tell me what you want, Hermione,’ he said silkily, and the long fingers of one of his hands trailed down her bare bottom.

‘I—’ she began, tugging fruitlessly at the invisible bonds holding her in place ‘I w-want to c-come!’ Sweet Merlin, had she said that out loud? Told her professor she wanted to climax at his hand? Had she no shame?

‘That is of no interest to me now,’ he informed her ruthlessly. ‘Your punishment for your behaviour is what we are discussing.’ The tormenting hand now trailed from one buttock cheek to the other. ‘Tell me what you need.’

Hermione swallowed, inwardly squirming, her panic escalating. Spanking by his hand had hurt, yes—had made her cry until she was an empty vessel, more at peace than she had ever been—but the belt frightened her. It was going to hurt more, she was sure of it, and did not possess the intimacy of his hand slapping her bottom. But perhaps if she endured the belt, he would reward her with his fingers …

‘I need your attentions, sir,’ she whispered, her voice breaking with the storm of emotion surging through her.

‘Good girl,’ he murmured, and the words of praise thrilled through her like a sexual caress, setting her quim to aching for release. ‘Your answer pleases me.’ The fingers stroked to the apex of her thighs, and he cupped her vulva from behind, drawing a half-sob of need from her. ‘Spread your legs farther apart for me, Hermione,’ he purred.

Hermione complied with his request, feeling her quim throb with each beat of her heart as he held it in the palm of his hand, the dewy dampness of her arousal slick upon his skin.

‘Excellent,’ he praised and removed his hand from her body, pulling a sob of protest from her throat.

Don’t go! she thought, instinctively thrusting her hips back in search of his touch.

That was when the first blow of his belt struck her bum, startling a cry from her. Shockingly, it wasn’t unbearably painful. It impacted both cheeks with about the same force as his hardest hand-spanking blows had been—and oddly enough, just as when he had spanked her with his hand, the sensation was felt most strongly in her quim, increasing the ache, a hot, heavy feeling between her legs.

With sure, measured strokes, he whipped her bottom, never striking the exact same place twice in a row. Hermione was unable to remain still or quiet; by the fourth blow, she was crying, and by the seventh, she was sobbing onto the tabletop. At the same time, she was acutely aware of his intense focus upon her, and even through her tears, she could not keep her eyes from the indistinct reflection of his activity in the glass wall, his hawkish features frowning with concentration as his arm rose and fell and rose again. By the tenth stroke, her bottom felt as if it were on fire, and her centre was on fire was well, the moisture of her arousal dampening her upper thighs as she danced under the falling lash.

Seconds passed without a further blow, and she strained to look over her shoulder. He stood in a relaxed posture, both hands hanging by his sides, with the folded-over belt held in his left hand. His chest rose and fell as he recovered his breathing from his exertions, and the glittering black eyes studied her backside as if appreciating his work. Then he dropped the belt and a silent Summoning Charm caused a ruby red glass jar to fly to him. He unscrewed the top and approached more closely, dipping his fingers into the jar and covering them with a sweet-smelling ointment.

‘You did very well,’ he said quietly, touching her sore bottom with the cool slickness on his fingertips and beginning to massage it into her skin. ‘Relax and allow me to attend to you, Hermione.’

She lowered her head onto the table, seeing several inches from her face the book in which he had been writing. The sensation of the cool ointment and his hands upon her flesh brought a languorous, drifting feeling to her mind as her tears dried upon her face, and she gazed at the book, wondering what it was, and what he had written in it. Was it a marking book where he recorded his students’ grades? Or a journal in which he recorded his thoughts? The strong, supple fingers spread the healing lotion over her bottom, and the memory of the pain receded, leaving her with the warmth of his words of praise, and the dripping aching need between her legs.

‘Are you more comfortable now?’ he asked, and she realised he had bent over her, his face near to hers.

Unable to speak, she nodded her head in assent.

The clock on the mantelpiece began to chime the hour, and Hermione realised a scant thirty minutes had passed since she had entered his study. How could that be? It had felt like an eternity.

The last of the chimes faded away, and still he was bent over her. ‘Are you ready for your reward?’ he asked, his very voice exacerbating the painful need she felt.

‘Please,’ she choked out, staining against her bonds for the first time in several minutes. Why would he not permit her to touch him?

The warmth of his large hand insinuated itself once again between her thighs, cupping her mound, and she pushed back against him, moving her legs apart, desperate for friction to still the raging in her blood.

‘Shall I make you come?’ he asked her, as if he were unaware of her wishes.

‘Yes!’ she cried, strength returning to her voice as her body clamoured for him. ‘Yes, do it!’

‘Tell me what you need, Hermione,’ he purred, increasing the pressure of the hand cupping her, until one finger slipped between her folds.

‘Touch me!’ she cried, jerking her hips convulsively upon his hand. ‘I need to come! Please!’

‘Of course,’ he said courteously, and then he was no longer bending over her.

She twisted her head and looked over her shoulder, but he wasn’t there. Then the actions of his hands tore a shuddering moan from her lips, and her head sagged again to the tabletop, where she stared in fascination at the shadowy reflection in the glass wall. He was kneeling down at her feet, his hands opening her body to his inspection, from the tight bud of her bottom to the drenched folds of her quim.

Then his face was buried in her cunt, and coherent brain function ceased in the onslaught of sensation.

She felt the broad, flat of his tongue lick her from her clitoris to her perineum and then back again. A feral, keening sound filled her ears, and it was not until she was aware of thrusting and grinding madly against the professor’s face that she knew the inarticulate cries were issuing from her throat. Dear God, nothing that had ever happened to her had felt like this; he had completely emptied her and now was filling her up again, taking all of the confusion and uncertainty and dissatisfaction and replacing it with light and pleasure and … and … and …

She felt his lips close about the bud of her clitoris, his fingers spreading her even wider, and she shattered, her keening cries solidifying into cries of pure bliss as she dissolved like sugar in his mouth.

The shivering which overtook her in the aftermath was not unlike her post-orgasm response before. He acted swiftly, releasing her magical bonds and lifting her into his arms, sitting on the cobalt blue sofa and Summoning the green blanket to drape over her. She shivered and shuddered in reaction, and he held her, murmuring.

‘You did very well, Hermione,’ he whispered into her hair, his strong arms anchoring her against his body. ‘I could not be more pleased with you.’

She clung to him and breathed in his dark, musky scent, overlaid by the odours of his shampoo and his shaving lotion, all the while stroking the lush cashmere of his jumper. It was luxurious and soft, the dark green sweater, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted to touch him as he had touched her, to kiss his face and to taste herself upon his lips, yet she had not the energy to raise her head from his shoulder.

At last, the clock chimed again, this time the half-hour, and he spoke to her firmly, already beginning to distance himself from her. ‘Can you stand?’ he asked her.

She didn’t want to leave him, but she knew enough to recognise when she was being dismissed. ‘Yes, I think so,’ she said.

He helped her to stand, efficiently disentangling the blanked from her limbs, and stepped back from her to see if she could remain on her feet unassisted. Hermione looked up at him, then averted her eyes. How could he draw her to him and then put her from him without missing a beat? She found it quite disconcerting. ‘Thank you,’ she said shyly. ‘How do you know what I need?’

‘How I know is not important,’ he said gravely. ‘The only important thing that I do know what you need—do I not, Hermione?’

‘Yes, sir,’ she whispered, savouring the utter peace inside of her. ‘Can’t I stay for a while?’

He frowned. ‘There is no need for you stay once your physical recovery is complete. Do not try to make of this arrangement something other than what it is.’ He stepped away from her. ‘I have an engagement for which I am late. I must ask you to leave, now.’

An engagement? Did he have a date? Was that why he was clean and sweet-smelling and wearing the forest green jumper, which emphasised the breadth of his chest and his fit, flat tummy? A sick, unhappy feeling tore through her, twisting and unsettling, disturbing her peace. She wanted to ask a thousand prying questions, but she could tell from his expression that her time was at an end.

‘May I return?’ she asked, hating herself for displaying such a lack of reserve.

He inclined his head. ‘As you have need,’ he agreed. ‘Good night, Hermione.’

Hermione turned away from him and went to the door, glancing over her shoulder as she opened it, hoping to find his burning, intense eyes upon her retreating back, but he had already busied himself at the far end of the table, removing his book, quill and ink to a shelf on the bookcase. She paused for a moment in the doorway, waiting for inspiration to strike, wanting to leave him with a memorable parting phrase, but nothing occurred to her. Finally she left his presence, sadly closing the door behind her.

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A/N: Wow! I ask for reviews to know that you're reading, and you reviewed. Thank you so much! I can't tell you how happy it's made me! So happy that I will do one or two more chapters this weekend. Keep talking to me!