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hpkinkfest2012-01-31 10:19 pm
blissed_bess) wrote in hpkinkfest2012-01-31 10:19 pm
Source of Bliss (NC-17, Hermione/draco)
Title: Source of Bliss
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
blissed_bess
Prompt Number: 254 submitted byagirlnamedtruth
Kink Showcased: Female Master/Male Slave
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Hermione/draco
Summary: Hermione masters her slave.
Content Notes/Warnings: slave!fic, whipping, spanking, humiliation, crying, bondage, orgasm denial, ruined orgasm, toys, CBT,
Word Count: 3006
Beta: Heartfelt thanks topaean_sf for her thoughtful and helpful advice!
Author's Notes 1:agirlnamedtruth, I loved writing this for you – I hope you enjoy it! I'm afraid it was a total fail on the optional 'consensual' bit, sorry! - but hopefully the rest of the story hits your kink.
Author's Notes 2: Direct quote used from POA, p 216: 'SMACK! She had slapped Malfoy around the face with all the strength she could muster.'
Source of Bliss
"Slaving is the primary and favorite source of bliss in my life. i crave to be owned, body, mind, heart and soul. But i cannot be owned if i cannot be seen, because the Master cannot exercise ownership of what He doesn't know about. And, at least for now, i believe that He cannot master me if i am hiding from Him in any way." Guy Baldwin, Slavecraft.
Now
He reaches for the final book on the shelving trolley.
It has taken him over an hour to empty the trolley, and he glistens with a sheen of sweat from his efforts. Of course, his Mistress could have easily returned all the books back to their exact dewey-decimal, designated place with one brisk flick of her wand. But today it is his task to complete, by his own hands.
He checks the spine label one more time, looks up to the highest shelf and sees exactly where the book needs to go. By now, he's not surprised – all the books he's shelved this evening have been on the high shelves.
He knows she's watching.
His breath hitches in anticipation. He knows he has no possible, acceptable, reason to delay any longer. The book wobbles as his hand shakes and he slowly lifts it high. He's on tippy-toes, stretched tall, one hand reaching up to brace on the tallest shelf, the other hand trying to push the book into place.
His naked body spasms, and, as if hit by a bolt of lightening, he stays stretched – hands raised high grasping the shelf edge, balancing on toe-tips. His moan is loud and long and his voice echoes back to him in the silent library.
With the stretch of his body, the cruel teeth of the clamps dig deeper into his nipples. The chain connecting his nipple clamps to his cock ring pulls taut, much too short for this long stretch to shelve the final book – just as his Mistress must know. He's trying to curl his hips forward, trying to relieve the pressure, but he's lost the battle already. Because now the chain that runs from his cock ring to the overlarge dildo filling his body has pulled too tight – transforming the dildo into a vibrating, pulsating implement of sweet torture.
He's stretched against the shelving – nipples throbbing in agony, imprisoned cock heavy and swollen, arse filled and fucked. He's moaning rhythmically, body flushed pink, dampened hair dripping sweat to mingle with his tears.
In a moment, he will gather enough strength to pull away from the shelves. To collapse for a while over the trolley till he catches his breath. To convince his cock it has no chance of the release it yearns for. To settle his body back into the cradle of his Mistress's bondage and just be.
But for now, he is hers to watch – fucked against the backdrop of her beloved books, flushed pink with desperate pleasure, crying tears of biting pain.
And thanking his Mistress, with his every wrecked moan.
***
Then
She was the only one who had wanted him.
Returned again and again to Azkaban after each Death Eater slave auction, abandoned and unwanted, he had despaired. And the dementors had loved him for it. As time passed he diminished more and more, becoming less and less presentable at the auctions. He rode the downward spiral with total antipathy.
When she submitted the one and only bid ever made for him, he couldn't care enough to wonder who she was. He was bleak and despondent, and even knowing that she'd probably throw him back for not responding to her questions, he couldn't raise himself out of his despair enough to even acknowledge her.
Then she had stepped forward from the gaggle of guards and officials and SMACK! She had slapped him around the face with all the strength she could muster. And he was roused and awakened – knew instantly who she was – and he fell to his knees, whispering 'thank you, thank you, thank you'. And his tears splashed wetly on the shiny, black leather of her knee-high boots.
Now
'Thank you, Mistress!'
He's bound to her cross, stretched, spreadeagled. With each bite of her whip on his sweat-slick skin, he moans his heart-felt thanks.
He relishes the pain in his body – the stinging fire of the welts on his upper back, his butt, and upper thighs. His fingers ache, the muscles of his shoulders are just starting to quiver with strain, and his calves are tight and tired. His clamped nipples are numb, though they twinge every so often, presaging the pain to come.
Mistress has attached the humiliating cock-tube to the cross today, so, with each bite of her whip, with each reflexive surge forward of his body, his cock is propelled into the engulfing silken-slickness of the tightly padded tube. Under the sheer force of his Mistress's lashes he's bottoming out, right up to the solid strength of his cock and testicle rings. It's beyond pleasure and beyond pain, too intimately entwined to ever be unravelled, and the feeling harmonises with his back's agony.
He submits to it, and returns the gift she's given him, reflecting it back to her. Her pleasure in his suffering is palpable. And so he suffers beautifully for her. She rewards his endurance, and she embraces his fragility. She enables his strength, and supports him to break. He wants to give her everything of himself, because it is his only because she gave it back to him.
He hears the leather of her boots creak, the whoosh of the fabric of her shirt as she prepares, and the slice of the whip as she draws it back. No thought to brace or tense or flinch, he loosens and welcomes and is embraced. His breath is roughly torn from him though, under the sheer force of her final blow, and he has air only enough to whisper his 'thank you, Mistress'.
She hears of course, for she's already by his side, telling him 'good boy' and he believes with all his heart.
There's urgency in the way she lowers the cross, releases his bondage, and turns him over. She's placed a towel under his back, but still he cries out his hurt. She kisses each wrist and ankle as she resecures him. His cock radiates need and his nipples throb in their clamps and his back is aflame with pain. But when she straddles his face, and he breathes in her scent and tastes her juices and hears her soft moans, she becomes his only focus. As she grinds down, he works his tongue and lips hard and fast, lapping and sucking and nuzzling. He suffocates under her when she arches in orgasm, and when she finally eases, he works more softly to guide her through two more.
He licks and sucks his own lips when she moves away – is licking them still when she returns with water to soothe his throat, and soft towelling to wipe him down. He feels the towel brush over his cock and his body reacts before he can brace. To his Mistress, he arches and thrusts and whimpers and moans his need.
She tut-tuts at him, says lovingly 'silly boy, my silly boy', and scrapes one fingernail down the shaft of his cock.
When he stops screaming, his body is still humping, desperately yearning for a release as bound as he is. He begs 'please, Mistress, please'. She cups his balls, squeezes and kneads them.
'It's all their fault,' she says. 'We've talked about this before, slave, whether we should keep these annoyances. Look at the pain they cause you, all this pain, for no reason at all.'
And the chill of her words is still not enough to quench his need.
'You've been such a good boy, though,' she's rolling his balls in her hand, 'do you want me to help, pet? Do you want me to deal with this?'
'Yours, Mistress,' he cries, beyond any other words now, beyond any other thought. 'Yours.'
His balls are released and his cock ring is released, and he screams to the rhythm of her slick-handed strokes. She pumps his cock, croons 'that's my pet', soothes 'beautiful boy, my beautiful boy'. He screams and thrusts and his cock twitches, and he inhales in reflex, filling his lungs, ready, so ready.
At the exact moment of inevitability she snatches her hands away, slaps his cock hard, and wrenches his nipple clamps free. He comes – full of pain, untouched, orgasm free – sluggish pulsing dribbles from a shrivelled shocked cock.
And he screams, and yearns, and arches, and humps. And she soothes him with her voice and her words. Stays with him till his sobs turn to hiccups and exhaustion burns out his yearning need. Cares for him, comforts him. Consoles him, calms him.
'Your pleasure is in serving me,' she reminds him. 'You have no need for any other.'
'Thank you, Mistress,' he agrees.
***
Then
She had forced herself to watch the first slave auctions out of her own sense of dismay and disgust.
She read widely, collected information, examined case studies, and reviewed key theories that had influenced the adopted model of slavery.
She tracked the successes and investigated the failures. Noted the reporting protocols, and analysed the early statistics.
She had visualised possible outcomes, brainstormed pros and cons, imagined an ideal end-game, and created an if-this-then-that mind map.
Finally, she had compiled her information into a voluminous report, unbiasedly and unambiguously recommending the total abolishment of slavery, in all its forms.
She was all but ready to submit her report, when she came across an image while cleaning porn off the student access computers in her library.
An image of a man. A naked man. With leather cuffs binding his wrists and ankles. Suspended from a ceiling by his wrists. Feet teethered to, but not touching, the floor. Stretched widely into an X. Thick black cloth blindfolding him. Bottom blushed pink, back brightly wealed.
White cloud of hair haloing his head.
And a woman by his side, one hand holding a cane, the other reaching forward as if to soothe a tear escaping from his blinded eyes.
Her body had clenched, her breath punched out in an 'oh!' of surprise. Her finger hovered over the delete key, unwilling to let him go. She was panting – surprisingly wet, nipples tingling, clit throbbing – and as she rubbed herself to completion right there in the middle of her library, the image burned itself into her mind.
Her report was pushed aside to await final revisions, and she began exploring her new interest.
She researched various courses, attended weekend workshops, trained with recognised experts, and practiced and honed her skills. And for every boy she smacked, slapped, whipped, paddled, pegged and soothed – she knew it was all in preparation for owning him.
She examined his records, circled his next auction date on her calendar, and activated her automated owl reminder service.
And smiled a smug smile, a smile so radiant she imagined it brightened her entire library.
***
Now
The whipping frame has been adjusted for his morning spanking – wooden beams sliding and snapping into their well-worn places. His ankles are spread wide, his cuffs clipped to the frame. He bends over, hips snuggling into the padding of the bar supporting him there, and leans forward and down, stretching his arms so his wrist cuffs can be fastened in place.
He wriggles his body for balance and comfort, gathers his poise, hangs his head, and breathes deep and slow.
Her first touch is soft and gentle, a stroking of his skin with light pressure from her full palm. She rubs over both butt cheeks, in no particular pattern, fully awakening his sense of anticipation. Without thought, a ragged sigh escapes him when she taps on the base of his butt plug and the vibration ripples throughout his body.
His hips jerk forward before he can process what they're reacting to, and when thought finally catches up to sensation, he moans deeply as she runs her moistened finger round and round where his rim is stretched wide by the plug.
He groans rhythmically when she reaches under and palms his cock cage, breath grunting out raggedly. He can feel the warmth of her skin through the gaps in his cage, his body straining taut in her bondage, his cock yearning and throbbing for the gift of her touch.
'Yours, Mistress,' he cries, giving her his pain, wishing he was worthy.
'Yes, Draco.'
And he is so startled by the sound of his name in his Mistress's voice, so shocked that she has spoken his name, he moves as if to stand, as if to turn to face her, as if to look into her eyes.
What can it mean that she has said his name? He has been her slave for so long now, and has never heard her say his name. Boy, pet, slave, slut – all those he has heard – but never his own name, his real name.
What does it mean?
He's struggling wildly now, the wooden frame creaking and groaning, and the chains rattling. Were it not for his padded cuffs, his wrists and ankles would be bloody and bruised. He's crying in confusion, blood pounding in his reddened face. He's bent over in a ridiculous position, his head hanging down, and he can't get up. His sobs are uncontrolled and he can't catch his breath, he's panting and heaving and he's going to suffocate…
His body arches taut with the shock of her first smack. He moans, breath dragged in painfully, urgently. Two more sharp smacks, fast and harsh, and his ears fill with his own groans and the sound of her hand slapping against his skin. Two more, fierce and bright, and his hips strain against the beam they're stretched over, his toes grip against the floor, and his hands reach and clench in reflex. A frenzy of smacks now, and they blend into a hot blaze of agony.
The very moment he stops arching and twitching and humping and wrenching against the spanking, and rests into his bondage to accept and react, she stops.
She moves to stand before him, crouches so she's sitting on her heels, knees spread wide. Her hand in his sweaty hair slowly pulls up his head. Her tight skirt is bunched around her hips, and he's looking straight at her silky panty-covered pussy, filling his soul with her smell.
'Draco,' she says, and it's soft and soothing, a drawing out of the sounds that make up his name – and maybe that's all it is after all – she's not really saying his name, just a bunch of sounds that when put together sound like his name …
'Draco,' and she lifts his head higher, his neck a strained arch.
'Mistress, no,' he whispers, daring to disagree, 'slave, not Draco.'
'No, Draco,' she says, 'slave and Draco.'
'Mistress, no,' he cries softly, 'slave. Your slave – not Draco, not Draco anymore.'
'Yes, my slave, Draco,' she cradles his head in her hands, relieving the strain on his neck, thumbs his tears away. 'Yes, Draco, my slave.'
He cries quietly, hot tears splashing on her hands. He thinks there's an ending coming, and it's breaking his heart already.
'You've hidden Draco away for so long, keeping him safe and protected. But that time is over now. There's no need to hide any longer,' her voice is soothing, insistent.
'You don't want me...' His heart is in his words, his tone, his intonation – fear, disbelief, pain, rejection – horror-filled awe and wonder mixed with despair.
'No, my pet, no,' and she's moving again, standing, unlocking him from his whipping frame – is it even his anymore? – and he cries a fresh stream of tears. He stumbles where she leads, rests his head on her shoulder as she draws him to sit in her lap on the leather sofa – not allowed on the furniture… all changed, all over…
'You're getting rid of me…' His home, his place of solace and safety, lost to him just like that. The strength of her mastery, the comfort of her care, the clarity of her lessons – he's moaning at their loss already, hunching in her arms in pain, hollow hole where once his heart was.
Her hand is rubbing slow soothing circles on his back. Her lips gift gentle soft kisses in his hair. Her voice is low and insistent, and he's trying – trying to stifle his tears, to silence his keening – to listen and know why he is not worthy enough to be kept.
'Draco, listen. It's important that you understand. Your period of indenture is over. I no longer own a slave. You are free.' She waits, waits while he buries his face in her shoulder, moaning 'no, Mistress', his shaking body held in her firm embrace.
After a time, he feels her fingers under his chin, guiding his head, tilting it up, so he is looking in her eyes. She waits again, this time as he instinctively tries to lower his gaze, but is held in place. He sees her through the soft lens of his tears, a beauteous Botticelli angel - his once-and-always Mistress.
'You are finally free to choose, as I chose you so many years ago,' she swipes his tears and licks them lingeringly from her long fingers. 'No longer as an indentured slave, but as Draco, who has chosen to be my slave.'
'I choose, Mistress, please…' He will give her anything, everything, whatever she wants – heart, soul, sight, balls, life – anything, everything. 'Please, keep me. Please Mistress, I choose, I beg – own me, have me, hurt me. Yours. Your slave – nothing more.'
'All of you, every part, nothing hidden,' she insists.
'Yours, Mistress. Please...'
'I know I will have to remind you, my slave, and the lessons may have to be harsh. You're no longer permitted to try to hide any part of yourself, my beautiful boy. Trust your Mistress, my Draco, be yourself and be my slave.'
He cries inconsolably as she cradles his shaking body, his hidden soul. Trusting with all his heart that she will care for both as if they were precious, he submits and obeys and surrenders.
And she smiles a smug smile, a smile so radiant she imagines it brightens her entire world.
Fin
Author:
blissed_bessPrompt Number: 254 submitted by
agirlnamedtruthKink Showcased: Female Master/Male Slave
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Hermione/draco
Summary: Hermione masters her slave.
Content Notes/Warnings: slave!fic, whipping, spanking, humiliation, crying, bondage, orgasm denial, ruined orgasm, toys, CBT,
Word Count: 3006
Beta: Heartfelt thanks to
paean_sf for her thoughtful and helpful advice!Author's Notes 1:
agirlnamedtruth, I loved writing this for you – I hope you enjoy it! I'm afraid it was a total fail on the optional 'consensual' bit, sorry! - but hopefully the rest of the story hits your kink.Author's Notes 2: Direct quote used from POA, p 216: 'SMACK! She had slapped Malfoy around the face with all the strength she could muster.'
Source of Bliss
"Slaving is the primary and favorite source of bliss in my life. i crave to be owned, body, mind, heart and soul. But i cannot be owned if i cannot be seen, because the Master cannot exercise ownership of what He doesn't know about. And, at least for now, i believe that He cannot master me if i am hiding from Him in any way." Guy Baldwin, Slavecraft.
Now
He reaches for the final book on the shelving trolley.
It has taken him over an hour to empty the trolley, and he glistens with a sheen of sweat from his efforts. Of course, his Mistress could have easily returned all the books back to their exact dewey-decimal, designated place with one brisk flick of her wand. But today it is his task to complete, by his own hands.
He checks the spine label one more time, looks up to the highest shelf and sees exactly where the book needs to go. By now, he's not surprised – all the books he's shelved this evening have been on the high shelves.
He knows she's watching.
His breath hitches in anticipation. He knows he has no possible, acceptable, reason to delay any longer. The book wobbles as his hand shakes and he slowly lifts it high. He's on tippy-toes, stretched tall, one hand reaching up to brace on the tallest shelf, the other hand trying to push the book into place.
His naked body spasms, and, as if hit by a bolt of lightening, he stays stretched – hands raised high grasping the shelf edge, balancing on toe-tips. His moan is loud and long and his voice echoes back to him in the silent library.
With the stretch of his body, the cruel teeth of the clamps dig deeper into his nipples. The chain connecting his nipple clamps to his cock ring pulls taut, much too short for this long stretch to shelve the final book – just as his Mistress must know. He's trying to curl his hips forward, trying to relieve the pressure, but he's lost the battle already. Because now the chain that runs from his cock ring to the overlarge dildo filling his body has pulled too tight – transforming the dildo into a vibrating, pulsating implement of sweet torture.
He's stretched against the shelving – nipples throbbing in agony, imprisoned cock heavy and swollen, arse filled and fucked. He's moaning rhythmically, body flushed pink, dampened hair dripping sweat to mingle with his tears.
In a moment, he will gather enough strength to pull away from the shelves. To collapse for a while over the trolley till he catches his breath. To convince his cock it has no chance of the release it yearns for. To settle his body back into the cradle of his Mistress's bondage and just be.
But for now, he is hers to watch – fucked against the backdrop of her beloved books, flushed pink with desperate pleasure, crying tears of biting pain.
And thanking his Mistress, with his every wrecked moan.
***
Then
She was the only one who had wanted him.
Returned again and again to Azkaban after each Death Eater slave auction, abandoned and unwanted, he had despaired. And the dementors had loved him for it. As time passed he diminished more and more, becoming less and less presentable at the auctions. He rode the downward spiral with total antipathy.
When she submitted the one and only bid ever made for him, he couldn't care enough to wonder who she was. He was bleak and despondent, and even knowing that she'd probably throw him back for not responding to her questions, he couldn't raise himself out of his despair enough to even acknowledge her.
Then she had stepped forward from the gaggle of guards and officials and SMACK! She had slapped him around the face with all the strength she could muster. And he was roused and awakened – knew instantly who she was – and he fell to his knees, whispering 'thank you, thank you, thank you'. And his tears splashed wetly on the shiny, black leather of her knee-high boots.
Now
'Thank you, Mistress!'
He's bound to her cross, stretched, spreadeagled. With each bite of her whip on his sweat-slick skin, he moans his heart-felt thanks.
He relishes the pain in his body – the stinging fire of the welts on his upper back, his butt, and upper thighs. His fingers ache, the muscles of his shoulders are just starting to quiver with strain, and his calves are tight and tired. His clamped nipples are numb, though they twinge every so often, presaging the pain to come.
Mistress has attached the humiliating cock-tube to the cross today, so, with each bite of her whip, with each reflexive surge forward of his body, his cock is propelled into the engulfing silken-slickness of the tightly padded tube. Under the sheer force of his Mistress's lashes he's bottoming out, right up to the solid strength of his cock and testicle rings. It's beyond pleasure and beyond pain, too intimately entwined to ever be unravelled, and the feeling harmonises with his back's agony.
He submits to it, and returns the gift she's given him, reflecting it back to her. Her pleasure in his suffering is palpable. And so he suffers beautifully for her. She rewards his endurance, and she embraces his fragility. She enables his strength, and supports him to break. He wants to give her everything of himself, because it is his only because she gave it back to him.
He hears the leather of her boots creak, the whoosh of the fabric of her shirt as she prepares, and the slice of the whip as she draws it back. No thought to brace or tense or flinch, he loosens and welcomes and is embraced. His breath is roughly torn from him though, under the sheer force of her final blow, and he has air only enough to whisper his 'thank you, Mistress'.
She hears of course, for she's already by his side, telling him 'good boy' and he believes with all his heart.
There's urgency in the way she lowers the cross, releases his bondage, and turns him over. She's placed a towel under his back, but still he cries out his hurt. She kisses each wrist and ankle as she resecures him. His cock radiates need and his nipples throb in their clamps and his back is aflame with pain. But when she straddles his face, and he breathes in her scent and tastes her juices and hears her soft moans, she becomes his only focus. As she grinds down, he works his tongue and lips hard and fast, lapping and sucking and nuzzling. He suffocates under her when she arches in orgasm, and when she finally eases, he works more softly to guide her through two more.
He licks and sucks his own lips when she moves away – is licking them still when she returns with water to soothe his throat, and soft towelling to wipe him down. He feels the towel brush over his cock and his body reacts before he can brace. To his Mistress, he arches and thrusts and whimpers and moans his need.
She tut-tuts at him, says lovingly 'silly boy, my silly boy', and scrapes one fingernail down the shaft of his cock.
When he stops screaming, his body is still humping, desperately yearning for a release as bound as he is. He begs 'please, Mistress, please'. She cups his balls, squeezes and kneads them.
'It's all their fault,' she says. 'We've talked about this before, slave, whether we should keep these annoyances. Look at the pain they cause you, all this pain, for no reason at all.'
And the chill of her words is still not enough to quench his need.
'You've been such a good boy, though,' she's rolling his balls in her hand, 'do you want me to help, pet? Do you want me to deal with this?'
'Yours, Mistress,' he cries, beyond any other words now, beyond any other thought. 'Yours.'
His balls are released and his cock ring is released, and he screams to the rhythm of her slick-handed strokes. She pumps his cock, croons 'that's my pet', soothes 'beautiful boy, my beautiful boy'. He screams and thrusts and his cock twitches, and he inhales in reflex, filling his lungs, ready, so ready.
At the exact moment of inevitability she snatches her hands away, slaps his cock hard, and wrenches his nipple clamps free. He comes – full of pain, untouched, orgasm free – sluggish pulsing dribbles from a shrivelled shocked cock.
And he screams, and yearns, and arches, and humps. And she soothes him with her voice and her words. Stays with him till his sobs turn to hiccups and exhaustion burns out his yearning need. Cares for him, comforts him. Consoles him, calms him.
'Your pleasure is in serving me,' she reminds him. 'You have no need for any other.'
'Thank you, Mistress,' he agrees.
***
Then
She had forced herself to watch the first slave auctions out of her own sense of dismay and disgust.
She read widely, collected information, examined case studies, and reviewed key theories that had influenced the adopted model of slavery.
She tracked the successes and investigated the failures. Noted the reporting protocols, and analysed the early statistics.
She had visualised possible outcomes, brainstormed pros and cons, imagined an ideal end-game, and created an if-this-then-that mind map.
Finally, she had compiled her information into a voluminous report, unbiasedly and unambiguously recommending the total abolishment of slavery, in all its forms.
She was all but ready to submit her report, when she came across an image while cleaning porn off the student access computers in her library.
An image of a man. A naked man. With leather cuffs binding his wrists and ankles. Suspended from a ceiling by his wrists. Feet teethered to, but not touching, the floor. Stretched widely into an X. Thick black cloth blindfolding him. Bottom blushed pink, back brightly wealed.
White cloud of hair haloing his head.
And a woman by his side, one hand holding a cane, the other reaching forward as if to soothe a tear escaping from his blinded eyes.
Her body had clenched, her breath punched out in an 'oh!' of surprise. Her finger hovered over the delete key, unwilling to let him go. She was panting – surprisingly wet, nipples tingling, clit throbbing – and as she rubbed herself to completion right there in the middle of her library, the image burned itself into her mind.
Her report was pushed aside to await final revisions, and she began exploring her new interest.
She researched various courses, attended weekend workshops, trained with recognised experts, and practiced and honed her skills. And for every boy she smacked, slapped, whipped, paddled, pegged and soothed – she knew it was all in preparation for owning him.
She examined his records, circled his next auction date on her calendar, and activated her automated owl reminder service.
And smiled a smug smile, a smile so radiant she imagined it brightened her entire library.
***
Now
The whipping frame has been adjusted for his morning spanking – wooden beams sliding and snapping into their well-worn places. His ankles are spread wide, his cuffs clipped to the frame. He bends over, hips snuggling into the padding of the bar supporting him there, and leans forward and down, stretching his arms so his wrist cuffs can be fastened in place.
He wriggles his body for balance and comfort, gathers his poise, hangs his head, and breathes deep and slow.
Her first touch is soft and gentle, a stroking of his skin with light pressure from her full palm. She rubs over both butt cheeks, in no particular pattern, fully awakening his sense of anticipation. Without thought, a ragged sigh escapes him when she taps on the base of his butt plug and the vibration ripples throughout his body.
His hips jerk forward before he can process what they're reacting to, and when thought finally catches up to sensation, he moans deeply as she runs her moistened finger round and round where his rim is stretched wide by the plug.
He groans rhythmically when she reaches under and palms his cock cage, breath grunting out raggedly. He can feel the warmth of her skin through the gaps in his cage, his body straining taut in her bondage, his cock yearning and throbbing for the gift of her touch.
'Yours, Mistress,' he cries, giving her his pain, wishing he was worthy.
'Yes, Draco.'
And he is so startled by the sound of his name in his Mistress's voice, so shocked that she has spoken his name, he moves as if to stand, as if to turn to face her, as if to look into her eyes.
What can it mean that she has said his name? He has been her slave for so long now, and has never heard her say his name. Boy, pet, slave, slut – all those he has heard – but never his own name, his real name.
What does it mean?
He's struggling wildly now, the wooden frame creaking and groaning, and the chains rattling. Were it not for his padded cuffs, his wrists and ankles would be bloody and bruised. He's crying in confusion, blood pounding in his reddened face. He's bent over in a ridiculous position, his head hanging down, and he can't get up. His sobs are uncontrolled and he can't catch his breath, he's panting and heaving and he's going to suffocate…
His body arches taut with the shock of her first smack. He moans, breath dragged in painfully, urgently. Two more sharp smacks, fast and harsh, and his ears fill with his own groans and the sound of her hand slapping against his skin. Two more, fierce and bright, and his hips strain against the beam they're stretched over, his toes grip against the floor, and his hands reach and clench in reflex. A frenzy of smacks now, and they blend into a hot blaze of agony.
The very moment he stops arching and twitching and humping and wrenching against the spanking, and rests into his bondage to accept and react, she stops.
She moves to stand before him, crouches so she's sitting on her heels, knees spread wide. Her hand in his sweaty hair slowly pulls up his head. Her tight skirt is bunched around her hips, and he's looking straight at her silky panty-covered pussy, filling his soul with her smell.
'Draco,' she says, and it's soft and soothing, a drawing out of the sounds that make up his name – and maybe that's all it is after all – she's not really saying his name, just a bunch of sounds that when put together sound like his name …
'Draco,' and she lifts his head higher, his neck a strained arch.
'Mistress, no,' he whispers, daring to disagree, 'slave, not Draco.'
'No, Draco,' she says, 'slave and Draco.'
'Mistress, no,' he cries softly, 'slave. Your slave – not Draco, not Draco anymore.'
'Yes, my slave, Draco,' she cradles his head in her hands, relieving the strain on his neck, thumbs his tears away. 'Yes, Draco, my slave.'
He cries quietly, hot tears splashing on her hands. He thinks there's an ending coming, and it's breaking his heart already.
'You've hidden Draco away for so long, keeping him safe and protected. But that time is over now. There's no need to hide any longer,' her voice is soothing, insistent.
'You don't want me...' His heart is in his words, his tone, his intonation – fear, disbelief, pain, rejection – horror-filled awe and wonder mixed with despair.
'No, my pet, no,' and she's moving again, standing, unlocking him from his whipping frame – is it even his anymore? – and he cries a fresh stream of tears. He stumbles where she leads, rests his head on her shoulder as she draws him to sit in her lap on the leather sofa – not allowed on the furniture… all changed, all over…
'You're getting rid of me…' His home, his place of solace and safety, lost to him just like that. The strength of her mastery, the comfort of her care, the clarity of her lessons – he's moaning at their loss already, hunching in her arms in pain, hollow hole where once his heart was.
Her hand is rubbing slow soothing circles on his back. Her lips gift gentle soft kisses in his hair. Her voice is low and insistent, and he's trying – trying to stifle his tears, to silence his keening – to listen and know why he is not worthy enough to be kept.
'Draco, listen. It's important that you understand. Your period of indenture is over. I no longer own a slave. You are free.' She waits, waits while he buries his face in her shoulder, moaning 'no, Mistress', his shaking body held in her firm embrace.
After a time, he feels her fingers under his chin, guiding his head, tilting it up, so he is looking in her eyes. She waits again, this time as he instinctively tries to lower his gaze, but is held in place. He sees her through the soft lens of his tears, a beauteous Botticelli angel - his once-and-always Mistress.
'You are finally free to choose, as I chose you so many years ago,' she swipes his tears and licks them lingeringly from her long fingers. 'No longer as an indentured slave, but as Draco, who has chosen to be my slave.'
'I choose, Mistress, please…' He will give her anything, everything, whatever she wants – heart, soul, sight, balls, life – anything, everything. 'Please, keep me. Please Mistress, I choose, I beg – own me, have me, hurt me. Yours. Your slave – nothing more.'
'All of you, every part, nothing hidden,' she insists.
'Yours, Mistress. Please...'
'I know I will have to remind you, my slave, and the lessons may have to be harsh. You're no longer permitted to try to hide any part of yourself, my beautiful boy. Trust your Mistress, my Draco, be yourself and be my slave.'
He cries inconsolably as she cradles his shaking body, his hidden soul. Trusting with all his heart that she will care for both as if they were precious, he submits and obeys and surrenders.
And she smiles a smug smile, a smile so radiant she imagines it brightens her entire world.
Fin
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I love that you broke Draco so much that he trusted Hermione with all the pieces.
'Mistress, no,' he whispers, daring to disagree, 'slave, not Draco.'
'No, Draco,' she says, 'slave and Draco.'
'Mistress, no,' he cries softly, 'slave. Your slave – not Draco, not Draco anymore.'
'Yes, my slave, Draco,' she cradles his head in her hands, relieving the strain on his neck, thumbs his tears away. 'Yes, Draco, my slave.'
That exchange was perfect, really powerful and intense.
So yeah, not a very coherent comment, cause I'm still awed but I really loved that.
And the consent issue was fine, it was right for the context of the story.
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Very, very good fic!
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(Anonymous) 2014-05-09 02:52 pm (UTC)(link)no subject