Acid and Alkaline

She knows her walk like the back of her tongue.

The click of magenta heels on stone. Coming for her. She reads intention in brisk stride and languid strut; they tell her how Rita will take her that day. Hermione\'s never had anyone really spoil her before, but Rita is spoiling her now, spoiling her with sex, spoiling her absolutely rotten with it. And each doesn\'t like the other, but what the other can give her.

Today Rita clicks up to the last stall of the haunted loo and just waits. She is not the patient type, but now she waits because she knows on the other side of the door Hermione is nearly choking on her own lust-filled heart.

Here the air is heavy with the smell of female sex and stale sweat. Built of weeks of fucking and spitting too much come on a floor that never gets washed. This corner of Hogwarts is theirs; they have marked so with their scent. Apart they are Respectable, together, utterly disgraceful. They can afford to be this way with each other; this is the only context they see one another in.

All is tensed as a drawn bow when Rita draws back one expensively-shod foot. She can almost taste her. She lets fly with a violent kick to an unlocked door. The door bangs open, and Hermione springs to her feet tensed and ready, her bushy hair positively crackling with electricity.


They look at each other and all they can see is sex.


The false jewels in Rita\'s glasses wink at her, the eyes they frame are dark and hungry. Meat, nothing but meat. She\'s a busy woman, she doesn\'t have time for rubbish like love and flowers. She drops her crocodile skin handbag, curls her thick fingers around the knot of Hermione\'s tie and pulls her in.

With a clash of magenta robes on Hogwarts uniform, they come together, all contrasting breasts and bellies, crotches and thighs, lips and teeth and tongues, all furiously pushing, pushing, pushing against each other as if they have not had each other for years, as opposed to just the day before. Hermione feels the heat radiating from Rita\'s well-knit body and slips her hands around to cup her arse. It is wonderfully soft. Rita growls and licks her on the cheek as if claiming her.

The tip of her tongue is a faint green. Hermione has come to associate obscene pleasure with the taste of acid-green ink because a hint of it always flavours Rita\'s mouth. There are two savours within it, one tart, the other acrid, as if the makers were trying to cover the noxious chemicals in the ink with lime cordial. Rita doesn\'t even taste it anymore; it is as much a part of her as her blood. It is the blood of the quill that is one with her mind, reading her thoughts and scribbling them down. She is a pro at her craft, and the Quick-Quotes Quill reflects this status.

And now she has Hermione locked in a scorching kiss and she can feel that impossibly smooth tongue searching the depths of her mouth. Her fingers twist in the red-and-gold striped knot. Hermione gasps around the green-tinged tongue and Rita twists farther and Hermione feels as though her head will burst with blood, and she\'s in trouble because she can\'t stop kissing her either. She won\'t stop, she won\'t be the one who cracks like a china doll at the slightest provocation and pulls away gasping. This woman can\'t make her do that; she\'s a Gryffindor; she is strong. She is of the House of Courage, damn it. To risk losing her prefect\'s badge, to risk disgracing herself in the eyes of everyone she knows just to come here and allow this fork-tongued bitch to wrap her coils around her and squeeze until she is weak, well...


There\'s a reason she\'s not in Ravenclaw.


The tie cuts into the soft sides of her neck, the veins there bulging grotesquely. Rita has always gone straight for the jugular, a lion taking down its prey with serpent\'s fangs. Still kissing resolutely, Hermione makes an urgent, panicked noise and her hands fly to her tie. The fingers of her right hand are calloused where she holds her quill and where she drags the skin across miles of parchment. Both her hands are perpetually stained with flecks and smudges of ink that look like some kind of beetle-black scarring.

She tugs and claws at Rita\'s hand and the harder she does, the more Rita twists. Her knuckles press into Hermione\'s throat and she can feel the lion heart beating for its life on them. She tongues the silk inside the girl\'s cheeks lazily. She could do this all day.

Hermione feels her head start to spin and knows what she must do. But she has known since before Rita walked in, because this has happened more times than she can say. She lowers her hands.

Then, and only then does Rita release her. With a last feral lick to lush Gryffindor lips, she undoes the tie and spins her around. Hermione feels her blood acidify. Oh god, this again. She thinks back to the first time it happened this way and the odd feeling of pride that swelled in her when she finally managed everything.

Scarlet talons swipe at the air and bushy hair twists itself up into a tight bun because all it ever does is get in the way. Mannish hands grip her arms at the bicep and yank them back. She has a flash of being in a lesson on proper posture. Head up, chest out, shoulders back. But she\'s always carting around too many books for that; she is a workhorse, and her back curves according to the weight of her burden.

Rita kicks her boring, black shoes apart and guides her hands up. One is made to hook over the wall of the stall, the other on the stone wall opposite. Rita\'s hands slide down Hermione\'s arms to her starched collar, and then those ridiculous nails are poking her as they work at the buttons of her blouse. Rita\'s breath is moist and heavy in her ear and Hermione feels her pressing into her backside, slowly grinding her pelvis against the plump cheeks. Rita knows this body as she knows her reading audience and manipulates both with a master\'s touch. Her mouth and fingers are as her Prophet pieces; their purpose is to ignite, provoke a reaction, the stronger the better.

And now Hermione\'s shirt is off and two strong hands are slithering up the graceful planes of her abdomen, pulling the cups of her bra down, wrapping greedily around her breasts. They squeeze, and a moan curls from her lips. Rita is rubbing against her more insistently now. She kneads the breasts possessively, savouring their soft weight in her palms, and delights to think that Hermione might still be developing, maturing under her very hands. The thought is intoxicating. She likes to think that she is leaving an indelible mark on her sexual psyche that will leave her ruined for future lovers, lovers who will never measure up to the standard she was sexually broken in on.


Rita likes to ruin people; it\'s what she does best.


She circles the tough nipples with her thumbs and gives them a mean pinch. Hermione gasps and Rita pinches her again, pulls the rosy buds out and twists them. The pain is needle-sharp and burning like the Firewhisky that often mingles with acid-green ink. Rita keeps at it, and keeps at her, and soon Hermione\'s tortured nipples are losing feeling. Rita senses the shift in slackening breath and muscles, and moves her attention lower.

With a twist, zip, tug, she has the black pleats on the floor. She hasn\'t worn anything that plain since she graduated. She snakes a hand into Hermione\'s knickers and finds her soaking wet. She was probably like this all through her afternoon classes, too. Rita feels her own cunt give a hungry clench and sinks two thick fingers inside the girl. Hermione is divine to the touch; slick and smooth and warm and-


And Rita just wants to fuck the living hell out of her.


She wants to fuck her stone-stupid, she wants to make it so that Hermione cannot concentrate on anything else in her life but what happens to her here, and her marks drop to troll-level and she doesn\'t know who she is anymore. And when that happens, Rita will be there, cackling herself sick.

She pulls off her magenta robes, drapes them over the door, opens her bag, takes out a harness.
Today she has fitted it with her very favorites. The one on the bottom is similar to a cob of corn in girth, and a banana in length, colour and curvature. The one above it is ridged and translucent, violet at the base and fuchsia at the head. Her babies. Whatever would she do without them?

She steps into the harness and buckles it tight, straps biting into the flesh of her arse. Moaning slightly, she drags her hands down the delectable curves of Hermione\'s front and hooks her scarlet-taloned thumbs into the waistband of the girl\'s knickers. Hermione leans back into her, feeling the length of the toys squash up between them. She turns her head, opens her mouth, and lets Rita suck her tongue as those talons ease her knickers to mid-thigh. How long she has wanted this for is just another of those things she doesn\'t want to think about.

And now a strong hand is pushing between her shoulder blades and she is bending like a rag doll. She plants her hands on the hinges of the toilet seat, a foot on either side of the porcelain, and with a flutter of gloriously thick fingers, Gryffindor stripes are binding Gryffindor wrists to where they rest.


Ha ha ha, motherfucker. See how you like being trapped.


Rita scratches her nails down Hermione\'s back and feels her clit throb painfully beneath the leather patch of the harness. She is beyond wet. Taking her wand from her robes on the door, she gives it a swish-tap-flick. The wand appears slightly blurred as it vibrates in her hand. She slides it into the harness, wedging the tip against her swollen hood. Oh, fucking, Merlin.

But the vibration is bit too strong, and so she lowers her hand, and with it, the intensity. Her skin blazes like the desert and she shines with sweat and her blood feels as acid as her tongue. Hermione makes a little pouting noise and receives a sharp slap on the backside. She bites her lip and tries to refrain from stomping on Rita\'s feet.

Rita takes a bottle of Glinda\'s Galactic Glide from her bag, slathers it on her toys and drizzles a generous amount between the girl\'s cheeks. Bending the violet-fuchsia cock up, she grips the yellow one and teases the head around Hermione\'s plump cunt lips, coaxing forth whines and wetness, until she just can\'t stand it anymore and is sliding in and Hermione\'s flesh is glad to have her back where she belongs. But Rita is not going to give her everything just yet, and stops pushing at the head. She twists a finger joint into the other entrance and Hermione gives a needy whimper.

Rita wriggles the fuchsia head against the rosy pucker until it is opening, stretching to fit snugly around her cock. She pushes slowly and a rich, guttural moan pours from Hermione\'s thickened throat. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knows she is betraying all the friends Rita has slandered with this, but she can\'t think about that right now, can\'t think of anything but how good Rita feels inside her, and now those wide hips are pressed fast against her arse, the toys buried, large hands anchored to her hips, nails digging into her skin.

Hermione\'s breath is ragged, and she wears an expression of intense concentration and looks at the floor without seeing it. Rita slides almost all the way out, wrenching another shameless moan from her silly little Gryffindor, lingers, and slides back. Her own juice trickles down her bare legs as the heat in her sex flares, and she thinks that there is no sight more sublime than Hermione\'s pink cunt and arsehole sheathing her lurid toys in tandem as she thrusts. Not one.


Little Miss Perfect, Miss Prissy. Tart, slut, slattern. She has never called her by her proper name, and she\'s not going to. This isn\'t that kind of relationship; this is about descending to the plane of beasts.


She settles into a vigorous rhythm that has Hermione panting like a dog and sweating like a pig, a greedy little pig, as Rita sometimes calls her, and threads of drool are running off her bottom lip, and she is mindless to everything but the thick head stoking deep in her arse, the fat shaft working the walls of her cunt, and she doesn\'t know whether she is still on her feet, because now she is nothing but the tension and the friction between her legs. Rita is going hard and strong and she\'s snarling like a jungle cat. She slams into Hermione with brutal force and finds herself thinking of all the wrongs this brat has done her.


Her life savings are gone because this little bitch wouldn\'t let her work.


She spits on her back. Hermione feels her do this, and her sex burns and drips worse than ever and she is very, very, quite contrary, how does her garden grow? But Rita thinks she knows exactly what Hermione\'s got growing twisted and gnarled inside her, and touches the pad of one single, solitary finger to the girl\'s swollen clit, and spits again and Hermione begins to weep. She has always been one to cry easily. A Cheshire Cat grin lights Rita\'s face and she takes her finger from where it is so desperately needed.


Hermione sobs harder at this, and Rita finds it deeply arousing. Hermione always knew this woman was nothing but an evil bitch, just like Rita always knew this girl was a crybaby and they are both uncommonly perceptive women. Rita raises one hand to strengthen the vibration of the wand still nestled beside her own pulsing clit and slams into Hermione with all the violence she can muster. Oh Merlin, that\'s it, come for mummy you fucking trollop.


Hermione\'s legs are trembling now and this wouldn\'t be the first time they give out and she knows Rita will just keep right on going even if they do, the bitch. But they are still supporting her when Rita starts shattering, hands gripping tighter, broken cries streaming from her gaping mouth. Below, Hermione thrashes about in frustration, half-mad with raw want as she tries in vain to liberate her hands. Then she feels her stop and hears a deep, satisfied sigh followed by the ominous clink of a golden buckle.


Rita wears it as a bracelet, bewitching it daily to match her robes in an effort to cloak its true purpose. She uncoils the leather from where she has wrapped it four times around her wrist and smiles down at Hermione, the corners of her lips curled like burning parchment.


Baby\'s had it coming for ages.


She slides out halfway and grips the ends of the strap firmly. Hermione holds her breath as Rita raises the loop and takes aim. A loud smacking noise resounds in the dank bathroom as magenta leather connects hard with plump muscle, sending a bolt of pain striking through it. Hermione yelps and fresh tears slide down her face as the strap comes down again and again and she wonders where this fucking bitch gets all her energy. This shouldn\'t be happening to her; she\'s a Prefect. Prefects don\'t get strapped. They just don\'t. But Rita keeps at her until Hermione\'s cheeks glow a bright ruby-red and she is whining like a wounded pup, and dying her thousandth death for that one extra bit of pressure.


Then the strap is on the floor, and the toys are all the way back in, and a thin piece of wood is sliding between her legs, pressing against her tormented clit, and that is the most that she can bear.
She\'s going to die, and it will be all Rita Skeeter\'s fucking fault.


She bites back hard on the scream dying to tear out of her as terrible shudders rack her overwrought body. Rita rides her through it, and when it is over, does not do her the courtesy of giving her a slow fuck to come down on, but instead pumps faster, and presses harder and Hermione is breaking open again, sobbing her heart out as her cunt contracts around Rita\'s thick yellow shaft, and this is the moment she lives between. And it\'s always over too soon.


Without pulling out an inch, Rita unbuckles the harness and ties the straps around the front of Hermione\'s thighs. She pushes her down to sit on the seat where her hands are still tied and steps around to face her.


Hermione leans in to mouth at the glisten coating the other woman\'s thighs and takes in the primal scent of arousal mingled with leather. She shoves her hips forward to rub herself on her bound wrists and feels the pressure start mounting again. She eagerly seals her mouth over as much of Rita\'s cunt as she can; it is heavenly to the taste. Hermione pushes her pink-green tongue deep between the overslick folds and gives a loud groan. Rita feels the sound reverberate in her tissue and arches her hips. At this, Hermione moans again and feels Rita grab her head and plant a foot on the slope of her back. Hermione\'s eyes are closed, the lids twitching as if she is dreaming. She doesn\'t care about the reaction she gets, just about how good Rita\'s sex feels in her mouth, raw flesh on rawer meat. Her blood beats her from the inside. She sucks the thick folds and hears Rita groaning above her, feels hands clamping tighter around her head. She licks away the juice as it comes trickling out for her, more and more of it now, and pushes her tongue inside and tries to lick her there too. Rita rolls her hips, and Hermione can taste every clench of her cunt and feels her own do the same as she bounces gently on the toys still stuffed inside her. And still she rubs against her wrists, because Enough is the holy grail. Desperately wishing she had that sharp tongue wrapped around her own beating nub, she suckles and nibbles at Rita\'s blood-bloated clit and then Rita is bucking hard against the pressure as silvery shivers skate through her, and Hermione feels the alkaline blister beetle come pouring into her mouth and she\'s drinking and drinking as if she doesn\'t know better. She can\'t help it.


Rita leans back against the filthy stone wall, exhausted and breathing hard, just like that Black bitch all those years ago. Her gaze drifts to the ceiling and snags upon Moaning Myrtle, floating above them with a look of profound longing in her pale eyes. Rita winks at her. Because she\'s just that kind of woman.