For the Potions Master\'s Amusement

For the Potions Master’s Amusement

Chapter 8: The Gift


Hermione slipped the ribbon from about the package and ran her fingers beneath the overlapped paper, easily lifting the Spellotape. Beneath the heavy silver paper was a sleek red box with a discreet black T&T monogrammed in the lower right corner—the box had come from Twilfitt and Tattings, then—but that was a rather posh shop in Diagon Alley, the wizards’ Harrods. What on earth could he have bought there for her?

His warm breath caressed her cheek. ‘It’s easier to see when you lift the top off the box,’ he advised, his warm baritone sending a thrill of pleasure skittering down her spine.

With slightly trembling fingers, Hermione lifted the top of the box, finding a swathe of red tissue paper. She swept the tissue paper aside and found beneath it a silver hairbrush. The broad paddle-shaped back was engraved with an ornate “H”, and the handle appeared to be fluted along the edges and filigreed in a pattern of trailing rose vines, which entwined with the monogram before spreading to the edges of the paddle-back.

‘Oh,’ she breathed, lifting the treasure from the red tissue paper, liking the feel of the brush in her hand, and she turned it over to view the bristles of stiff white nylon.

‘The black boar bristle was more aesthetically pleasing,’ he murmured, his head bent close to hers, ‘but for hair such as yours, the nylon bristles are recommended.’

Hermione turned her eyes to his, feeling as if she were lit up within from the pure joy of knowing he had shopped for her—specifically for her—going so far as to have her initial monogrammed on the item, seeking out the type of brush best for her wild, unruly mane. He had gone out of his way to please her—the knowledge left her breathless.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered, her fingers running lovingly over the monogrammed and engraved silver backing. Oddly enough, the surface was smooth to the touch, as if the heavy silver had been somehow encased in clear plastic—but Hermione well knew that the use of plastic was uncommon in wizarding manufacturing. ‘I can see the engraving, but I can’t feel it,’ she said aloud, expressing her puzzlement.

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘but this is a very special hairbrush.’ His fingers closed about handle of the brush, below where hers rested. ‘May I?’ he asked.

Wordlessly, Hermione nodded and allowed him to take it from her.

‘May I brush your hair?’ he asked deferentially, and the utter intimacy of the request brought a burning flush to Hermione’s cheeks.

Her hands flew to her hair, imperfectly secured in a ponytail at her nape. She hadn’t touched it since she had left her room early in the morning—since that time she had fainted and slept and hadn’t given a thought to it. ‘It’s a mess,’ she protested.

‘I’ll be very careful,’ he promised.

Unable to deny him such a benign request, she reached behind her head to free her bushy locks from the restrictive elastic, and her professor nodded his approval. ‘Should I just sit forward?’ she asked, trembling to think of him grooming her.

‘Would you mind very much sitting upon a cushion at my feet?’ he asked quietly. ‘It will make it much easier for both of us, I believe.’

Hermione took up the red velvet cushion upon which she had napped and put it on the floor between his feet, settling herself between his legs, which had been parted to accommodate her presence. At first, she sat very stiffly, endeavouring not to lean against one of his legs. She bit the inside of her cheek and her hands twisted in her lap. Had Professor Snape had any experience brushing hair such as hers? His own hair was straight and fine, certainly nothing like her rather coarse, curling, bushy mare’s nest. What if the difficulty of drawing the hairbrush bristles through her hair made him impatient? Or sorry that he had bothered to purchase such an expensive gift for her? She gripped her hands together in misery and waited.

Yet for all her agonising, Professor Snape certainly seemed to know how to go about tidying her hair. He began at the very bottom and worked methodically through her hair, section by section, before beginning over again at a point midway between her earlobe and her shoulder and repeating the process. As he worked, he spoke to her, and before she knew what she was about, Hermione was as malleable wax in his hands, resting her left cheek upon his left knee until he was ready to brush the hair on that side, at which time he gently pressed her head to the other side, until her right cheek rested upon his right knee.

And all the time, he talked.

‘A submissive is her Master’s most treasured possession,’ he explained, patiently untangling her hair. ‘When he seats her at his feet, he is granting her the place of honour offered to no other. It is not at all uncommon for a Dominant to spend hours with his submissive at his feet as he showers her with pampering attention.’

He stroked the brush through her hair from her scalp to the tips of her brown locks, his large, warm hand following the path the brush had taken, smoothing her bushy hair in the wake of the nylon bristles.

‘For the submissive,’ he continued, ‘being permitted to sit at her Master’s feet is a prized honour. She is in his good graces, which makes both of them happy, and she is there to pet and be petted.’

Hermione lolled beneath his hands, safely bracketed by his long legs, yielding to the power of his voice, which fell upon her ears like chocolate caramel on ice cream. The submissive sat at her Dominant’s feet to pet him? Was he going to permit her to touch him? Her tummy flipped at the very notion, and the heat between her thighs began to ache.

‘One way for the Master to demonstrate his favour is to brush his submissive’s hair,’ he explained, matching word to action. ‘There is something very intimate, and at the same time, very relaxing, about the act of brushing hair—both from the standpoint of the one doing the brushing and the one being brushed—would you agree?’

She began to nod her head, then realised she might disrupt his rhythm, and she did not want to stop the delicious strokes of the bristles through her hair. ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice feeling creaky from disuse, though it had been less than half-an-hour since she had last spoken.

‘The hairbrush has an alternate use, as well,’ he continued, his voice soothing and inciting her simultaneously, a phenomenon she had come to associate only with her professor. ‘It can be used as an implement to spank your naked bottom.’

A low moan issued from Hermione’s lips before she could arm herself against it; she was in a puddle of submission at his feet, utterly disarmed by his manner, his actions, and his words. Her desire for him was fully reawakened, throbbing in her centre with urgency. Turning fluidly and moving to her knees, she looked up into his enigmatic black eyes and said, ‘Please spank me with the hairbrush.’

He set the hairbrush on the sofa cushion beside him and studied her face. ‘But you are visiting tonight under special rules, Hermione. You do not have to do anything tonight.’

Without thinking, she wrapped her arms about his thighs and hugged them to her, trapping herself between his legs. ‘I know I don’t have to do it,’ she said. ‘But I want to do it, very badly.’ Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the pounding need in her body, then opened them and spoke again, her voice both hesitant and pleading. ‘I haven’t climaxed since the last time I was with you—please, sir—spank me with the hairbrush and make me come.’

He simply looked at her for a long time, and she waited, unconsciously beginning to count in her mind to prevent herself from pushing too hard. She had reached one hundred seventeen in her counting before he spoke again.

‘You don’t know it yet, Hermione, but you’re in a good position for begging—you’re on your knees.’ His eyes glittered now, and she was aware of a subtle shift in his manner, from instructive to active. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Remove your knickers and lie over my knee.’

Before she could feel hesitation or embarrassment, Hermione was on her feet, stepping out of her underpants and abandoning them upon the floor, intent only upon feeling his hand upon her flesh. She draped herself over his legs, and he expertly gathered her more firmly onto his lap, one arm holding her against him as the other tossed her skirt up and began to caress her buttocks.

The cold, slick back of the hairbrush touched the small of her back and was slipped over her bottom slowly, gliding until it rested coolly upon the backs of her thighs. ‘That’s what’s special about the hairbrush, you know,’ he said, stroking the smooth brush up from her thighs to her buttocks again, as if brushing her bottom with the non-bristle side of the hairbrush. ‘It’s charmed to be smooth to the touch, rather than ridged with the engraving, so that you can receive your pleasure spanking without ending up with your own initial pressed into your flesh.’

Hermione might have chuckled at this last comment had it not been immediately followed by the impact of the cool silver surface on the plumpest area of her bottom. Startled by the suddenness of the onset of her spanking, she cried out, but he paid her no mind, simply striking the other side of her bottom, giving her matching stinging spots, which were rapidly revisited, each in its turn, with additional blows from the gift he had given her.

Initially, Hermione tensed against the discomfort, having already forgotten the burning pain of being spanked, but he bent over her, his head alongside hers, and he said, ‘Do you like your gift, little slut?’

In some way she could not explain, his use of the word she had always thought to be derogatory simply increased her want, and she answered, ‘Yes! Yes, I love it!’

For an instant the blows ceased, and his hand cupped her cunt, squeezing lightly. ‘Good girl,’ he praised. ‘You’ll love it more, before I’m done with you.’

And then the spanking began in earnest, and Hermione surrendered herself to it, losing herself in the pleasureful pain, no longer trying to understand why she needed it, only yielding to euphoria, which moved her swiftly to tears. She cried because she loved the sensation, because she had deprived herself of it needlessly, because she needed these attentions from him, because her tears cleansed her of all the negative thoughts and feelings which poisoned her mind and heart.

When at last the spanking ceased, the spanking hand moved seamlessly to fingering pleasure, seeking out and finding her clitoris, and she was almost disappointed as, within seconds, the powerful pulse of her orgasm ripped through her, moving her from crying to sobbing.

Effortlessly, he turned her in his arms, so that he cradled her against his body with one arm, whilst the hand of the other arm—his wand arm—cupped her quim as he rocked her. She clung to him, breathing in the scent of his self-made aftershave and convulsively rubbing her fingertips over the incredible softness of his cashmere jumper.

As she was cuddled upon his lap, completely safe and sated, she became aware of the hardness under her bum, and she realised she was sitting atop his rock hard erection. Experimentally, she shifted her bottom, and he reacted with a jerk of his hips and a low, dark chuckle.

‘Behave yourself,’ he rumbled into her hair, ‘or you won’t get another orgasm.’

Her head came up at that, and he smirked down into her face. ‘I don’t think …’ she began, but the hand cupping her squeezed, and she made a humming noise and pressed against him.

‘Precisely so,’ he said, slipping two fingers inside of her and beginning to pump slowly in and out. ‘I think it’s a special day, today, and that you deserve to come again.’ The thumb of the pumping hand lightly grazed her clitoris, and she shuddered in pleasure. ‘Don’t you think so?’

‘Please,’ she moaned, swirling away again in a tide of desire.

‘That’s my girl,’ he told her, pumping and stroking.

She squirmed beneath his touch, rising for more, then squirming again, following nothing but the dictates of her body’s quest for climax—but her actions affected him, as well, which was evidenced by the jerk of his hips against her bottom. Hermione thrilled with power as his wicked fingers teased her towards another orgasm. She had made his cock hard—she had him grinding against her like a fourth-year with a willing girl on the Astronomy Tower–she was determined to capitalise on her advantage.

Wantonly, she spread her thighs wider and thrust upward against the fucking fingers before lowering her hips and grinding against the erection pressed against her arse.

‘Minx,’ he gasped, but his hips jerked against her again, and this time he made no effort to restrain himself, but ground against her with a grunt of pleasure.

The eternity of the next several minutes could have gone on forever, in Hermione’s mind, and she would have been in rapture for all time. They established a mutually satisfactory rhythm of thrust, grind, stroke, thrust, grind, stroke, until they were straining together, both panting, intent on pleasure. He fucked her cunt with fingers curled to hit her vaginal wall just so, and his entire palm rubbed in a circular motion over the swollen, slick folds surrounding her clitoris, driving her higher and higher into a pleasure which transcended rational thought.

But such pleasure cannot be prolonged forever; there comes an end of all such delights. Pushed to the edge of ecstasy, she fell, crying out, through wave after wave of completion, her incoherent sounds soft enough that she clearly heard him gasp, ‘Hermione,’ before wrapping her completely in arms like iron bands and thrusting one last time against her body, the shudders of his body echoing hers until they clung together, spent.