Blow Job Friday Challenge
Rating: NC-17 (Well, yeah. Blow jobs)
Pairing: SSHG (Another well yeah)
Summary: They say that Discipline is its own reward. Well, perhaps it is part of its own reward.
Warning: No dialogue, smut, oral sex, smut, D/s, smut…I think that about covers it.
Author’s Note: I wrote this in about five minutes, so please excuse all mistakes and gaffs. I didn’t even bother stgulik with beta-ing it because it’s just a little ficlet, but I really did have a lot of fun with it. Usual disclaimer applies.
It is always the same, and Hermione prefers it that way. At first, when she was new to the lifestyle, he would order her on her knees, and the first time she dropped clumsily down at his feet he almost, but not quite, suppressed a snicker. Her face had burned with humiliation, and he had taken the opportunity to teach. Not in the harsh, impatient way that had marred her time as his official student, but in a quiet, commanding way that had both soothed and thrilled her.
Now, she sinks to her knees with practiced grace; she has spent hours kneeling before a mirror, wanting to be beautiful for him, wanting him to praise her. She flutters to the ground like snow, making no noise, her head lowered in supplication and anticipation, and the hand that rests on her head is warm and gentle. It is his silent praise, her first reward, and her body, that ancient, aching machine, sings with thrumming want.
The man she calls Master in the privacy of their rooms is not handsome; he is harsh and foreboding, but he, too, is aroused, and she is the cause of his desire. He steps closer, his black robes whispering their promises. Hermione has learned patience and discipline from him; she waits, daring to glance up into his face, for this is the moment that she has longed for.
He allows her this indulgence, this breach of humility, because he knows it is part of what she calls her ‘second reward’, the gift of his countenance. He looks down at her with solemn acceptance, and meets her eyes with his, black and heated and full of the power she has given him.
With a sigh, he slowly opens his robes, like a courtesan. His pale, slender body is not beautiful either, but so alive, flushed and rosy with heat and his own lusts, and his cock is dusky and so hard it seems to reach for her. Hermione can smell his body; it is a scent that makes her mouth water. The dark hair that cradles his rigid cock is fragrant and soft. She has spent as much time with her nose buried in his pubic hair as he has spent with his cock buried in her mouth.
His lips part as his breathing increases, and it is at this point the power between them tips and totters, waxes and wanes. He has taught her the beauty of control; now he instructs her in the beauty of surrender. His surrender.
The breath he exhales stutters from his chest, and the hand on her head tightens, works down into her crown until his fingers braid through her curls, and he guides her mouth onto his cock, hissing as he parts her lips with it. She moans around his cock, her tongue rasping against the smooth underside, and his control dissolves. As delicious, as wonderful as it is to taste him, Hermione remains watchful. His expression melts into pure ecstasy, and in the moment he is the most beautiful creature she has ever seen, much less touched and tasted. In that moment, he is the slave, and she is the Master.
He has never been one to punish her with his cock; punishment is meted out with the rod, the admonishment, the disappointed gaze. He has never tried to choke her or threaten her with his sex, but she has been known to choke herself on him. In her greed to see that blissful expression, that dizzyingly thrilling loss of control, she has gagged and coughed around him, too eager, too wild. Even here, he teaches her, instructs her in reminding her of her own discipline, even as he abandons his own.
It is at the moment when he widens his stance and starts to thrust that she no longer allows herself to care.
She uses her hands, fluttering tongue, the gentle administration of teeth, to turn him into the animal she craves, the wild, rutting creature tamable only by her. When his voice turns dark and hot and growling, when his hips rock and piston his cock in and out of her mouth, only then does she dare to truly Dominate him. Her hand slips between his legs, caressing his balls, heavy and hard as stones, then she inserts her middle finger into his rectum. The effect is instantaneous, like an electric shock, and he cries out with his impending climax.
Now there is no control, no Dominance, no balance of power. Now it is just him, lost in the moment, his every nerve syntax attuned to her, his world concentrated down to this pinpoint of pleasure and trust and love, and Hermione is his guide.
He comes with a growling roar of helpless, rippling rapture, holding on as she accepts him, deep and hot in her throat. It grips him like a fever, and even as she drinks him down, she is soothing him, holding him steady, letting him lose and find himself in the same darkly joyful moment.
Staggering against her, Severus utters a soft, unbearably sweet cry. It is an innocent sound, vulnerable and helplessness. It says, you know me like no one else. I have placed my heart in your hands. Hermione has held that precious treasure against her breast long enough for him to know it is in the safest of keeping.
Tonight is just a shadow play, a single thread upon the tapestry of their lives, a taste of the exotic spice that defines their landscape. It is a part of the rich flavour of their relationship, not the dish itself. They both know this well, and as Hermione tidies him up, as she rises and he leans against her like a drunken man, defenseless and afraid, she gives him the strength he needs to be strong himself. Soon after, he leads them back to their bed, where they will make love later, and fall asleep in one another’s arms like children.