Title: A Study in Wanking or How Pulling at Your Knob Won't Make Your Hand Fall Off But Will Still Get You Into Trouble
Author: loony4lupin
Team: nekkid Ron WINTER RON
Prompts: Obscuro and Headmistress
Pairing/Genre: Hermione/Ron and Ron/McGonagall
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 6,500 (ish)
Warnings: Bondage, Dom/sub play, spanking, rimming, object penetration, minor hints of crack and fluff
A/N: This is set years after the war and Ron and Hermione are together, I'm not sure if it's accurate with epilogue time frame, so just ignore it if it is. A HUGE thanks to my two betas, ragdoll and madeyemax. They have helped me through this when I only had 1K written on the 23rd of September. Much love!
Boys wank.
This is a fact and I am what Hermione calls "a primary source" because I am a boy and I do wank. See, I'm pretty sure wanking has been essential in every bloke's life since – well forever. According to Charlie, a whore my knowledgeable brother, wanking never gets old, no matter how long you've been doing it or who you've been having sex with. And I would have to agree with him. Some days I just like sitting back and having a wank. Not that it's a substitute or anything, it's just a way to relax and have a little "me time", which is what Hermione is always going on about. I wonder if she does the same thing during her "me time"…
Anyway, Charlie taught me how to wank, only because he managed to get Percy to loosen up and stop running from the room when it came time for him to get the talk. Bill couldn't manage it, so he relinquished his duty to Charlie. I'm not sure I would have survived if Fred or George had given me the talk, or worse, Percy. So, Charlie became the sole teacher of all things sexual. Believe me, if you think Percy was tortured (which he kind of was because Bill wasn't exactly graceful the first seven tries) then you should ask Ginny what it was like getting 'the talk' from a Floo in Romania. She swears Charlie was actually having sex while he was giving her the talk. I wouldn't doubt it.
I can't give Charlie all the credit for my superb wank skills because dorm life in Hogwarts was certainly an eye opening experience. I was used to getting wank mags from my brothers, but it was always a bit strange for me; knowing what my brothers wanked to seemed a little more incestuous than my tastes. Thankfully, Hogwarts had a hearty supply of luscious magazines for the hormonally driven. So yeah, dorm life opened up a lot of possibilities, but I learned a lot too.
Living in the dorms taught me two things: 1) silencing charms were a must if you didn't want to be extremely embarrassed, because even though all blokes wanked, no one actually wanted to hear it when it was happening. It was okay to talk about wanking, which Seamus frequently did to the utmost embarrassment of Harry (he's always been a bit repressed).
And 2) not everyone wanked to the same thing; blokes have preferences and the like. Looking back, it's pretty easy to guess who was having one off to whom. I mean, look at Harry, who has only kissed two women in his entire life and he married the second one (Ginny thinks differently, only because that time when they weren't together we helped spin stories to make her jealous). I don't particularly like to think of Harry wankin' over my sister, but I'm man enough to admit that there is a strong possibility that it happened quite often. I'd venture that there might have been some Cho there, but let's be honest: Harry didn't understand what his cock was for until Ginny showed him. She probably forced puberty upon him. I'd pretty much bet on it.
Now, who knows what Neville spent most of his time tuggin' off to, but I will say that I once saw a Herbology magazine covered in what looked like spunk. Yeah. Well, like I said, blokes have to wank and whatever Neville did, and I suppose still does, to get off is his business. As far as Seamus and Dean went, it's pretty self explanatory even for a thick-headed git like me. The three of us shared wank mags until about 5th year. That year, I can only assume, was when they both figured out that girly bits didn't quite do it for them like boy bits, or rather each other's bits. Again, not my place to judge, especially since that year is when my own tastes shifted.
Hindsight says it has always been a control thing for me, in one way or another. I mean, I've been getting my kicks out of making Hermione lose control since I was about eleven! And I still love to do that, and often, but every once in a while, I enjoy a bit of a different direction.
But back to fifth year, because this is really where my wanking story begins and is the stem of this whole epic embarrassment. The first night back from Christmas holiday (what a mess that was eh?), I woke up having just had the dirtiest dream I've ever experienced – came straight in my sleep bottoms, sheets all sweaty and tangled around me. Now, this wouldn't have been that big of a deal, except the dream's subject was a bit shocking. I had been wanking to different nameless faces and a thousand different scenarios of how to make Hermione lose control, but never once had I ever come from anyone taking my control and practically beating me with it until I came, which is exactly what happened, except it wasn't just a nameless face or my lovely Hermione, but rather Professor McGonagall.
It wasn't as if I had been harbouring feelings for McG or anything. It was a distinctly drastic change in my sexual preferences. I had never in my short life dreamed about Professor McGonagall making me come harder than ever before dressed up in a dominatrix outfit – tartan style.
Obviously, I avoided sleep for as long as I could.
I was terrified I would have another dream that involved McGonagall and my overactive knob. But what I didn't count on was falling asleep in her class because of my obvious lack of sleep. It was a lecture day, no practical wand work, and I fell asleep in the back of her class and my bastard of a best friend didn't wake me. Let me tell you, I had never felt filthier in my young life.
She dominated my dream in tartan lingerie and high leather boots, and her stern voice rang out in my mind as I was laid out on her desk for the taking. Even thinking about that particular dream has me hard as stone. Dream-McGonagall made me beg to come; her teaching wand ran tantalizing patterns over my skin until she struck hard enough to make me whimper in delight, all across my chest and painfully hard nipples. Blimey, she said the naughtiest things in that dream and her piercing stare had me in shambles. I can't imagine the noises I made during that dream but I do remember how real her thin lips felt against my cock as she rained blows on my chest and had me weeping for release under her tartan reign. I can, however, imagine what it feels like to wake up to your Professor shouting, "Mr. Weasley!" and coming all over your pants and trousers.
Mortifying and strangely arousing knowing that I could be punished.
It took me a while to except the fact that sometimes I liked to be owned. I was nervous and quickly slipping into denial but the dreams continued, each one more intense and more focused on Professor McGonagall. Lessons became absolutely unbearable. Every time I heard her say my name or she made eye contact with me, I was launched back into my dream when all I could think about was her delicious cunt and the firm smack of her hand against my skin. Talk about distracting.
So, I pulled myself together, purchased a slightly different wank mag and settled down in the Prefect's bath for some alone time with my confused erection. Doma-Wizard was a thinner magazine than what I usually would get for my precious Sickles, but I needed to face this issue and get McGonagall out of my fantasies because she certainly didn't belong there.
At least, that's what I thought then.
<3<3<3<3<3<3
Hermione feels a shiver run down her spine and light her arms up with goose bumps as she steps out of her private chambers. Her heels click and echo in the stone corridors as she makes her way through the newly rebuilt walls of Hogwarts. She is running a little behind schedule, but it isn't enough to ruin her mood, although she continues to walk briskly. She passes several students who smile shyly at her or nod a respectful hello, and each time Hermione has to repress a threatening blush that wants so very badly to bloom across her cheeks. She can hardly believe she is walking around the halls and practically speaking to students when she is – well, if they had any idea, Hermione is sure she would never be able to show her face to the public ever again. Although, she is equally sure Ron would disagree and probably make some comment about her students' appreciation of her to mount of any new knowledge about their professor.
She slows her pace as she rounds the corner to the large gargoyle statue that had always represented the Headmaster's or Headmistress' office. Hermione smiles slightly at the statue and takes several shuddering breaths. It is safe to say she's nervous. It isn't that she hadn't done her research or wasn't comfortable with what she was about to do, because she had read many books and her and Ron had spoken about it several times. But this was particularly adventurous and really approaching dangerous.
"Are you going in, Headmistress? I've already told the portraits to leave you be for a while."
Hermione looks up from the floor at the speaking gargoyle and smiles, taking another breath. "Thank you, sir. But actually, I'd like to change the password before I go." The gargoyle nods and with a few sweeps of her wand and a whisper, the password shifts from transfiguration to Severus Snape and Hermione sweeps past the statue to mount the spiralling stone steps.
She pauses at the top of the stairs to take in the scene before her. Her office is particularly clean, with many of the cluttering instruments pushed up against the walls. The centre of the room is occupied by her desk, cleared of all items and two chairs; the small wooden guest chair and her high-backed chair that she had seen in every picture of the office since Hogwarts' foundation.
Hermione suppresses a smile at the person occupying her chair. He had obviously tried to follow instructions, but the basic need to be difficult had won out. Hermione is pleased to note that he had shed his clothes and folded them neatly on the guest chair, except for his pants and his socks, which she had asked him to remove several times because socks were disgusting. His eyes are closed, his fingers tapping against the desk in slight irritation, and his feet are propped up onto the desk, legs crossed. Hermione allows herself to admire the subtle muscles of his arms and the broad planes of his chest that taper down to a deliciously slim waist and firm arse. She glances back up to his face, which is relaxed, but graced with stubble.
Oh yes, he always did have a problem following directions. Hermione consciously arches an eyebrow, pulling her borrowed half moon spectacles to the ride low on her nose and pursing her lips before she speaks.
"Mr. Weasley, I see your insolence has caused you to directly disobey my wishes."
Ron's eyes flash open quickly and Hermione enjoys the way his body fights the urge to correct its posture; a bad boy who knows exactly what he's done wrong. Surprise slides off his face and is quickly replaced by an aloof coolness that Hermione is all too aware of, a look that Ron had never quite perfected while in school, much to his disappointment, but he had managed to get it right since his time working with George – obviously.
"Yeah, well they seemed a little too stuffy, Hermione. You know how much I love my socks."
Hermione walks quickly to her desk and slams her hands down on either side of his sock-clad feet. Ron raises his eyebrows and Hermione stares back, a stern look she had cultivated after teaching for three years.
"Mr. Weasley, I will not tolerate your impertinence! I am your Headmistress and you will address me as such."
It felt strange speaking to him like this, with such formality and order, but what it does to him is hardly a secret. Hermione can see, even from such a strange angle, the bulge in his pants and the way his Adam's apple bobs in excitement. His jaw twitches and Hermione straightens up, tapping her wand on the desk and watching as the shock runs through his body. He abruptly lowers his feet. She clears her throat and waits.
"Sorry, Headmistresses, I didn't mean to offend you."
Hermione suppresses the urge to laugh and instead nods her head tersely and gestures for him to get up. Ron hesitates only a moment before he stands, his cock making a tent in his pants, but not yet attempting escape. Hermione shifts her expression to boredom and looks him up and down. She'd been practicing all week, making her face a mask of stern order and constantly unreadable. But inside she's panting at the lean muscles of his long arms and the pull of the muscles in his thigh as he shifts his weight from foot to foot She allows her gaze to wander from the subtle pull of his thighs and idly motions with her hand and he turns around, his back facing her. Hermione wants badly to lick up his spine and press open-mouthed kisses to the strong muscles of his back and suck on each of his vertebrae. Instead she looks on in faux boredom, not admiring his arse, which has filled out since he had picked up Quidditch in a small league.
"Do you know why you're here, Mr. Weasley?"
Hermione taps the desk with her wand and it slides up to his knees, making him sit down abruptly, his back still towards her and a small 'oof' escaping from his chest. He shakes his head.
"I expect you to answer me verbally. You are not a caveman, Mr. Weasley, no matter what your actions suggest."
She shivers at the way her voice sounds exactly like hers and she briefly wonders if it's more demented that he wants it to be like that or that she actually enjoys it. Not that it matters now, not with the way his back has got rigid with her insult and his hands grasp the desk, knuckles white. Hermione walks slowly around the desk to study his face passively; his eyes are boring a hole through the wall in front of him, his jaw tight, but Hermione notices the way his cock twitches at his humiliation.
"Do you know why you're here, Mr. Weasley?"
"No, Headmistress."
She moves to stand in front of him, the back of her knees pressing against the firm edge of her chair. He stares over her head and Hermione licks her lips.
"You are here, Mr. Weasley, because you lied to me."
Hermione watches closely as the frown appears on his face and his eyes snap towards her, their game suddenly taking a turn he hadn't expected. She loves this, but refuses to smile. She has waited all evening to see this look on his face.
"I am not as thick as you think me, Mr. Weasley." Hermione flicks her wrist once towards him, making his arms jerk to stretch above his head, and then a second time towards the coiled rope she placed in the room earlier in the day, it spirals down to tie themselves sharply around his wrists. Ron's eyes widen, fear of her anger slowly etching onto his face. Hermione doesn't smile, just purses her lips and cocks her head at his shocked face.
"Did you think I was going to believe you, when you divulged your secret, that it was your only secret?"
Her wrist flicks and the rope coils until only Ron's toes touch the desk; he gasps and looks down at her, wild panic in his eyes. She bends at the knees to sit in her chair.
"You said nothing of those magazines underneath your bed," she says as she swings her legs up to put her own feet on the desk. The stiletto heels shine and her robes fall open just a bit, revealing nothing but flesh. She notes his eyes following her movements and she nods, as if giving a lecture.
"You only said you'd like to play detention with the Headmistress."
He whimpers, almost inaudibly, and Hermione can feel the heat pooling between her legs.
"But that's not entirely true, is it?" She pauses and rises from the seat. She walks around the desk and uses the chair normally reserved for guests to step easily onto the desk. Hermione notes the thin sheen of sweat on his back and smiles secretively. She presses close to him but doesn't let any part of her touch him. Her heels allow her to speak directly into his ear.
"You lied to me, Mr. Weasley." He jerks and Hermione switches to the other ear. "Is that not true? Did you not tell me this was your only secret fantasy when you actually want much, much more?"
Ron goes still and Hermione shoves her wand into his lower back. He arches, back bowed to the point of her wand.
"You will answer my questions, Mr. Weasley."
There is a moment where she thinks he's going to resist her, but he doesn't and just nods. His voice shakes when he speaks, no matter how strong he attempts it to be.
"Yes. And I am so sorry, Her-"
Hermione steps back abruptly and takes the flat of her palm to his arse, smacking him once as hard as possible through the fabric.
"You will do well to remember my name."
There is a quick nod and he continues, "I didn't think you'd want to know about my sick, sick mind, Her – Headmistress."
"I did inquire. Do not pretend to have knowledge of what I do and do not want." She pauses, tracing her wand up the length of his spine. "Can you imagine my shock? Sitting on your bed, running my hand over the semen-stained pages of your magazines, picturing you pulling at your cock to images of leather and spilling breasts, of whips and tears and Professor McGonagall's voice commanding you?"
Ron immediately blushes, his skin lobster-red at the mention of their former professor. Hermione traces her wand back down from neck to arse, tip pressing just a bit harder into his skin. Ron whimpers and presses back slightly. Hermione steps closer, whispering huskily into his ear.
"Of course I noticed the resemblance of the women in the magazine to Minerva and paired with the new knowledge of your Headmistress desire, it was not hard for me to connect the dots." Hermione pauses, blowing breath into Ron's ear.
"Did you dream about her making you come? Did you masturbate to her in class? Did her face meld slowly into mine? Do you want to be taken? Do you want to be owned by me? Do you want me to tease pain out of pleasure until you are begging underneath me for release? Is that what you want, to be my whore?"
Hermione reaches around to his groin with her free hand, his erection full and leaking into his pants. Ron arches into her hand, but says nothing intelligible and just groans. Hermione shakes her head, letting her nose brush his shoulder.
"Speaking would become you."
She releases his erection and her hand snakes its way to his nipple, clamping down with her thumb and forefinger until he yelps and jerks away, and then she releases him. Hermione tries to hide her smile.
"I-" Ron starts, but stops and takes a deep breath, his chest expanding. "I do. I want you to- to-"
Hermione waits and counts to ten. But he doesn't finish his sentence, so she pinches again, twisting her wrist until he cries out.
"Ah! I want you to dominate me. Please?"
She almost laughs at the desperate nature of his tone and the general absurdity of the statement, but she is having too much fun to actually break character. So she presses on.
"Did you know I wore tartan for you tonight?" Ron groans loudly and thrashes against the bindings, trying to turn his head, but the taunt pull of his arms doesn’t allow him to. Hermione slips out of her robes, dropping them, their metal fastenings clinking and clattering against the stone. Ron shudders again, arching against the bindings.
"But now that I'm here and you're being such an insolent little fucker," Hermione grinds out the words, feeling the unnatural way they curl around her tongue; Ron jerks again, the muscles in his back rippling, "I think maybe you don't need to see me dressed up in my Scottish finest. Maybe you don't deserve it… do you?"
"No, ma'am. I don't."
Hermione flushes; surprised by the way his utter humiliation turns her on.
"Good boy." With that, she waves her wand with a whispered Obscuro and the blindfold settles neatly and tightly against Ron's eyes. He gasps and Hermione smiles.
"Now, what kind of detention should I give you?"
"I can't say, Headmistress."
"Lines would be inconvenient, you look too pretty splayed out like that for me." Hermione traces his sides with her wand. "And cleaning won't do either."
She hums in her throat, enjoying the sweat dripping off of Ron and the tiny jerks of his hips when she speaks.
"Prefect duty is also out of the question, so I guess that just leaves us with something a little unconventional. Although, I would like us to think of it as a return to the institution of conventionalism."
Hermione bites gently on the skin between his shoulder blades before she slides off the desk and makes a show of walking around the room and humming softly. There is a small wooden plaque hanging on the wall and it transfigures itself nicely into a paddle. It's light in her hands, but wide and slightly rough, as if the sander had known the purpose of the plaque would extend far from just wall art. Hermione smoothes her hands over the wood and walks back to Ron, her heels echoing throughout the room.
"Now, now," Hermione tsks, laying the paddle on the desk. "This position just won't do."
She lifts her wand, using it to move Ron from the desk and up into the air, his legs flailing in midair. She lets him dangle for just a minute before she lowers him face first across her high backed chair, letting the rope tie itself to the base.
"Ah yes, much more reasonable." She walks back over to the desk to gather the paddle, enjoying the sounds as Ron tests the strength of the bonds and tries to shift to get more comfortable on the unforgiving wood. Hermione smiles and begins to walk back to Ron, but pauses midway, catching her reflection in the mirror.
Her normally busy brown hair is sleek and tight in a bun and dark makeup lines her eyes. The spectacles on her nose seem to make her eyes larger and much more intense. She shivers in her own gaze before moving on to take in the tightly laced tartan corset, the bright yellows and greens standing out against the red of the woollen fabric. It is itchy against her skin as it blooms taunt over her breasts, normally small looking, but the way the corset presents them makes them look luscious and large. The knickers Hermione has chosen work wonders and the boy-cut tartan knickers look delicious as they hug the tops of her thighs and the slight curve of her arse. And when she shifts, spreading her legs apart just slightly, she can see her own sex outlined by the crotchless tartan knickers. She had decided against stockings and opted for just black heels.
She looks strong and fucking sexy.
Hermione smiles at herself in the mirror and walks on, a new confidence in each of her movements. Ron is still trying to get comfortable on the hard wood of the chair and the wiggling of his arse in the air is slightly humorous. Hermione stifles her giggle and approaches him, running her wand up and down his spine to the top of his boxers and then back up again. His skin shivers and dances underneath her light touch.
"How long have we been intimate, Mr. Weasley?"
Ron opens his mouth, but it sounds more like water in lungs than actual speech. She waits and he tries again, his neck straining to turn his face towards her, even though he cannot see her.
"Five years."
Hermione pulls hard at the hair on his neck, twisting her wrist and pulling until he cries out and arches.
"Five years, Headmistress," Hermione corrects and releases her hold on him. He nods and sags back, his head hanging between his shoulders.
"And how many years have you been hiding this inkling of yours?" She traces her wand down the curve of his arse in his boxers, tracing lightly at his balls before moving on to the sensitive skin of his thighs and the crease between thigh and arse. He is so beautiful like this, open and trusting, that she wants nothing more than to give up the game and ride him until they both come. But this isn't about her, Hermione reminds herself as she tightens her thighs for a moment to relieve the pressure of her arousal.
"Four years before we were together, Headmistress," Ron squeaks out his answer and Hermione nods.
"Nine years. Nine years you have been lusting after me and lying to me. Slanderous behaviour, Mr. Weasley, and completely unacceptable for someone under my control."
Ron nods his head, legs twitching under her wand's attention. Hermione steps closer to him until they are almost touching, the warmth of his skin radiates onto her and she wonders if he can smell her arousal as it soaks the material of her knickers.
"Nine years for your lying and nine years of my suffering from your lying. What does that amount to, Mr. Weasley?"
"Eighteen, Headmistress."
"Mmm, yes. And eighteen smacks of this paddle you will dutifully take," Hermione says with a stern voice and Ron groans. "You will not be in need of your pants for this. Or socks."
Hermione waves her wand, banishing Ron's underwear and socks as she steps behind him. His erection is red and painful looking as it hangs between his spread legs, his bollocks swollen and begging to be sucked. Hermione takes a deep breath and runs her wand down the length of his spine, over his crack before she traces his naked bollocks with the tip. Ron moans and twists underneath her.
"You will count."
Ron nods and Hermione pinches the skin just behind his bollocks until he curses and cries out most desperately.
"Answer me, Mr. Weasley. I cannot tell you how bothersome it is for me to remind you of your duties."
Ron lies limp across the chair and Hermione takes a moment to relish in his pale skin, smattered with freckles at each dip and sharp corner. His red hair is darker, the sweat turning the pigment of his hair deeper and plastering it to his head. Hermione picks up the paddle, the grooves in it matching the placement of her fingers. With her other hand, she casts one last spell on the paddle, a warming charm, before she slides her wand into the side of her knickers for safe keeping.
"Are you ready to begin?"
Hermione smoothes out her voice, almost to a purr, and watches the goose pimples rise on Ron's bare flesh. He is beautiful and he's hers.
"Yes, ma'am."
Hermione shakes her head and takes one hand off the paddle to pinch the skin of Ron's bollocks once again, twisting and pulling until Ron cries out.
"STOP! Fuck!"
"It is hard for me to believe you have truly been retaining any of the information in those magazines of yours," Hermione tuts and releases his skin. "Whenever I ask you a question like before, you should respond with 'suchlike your will, Headmistress'. Is that clear?"
"Suchlike your will, Headmistress."
"Good."
Hermione smoothes her hands over the long grip of the paddle, she imagines pushing it inside her after she has spanks him raw and has to squeeze her thighs again, her clit begging for pressure. Ron whimpers and Hermione is thrown back into the present and what this is all about; making Ron trust her, making everything about Ron.
The first strike is light and lands just at the curve of his arse.
"One!"
Hermione sighs and walks around to Ron's head, which hangs between his shoulders, and kneels. She swings the paddle back and strikes his knuckles. Ron cries out, his neck arching. Hermione watches the way his muscles bulge from the constant abuse and the way his face reddens.
"One, Headmistress," she whispers before straightening up and walking back to Ron's arse. "Start again, love."
She swings and strikes the right cheek, "Two, Headmistress," echoes in the room as crimson colours bloom on Ron's backside. Hermione doesn't wait, but strikes on the left cheek this time, giving a small glance to the way Ron's head shoots up with each strike and the way his slender hips writhe.
The fourth smack of the paddle against flesh blooms a deeper cherry over the backs of his thighs and his swollen bollocks. Ron's response is twisted and almost a scream as it curls like an inferno inside Hermione's belly. Five lands right along his crack and he barely lifts his head in answer.
The next five are quick blows, light and scattered all over his arse. Ron's flesh turns from blushing pink to tinged crimson just as quickly as the blows are given and at "Ten, Headmistress," his voice cracks into a sob and his hips move into each spank. Hermione continues for five more strokes until Ron is crying out constantly, his calls for numbers are interspersed with constant begging, but it is neither for her to stop, nor to continue. It's nonsense and the way he rocks into each swat leaves Hermione gasping for breath.
"Fifteen, Headmistress!"
The sixteenth lands on his upper left thigh, the seventeenth on his right and the eighteenth across the curve of his arse. Ron doesn't sag in relief, but struggles against the rope, crying out and arching his hips as they sting.
"Do you feel atoned?"
"Suchlike your will, Headmistress," Ron's voice is haggard and gasping for breath, his hips moving in needy jerks. Hermione nods and falls to her knees behind him. Her hands trail lightly over his burning cheeks and Ron hisses, arching away and then back into her touch. She continues to trace patterns over the abused skin and then begins planting small kisses, the heat of his skin burning her lips.
"You've been such a good boy." Hermione can barely see him nod and before she can stop herself, before she can truly evaluate exactly what she is doing, she's spreading his cheeks and casting a wandless cleaning charm. He moans loudly as her fingers grip his punished flesh and Hermione blows lightly on his twitching pucker. The smell of him, musky boy and Ron, is incredibly enticing and Hermione licks widely up his crevice before she can even think about what she's doing.
"Fuck, oh dear god, Headmistress, Hermione – oh fuck," Ron moans in unintelligible sentences as Hermione licks him open with the flat of her tongue. He tastes musky, not terrible like she had thought, and the desperate jerks of his hips urge her on until she's dipping her tongue inside his entrance and he's begging for release. She fucks him ruthlessly with her tongue, kneading his swollen and burning cheeks with her hands.
"Please, please, please let me, oh god Headmistress, Hermione…"
Hermione pulls away, panting and unbearably aroused, her own release just begging to be taken. She takes a deep breath, Ron's hips moving without pattern underneath her. She wants badly to just let him come and she is sure just a single stroke of his cock would do it, but somewhere in Hermione's lust fogged mind, she is reminded of what she read: the Dominant has to come first, it helps secure the roles and establish a precedent. A good Dominant will bring the submissive to the breaking point before having his or her own orgasm and then proceeding to reward the submissive.
Hermione sighs at the textbook in her head, but she wants nothing more than to be the Dominant Ron had always wanted and never received.
"Do you want release, Mr. Weasley?"
"Please, oh please-"
"Mr. Weasley, do not make me punish you." Hermione's breath is coming in pants and she desperately wants him to obey.
"FUCK!" Ron pauses and sucks in breath in great, heaving sobs before he chokes out, "Suchlike your will, Her – Headmistress!"
"Very well, Mr. Weasley."
Hermione gets up quickly and pulls out her wand and with a few flicks of her wrist, Ron is sitting in the chair, hissing and fidgeting as his arse stings under the pressure of his weight and hard surface. She moves the desk is pressed up against Ron's knees. The paddle rests next to her as she hops onto the desk. Her legs are spread wide, as she watches Ron writhe in the chair, his erection weeping and slapping against his taunt stomach with every thrust of his hips, his head thrown back. She uses her wand to bring the chair closer to her and the desk until Ron is situated between her thighs, his legs and wrists bound to his chair. It takes him but a moment before he smells her.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Ron moans and leans forward, almost touching her. Hermione reacts quickly, grabbing a handful of his wet hair and stilling his movement toward her. She wants nothing more than for him to devour her, but it will have to wait.
"Language, Mr. Weasley." Hermione chuckled at her statement, rubbing Ron's head tenderly. "What do you want?"
Ron licks his lips, arms twitching at his sides. "Suchlike your will, Headmistress," he gasps. "But I want to make you come, please…"
He whimpers and leans into her touch until she breaks.
"Okay," she reaches toward her wand to release one of his hands. "I'm going to untie one hand, but it only has one use and absolutely no touching; just your mouth. If you disobey this rule, I will leave, Mr. Weasley."
Ron nods and Hermione waves her wand. His hand goes for her, but halts and he tilts his head towards her, still blind and relying on her for sight. Hermione bites her lip and hands him the paddle. He takes it, his brow furrowing in confusion until she turns the paddle around so that his large hand is clutching the widest part of it and the grip is pointed in her direction.
A small epiphany seems to go off in Ron's head and he moans before leaning forward. Hermione scoots down until his breath is ghosting her clit. "You may begin, Mr. Weasley."
She shifts further and then he's on her. Hermione is suddenly afraid she'll loose consciousness at the way he laps at her with wide strokes of his too hot tongue and wastes no time in thrusting the handle of the paddle deep inside her. She arches, the pull of the wood grain dragging inside of her with each thrust as Ron sucks and licks around her clit.
She feels out of control, almost as if she's not a part of her body, but just a part of the pleasure that is rapidly consuming her. Ron thrusts the paddle in deeply, angling it so he can suck and nip at her throbbing clit, and simultaneously, and completely unexpectedly, he hits that spot inside of her and suddenly she can't tell if she's going or coming and it's an epic whirlwind of colour and the sound, of Ron moaning between her legs, roughly thrusting the paddle in and out of her. She can feel herself screaming and then arching off the table and off into oblivion as her body spasms and quakes with the uncontrollable amount of pleasure she's feeling. It is a million symphonies of pure bliss, all playing the same note and coursing through her very soul.
She's still shaking from the force of her orgasm when she hears Ron whimpering and crying between her thighs. She sits up, pleased to notice he has not touched himself, but has only grasped the paddle so tightly it looks as if he is going break it. The blindfold is soaked with his tears and Hermione reaches out and caresses his face.
"Hermione-"
"Shh, let me take care of you."
She slides off the desk and onto his lap. He sighs and melts into the chair at her touch, but doesn't raise his free hand. Hermione smiles and kisses the side of his neck tenderly. She is sore, too sore to have him inside of her, but she spits into her hand and touches him. He jerks against her, as if the stimulation is too much. She starts with feather light touches until he is gasping and arching into her hand before rocking back to gasp at the pain of his arse.
He is close, his cock is weeping onto her fingers and moaning, gasping unintelligible things, when Hermione slips the blindfold off. His eyes open wide for the first time in several hours and they are red rimmed as he takes her in. He moans at the sight of his cock brushing against the pattern of yellows, reds and greens. Hermione kisses his face, soaking up all his tears, and presses against him until he comes, his cock thrusting against the tartan wool of her corset as her hands engulf the length of his cock. He comes with a silent scream, murmuring her name over and over again as he comes down.
Hermione wandlessly unties him and his limp arms drape around her until they are nestled together. Ron's breathing is even and starting to slow and she snuggles closer against his naked form, the wool rubbing against their sensitive flesh.
"Thanks, Headmistress," he says as he drifts off to sleep and Hermione smiles before she falls asleep tucked underneath his chin.
That night, they both dream of Professor McGonagall.
