Just You Wait
folder
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Snape/Hermione
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
10
Views:
9,758
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
1
Category:
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Snape/Hermione
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
10
Views:
9,758
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
1
Disclaimer:
I do not own the HP fandom and I make no money from the fanfiction
Chapter 6 - The Bee's Knees
Chapter 6 - The Bee's Knees
A Hymn To Him
How could something be so pleasurable and frustrating, stimulating and unsatisfying at the same time?
When Severus entered her for the second time, the only thing Hermione could concentrate on was the incredible sensitivity of her passage, a legacy of their first coupling. It was unlike anything she'd felt before - an ache, but not... an itch, for which the slow, steady friction was both a relief and the source of further torment. A tension, like the painful but satisfying feeling of clenching your cheek in your teeth to keep from biting someone's head off. Every iota of movement by her husband brought pleasure, craving and agony in equal measures.
The fact that her walls were swollen with over-use and therefore squeezed him harder only added to her torment. But that was only the beginning...
Hermione found the slow, rhythmic thrusts a terrible tease. Every movement exuded power and self-restraint, characteristics that were so much a part of her husband that it put her on a level of involuntary, discomfiting resonance with him, like a piano giving off a sympathetic note from the vibrations of the doorbell. It was if he was saying `Ding-Dong...I can last longer than you can, my dear. I am just getting started, but you are already a quivering jumble of wet, throbbing pleas. You are mine.'
And, dammit, he was right. Couldn't he just get off his power trip and pound the snot out of me again?
There was no sound from either of them as he continued to move inside her with precise, not quite leisurely strokes. Severus's hands were on his wife's hips, holding her firmly in place while he thrust. He made no move to pleasure her with his hands, but she was so swollen that just the tug on her flesh as he moved in and out was enough to bring her close to her climax. Unlike the last time, when he had applied pressure all over her walls, now his angles changed only minutely, and much less frequently than Hermione would have liked.
Every stroke increased Hermione's terrible craving for her husband to fuck her harder, faster, to come inside her...to hold her tight and pound her into oblivion.
The hell of it all was that he knew exactly what he was doing to her...and he knew that it was postponing his own satisfaction, but he continued to do it anyway. And why did he do it? She didn't need to ask (even assuming she could speak.) She knew the answer. Because he could.
When at last he began to move faster, fulfilling her wish, she was so relieved that tears came to her eyes...for someone so sore, she sure was a sucker for punishment.
Slowly, minutely, Severus began to pick up the speed and intensity of his movements. Small sounds came from the back of his throat in time with his thrusts. With a sigh, he gripped her hips more firmly and began to grind into her with (if possible) even more power than during their first encounter. Severus seemed to withdraw into himself, intent on his own pleasure, focusing all his concentration on getting himself off for the second time in half an hour. Hermione found her voice finally, and she discovered in herself a vocabulary she didn't know she possessed. "Oh yes, Severus...please!!! Oh, please, fuck me, hard, fuck me HARD... Oh God, please...come in me NOW!!!"
Thank Merlin and all his little wizards for silencing spells.
Show Me
Slowly, they both came down from the apex of bliss they were each inhabiting. Hermione was bent wholly over the sofa seats, limp as a rag doll, with Snape on top of her. Her hair was a disaster, and they were both more than a little sweaty. After the second round, Severus's prick admitted defeat and slipped out of her almost the instant he came. Another flood of their combined moisture made its way southward, but Hermione was too tired to care.
The first sensation to assert itself in her consciousness was an ache in her belly. Not from their activities, but rather from the fresh build-up of tension that had not yet been relieved. Thinking that she deserved to come a second time too, Hermione grabbed Severus's hand and tried to draw it around to the triangle between her legs. Irritatingly, he just left it there, immobile, like a mannequin. Thinking he was too tired, she reached forward to do the deed herself, but her husband inexplicably sprang to life and grabbed her wrist. "No, not yet," he said, his voice hoarse and congested.
With that pronouncement, Severus seemed to gather himself together. "Why not?" she asked him, gingerly shifting her weight to her knees as he moved off her.
"I have something else in mind." Such innocent words, and delivered with a suspiciously...innocent...tone of voice. Hermione was suddenly a little worried. She had just reached for her wand to conjure wet face-cloths to clean the two of them when he stayed her hand. "You won't be needing those," he said, in the silky-firm voice that, in Hermione's mind, was eternally associated with detention.
A Hymn To Him
How could something be so pleasurable and frustrating, stimulating and unsatisfying at the same time?
When Severus entered her for the second time, the only thing Hermione could concentrate on was the incredible sensitivity of her passage, a legacy of their first coupling. It was unlike anything she'd felt before - an ache, but not... an itch, for which the slow, steady friction was both a relief and the source of further torment. A tension, like the painful but satisfying feeling of clenching your cheek in your teeth to keep from biting someone's head off. Every iota of movement by her husband brought pleasure, craving and agony in equal measures.
The fact that her walls were swollen with over-use and therefore squeezed him harder only added to her torment. But that was only the beginning...
Hermione found the slow, rhythmic thrusts a terrible tease. Every movement exuded power and self-restraint, characteristics that were so much a part of her husband that it put her on a level of involuntary, discomfiting resonance with him, like a piano giving off a sympathetic note from the vibrations of the doorbell. It was if he was saying `Ding-Dong...I can last longer than you can, my dear. I am just getting started, but you are already a quivering jumble of wet, throbbing pleas. You are mine.'
And, dammit, he was right. Couldn't he just get off his power trip and pound the snot out of me again?
There was no sound from either of them as he continued to move inside her with precise, not quite leisurely strokes. Severus's hands were on his wife's hips, holding her firmly in place while he thrust. He made no move to pleasure her with his hands, but she was so swollen that just the tug on her flesh as he moved in and out was enough to bring her close to her climax. Unlike the last time, when he had applied pressure all over her walls, now his angles changed only minutely, and much less frequently than Hermione would have liked.
Every stroke increased Hermione's terrible craving for her husband to fuck her harder, faster, to come inside her...to hold her tight and pound her into oblivion.
The hell of it all was that he knew exactly what he was doing to her...and he knew that it was postponing his own satisfaction, but he continued to do it anyway. And why did he do it? She didn't need to ask (even assuming she could speak.) She knew the answer. Because he could.
When at last he began to move faster, fulfilling her wish, she was so relieved that tears came to her eyes...for someone so sore, she sure was a sucker for punishment.
Slowly, minutely, Severus began to pick up the speed and intensity of his movements. Small sounds came from the back of his throat in time with his thrusts. With a sigh, he gripped her hips more firmly and began to grind into her with (if possible) even more power than during their first encounter. Severus seemed to withdraw into himself, intent on his own pleasure, focusing all his concentration on getting himself off for the second time in half an hour. Hermione found her voice finally, and she discovered in herself a vocabulary she didn't know she possessed. "Oh yes, Severus...please!!! Oh, please, fuck me, hard, fuck me HARD... Oh God, please...come in me NOW!!!"
Thank Merlin and all his little wizards for silencing spells.
Show Me
Slowly, they both came down from the apex of bliss they were each inhabiting. Hermione was bent wholly over the sofa seats, limp as a rag doll, with Snape on top of her. Her hair was a disaster, and they were both more than a little sweaty. After the second round, Severus's prick admitted defeat and slipped out of her almost the instant he came. Another flood of their combined moisture made its way southward, but Hermione was too tired to care.
The first sensation to assert itself in her consciousness was an ache in her belly. Not from their activities, but rather from the fresh build-up of tension that had not yet been relieved. Thinking that she deserved to come a second time too, Hermione grabbed Severus's hand and tried to draw it around to the triangle between her legs. Irritatingly, he just left it there, immobile, like a mannequin. Thinking he was too tired, she reached forward to do the deed herself, but her husband inexplicably sprang to life and grabbed her wrist. "No, not yet," he said, his voice hoarse and congested.
With that pronouncement, Severus seemed to gather himself together. "Why not?" she asked him, gingerly shifting her weight to her knees as he moved off her.
"I have something else in mind." Such innocent words, and delivered with a suspiciously...innocent...tone of voice. Hermione was suddenly a little worried. She had just reached for her wand to conjure wet face-cloths to clean the two of them when he stayed her hand. "You won't be needing those," he said, in the silky-firm voice that, in Hermione's mind, was eternally associated with detention.