FIC: A Modern Way of Letting Go (Hermione/?, Bellatrix)

TITLE: A Modern Way of Letting Go

AUTHOR: eudaimon

RATING: NC17

DISCLAIMER:  I don’t own any of this.  Not a one.

PAIRING:  That would be telling.  Hermione/?, with a side of Bellatrix Lestrange.

KINKS USED:  Pictophilia, Anisonogamism and branding.  Because I’m just that good.  Or pervy.  One or the other.

NOTES:  For the March 2006 challenge (this was supposed to be posted on the 1^st, but I was asked to wait so I did).  This is my first attempt at kink, really, so I’ve decided to go all out.  All of my fics for this comm., hopefully, will interlink.  The scenario is that, after Dumbledore died that night, everything went down hill.  Harry Potter got himself killed in a puff of smoke.  The Good folded and everything went to Hell.  That’s all you need to know, really.  This is for lookslikelove, because.

She had asked for a pretty girl, any pretty girl, and she’d got what she’d asked for.  That she was a bright girl too was pleasant; she had understood exactly what was going to happen to her.

She woke up on her belly, pressed into awkward angles by a deep sleep.  She rolled onto her back, rubbing uncomfortable creases across her breasts, sleep tousled.  She arched, dazed, suddenly cold and reached for him.  He was lying a little way from her...she could feel his warmth with searching fingers.  She rolled back onto all fours, crawling to him, dragging the blanket with her and arranging herself around him, over him, one thigh draped across him, her head against his shoulder.  She felt him wake up, felt muscle under her hand go tense.  She pressed against him, grinding sleepily.

"Hey there, pretty girl," he said softly, voice cracked, one arm around her, hand resting on her arse.  No sex in that touch, not yet, just familiarity.  Her thigh brushed his cock, swollen; it was dark in the room, but his body knew that, somewhere, it was getting light.  He squeezed her arse.  "Sleep well?"

"As well as could be expected."  He rubbed his nose through her hair, his arm tightening her around her waist, pressing her warmth against his.  "It won't be long, will it?"

She didn't see him do it, but in the dark he shook his head.

She had asked for a pretty girl, any pretty girl, and she’d got what she’d asked for.  That she was a bright girl too was pleasant; she had understood exactly what was going to happen to her.  After the war, she’d wanted pets, in the place of children; she’d petitioned the Dark Lord personally.  The perversity of it had amused her; prissy perfect Hermione Granger, clever, Harry Potter’s nearest and most dear.  She’d stood shivering in her summer clothes, a red mark blushing on a rounded cheek.  She must have fought.  No more fighting, Kitten, Bellatrix had told her.  Fighting will do you no good here.

            First the clothes.  Rodolphus (so considerate, gave such kind gifts) had made himself comfortable in the wide wing armchair.  Irritated, she noticed that his boots were scuffed but she concentrated on undoing pearl buttons one by one.  Granger had been wearing white lace, quaint, and her tits had shivered with the effort of keeping her breathing under control.  Are you scared, Kitten?  Granger had turned her face away.  There had been a neat curl of gold-brown hair against the side of her pale neck as Bellatrix had peeled away the blouse which Granger had been wearing for three days (kept like a rabbit in the dark).  There was a sweet musky scent of dirty skin, sweat.  From behind, she had kissed smooth young skin, inhaled the smell of her, squeezed her tits together.  She felt young, perfect.  When she’d unhooked the bra, dropped it to the floor, she’d squeezed with both hands, red nails against flawless young skin.  Granger had turned her face to the side, her face burning, unable to look straight at Rodolphus.  You’ll learn, Kitten.  You will.

            Naked, Hermione was perfect.  Bellatrix had been well pleased with her present when she stood back, surveying.  Hands at your side, Kitten.  She rubbed her fingers through fine gold curls, felt a tell-tale wetness.  Not all bad, Kitten.  Granger made a soft sound when Bellatrix slid the tip of her finger against her clit.  First rule, Kitten: speak when you’re spoken to.  She had rubbed Granger’s clit in tight circles with two fingers.  Kittens stay off the furniture.  Kittens do what they’re told when they’re told.  She had trailed her fingers upwards, leaving wet trails on Granger’s shivering belly.  She tweaked a nipple hard; Granger’s breasts weren’t big but they were neat, pretty.  Kittens stay on all fours.  She twisted Granger’s nipple until she understood, sank slowly to her knees, her tit pulling until she bit her lip.  Good kitten, no noise.  Bellatrix had knelt with her, a rough leather collar with a bell in her hand.  She leant forward to fix it, unpinning Granger’s hair over it.  She pressed her hand to the back of Granger’s neck until she knelt on all fours, head dropped, thighs parted.  Bellatrix rubbed her fingers over her spread cunt, noting the wetness, the slight tremble of Granger’s hips.  She’d eased her finger into Granger’s cunt.  It was easier than she thought it would be.  Kittens crawl, she’d said, sliding her finger almost all of the way out before pushing it back in.  Rodolphus had leant forward, holding out his hand, waggling his fingers for her new pet.  Kittens crawl, she’d said again, emphasising with another finger, brooking no resistance.  Crawl.

            And Granger had.

It had taken two weeks, almost two weeks, for most of the fight to go out of Granger.  For almost a fortnight, Bellatrix had not let Granger out of her sight, kept her nude and crouched beside her at dinner, while sewing, everything, the slender leash attached to the collar wrapped around her hand.  In conversation with her husband, she bent Granger over the counter, pushing her head down until her arse rose.  She’d fingered her while Rodolphus told her about his day.  By the end of the week, the stiffness was gone from Granger’s spine.  She spread her thighs without being told.  That’s good, Kitten.  That’s very good.

            On the second Monday, she’d decided it was time to put her pets together.

Hermione shifted, blood rushing to her head as she rolled her eyes to look at Bellatrix sitting in a chair, a camera clicking at her shoulder, spewing prints across the polished floor.  Hermione looked at Bellatrix so that she didn’t have to look at the pictures of herself kneeling on the chair, hands bound behind her, head down, arse up, spread.  There was a camera behind her too; she could hear it clicking and whirring but she couldn’t see it.  Her face flushed at the thought of those pictures, her buttocks spread, pressed back against the chair.  Her wide open thighs felt damp.  Bellatrix grinned, scarlet lipped, her fingers pressed against herself through black lace, moving almost lazily.

            “You can move, Kitten,” said Bellatrix.  Moaning around the gag (which swallowed sound), Hermione started to shift awkwardly, rubbing lewdly against the wood pressed against her cunt.  Her tits swayed, nipples brushing the seat of the chair.  The cameras clicked and whirred.  “You’re starting to look desperate, Kitten.  You.  Assist.”

            Bellatrix had asked for him by name; she’d told him as much, and he had passed it on to Hermione, that first night in the dark.  She had crouched, curled in around her nakedness, not yet used to everybody being able to see.  She’d heard the bell when he moved, holding out his hand to her.  Neat, slim hands but rough at the edges.  He’d lived a life, before, had time.

            “S’okay, pretty girl…We’re in the same boat,” he said.

            She’d never met him before but, up close in the dim light, he had the look of someone familiar around his eyes.  The more he’d talked, in the dark, the more he’d sounded like her, like his daughter.  It was comforting, somehow – she’d been so used to the way that Nymphadora Tonks talked.

            “You’re Ted,” she’d said.

            “I am.”

            "It's going to get worse before it gets better, Ted, isn't it?"

 "Better and bearable are two different things, pretty girl.  It'll be alright."  He'd pulled her against him.  At first, the brush of her nipples on his bare chest had made her stiffen.  She'd relaxed against him when she realised that that was the only way.

In front of Bellatrix’s cameras, Ted crawled to the chair where Hermione was kneeling.  He slid his hand between the slats on the chair, rubbing one finger against her cunt, slowly.  She’d got used to that kind of touch; two months was plenty of time.  It meant calm down it’s me it’s alright I’m here and doesn’t this feel good isn’t this almost alright pretty girl isn’t it?  It was the kind of touch that she could trust, and she relaxed back into it, tits pressed against the seat of the chair, tips of her toes brushing him where he knelt.  Before Bellatrix could snap or snarl, he pressed his mouth against her too, licking her where she was spread open, pressing another finger against her clit, catching her when she rocked up to his mouth.  His mouth and his fingers worked slowly, wet slicking the wood of the chair.  Hermione closed her eyes as, in a hundred pictures scattered on the floor, she wriggled up towards Ted’s mouth, bound, broken, desperately wanting more.

She crouched on all fours beside Bellatrix’s chair, the pull of the leash wrapped around Bellatrix’s first keeping her chin up.  Her gaze found Ted, kneeling where he’d been told to, hands clasped behind his back.  As she watched, he rolled his head back on his neck.  Bellatrix reached down, petting Hermione’s hair with leather wrapped fingers.  She shuffled forward when someone rubbed their fingers against her cunt from behind before walking past her.  She didn’t see who it was; just a swathe of black robe.  She wanted to drop her head and hide flushed cheeks behind the curtain of her hair, but Bellatrix’s grasp on the leash kept her head up, face burning.

            She turned her head, listening to chattering house elf that threw itself across her bare back to get to Bellatrix’s ear.  Bellatrix’s fingers pulled in her hair.

            “Dinner’s taking longer than expected, Kitten.  A little entertainment, I think.”  Hermione had looked up, eyes wide, mouth working.  She wanted to protest; not in front of all of these people not like this they’ll see I’m wet and I can’t take the same of it oh please don’t, but she’d forgotten the words.  It had been too long since she’d said anything to anybody but him. 

            The leash clicked when Bellatrix detached it from the collar.

            She crawled out into the middle of the floor, following the lines in the carpet, trying to ignore the shadows that tits and hips cast in the firelight.  There were, maybe, twenty people in the room: it helped not to think it terms of exact numbers.  It helped to not think about how many of them she might or might not have recognised.  She knelt in the middle of the floor and waited.

            “On your back, Kitten.  Spread your legs.  Show how generous a gift you were.”  Feeling swollen and very wet in the heat from the fire, Hermione spread her legs wide apart.  “Play with your tits for all the nice people, Kitten.”  She lifted her hands, cupping her tits in her hands, squeezing and rolling, pinching her nipples between index fingers and thumbs.  There had been a time before when she’d never have used words like ‘tits’ and ‘cunt’, not to do with her own body, but she was those words now, and her hips rocked shallowly against nothing as she played with her tits and they carried on their conversations.

            She didn’t hear Bellatrix call Ted but he was there, kneeling above her.  She looked up at him, her hands moving over her tits.

            “You can get up, Kitten.  Use your mouth.  Get him ready for you.”  Hermione rolled onto her belly, got up onto all fours, ungainly.  She wrapped her fingers around his cock, already filling.

            “Tell her no hands, Bellatrix.  Tell her to put her fingers in her cunt.”  She took her hand away from her cock, slipping her mouth down over him, reaching back between her legs without being told, rubbing one finger against her cunt as Ted rubbed his fingers through her hair, that same comforting touch.  When they laughed, she closed her eyes like she was being kissed.

            “On all fours,” somebody said.  They moved without being told a second time, Ted pushing into her slowly, reaching under her to rub her clit in short, firm strokes.  Waves of pleasure rolled through her; he was good at his, he made it easier. 

            “Did I give you permission to stop playing with your tits, Kitten?”  With his careful thrusts rocking her forward on her knees, she leant forward, resting her forehead on the floor, lifting her hands to cover her swaying tits.  Moving together, they followed orders, shifted positions, performed.  They ended up pressed together, sweating, moving slowly.  Ted’s mouth was against her ear.  She wasn’t sure when the whispering had started.

            “You’re so lovely, pretty girl and I’m so lucky, I’m so lucky that this is me, that you picked me, you feel good pretty girl, you feel so fucking good.  Come on, pretty girl…come on now, pretty girl.”  And then they shifted again, and she lost it.

            Her body above him, she rose and fell with her hands on his chest.  Most of the conversations had stopped; she heard catcalls and jeers as she moved up and down, felt his cock shift inside her, arching her back against the tightness in her belly.  His hands on her hip, she slid her finger against her clit, her tits bouncing.  Someone standing over her trickled brandy over her shoulder, running in rivulets between her tits, down to her arse.  Ted’s hands tightened on her hips (come on now, pretty girl). 

            “Put a finger in your arse, Kitten.”  She managed a single joint of her index finger before she started to come, her head dropping forward, tits shivering.  The first time that this had happened; the first time that Bellatrix had bent her over the counter and made her come in front of Rodolphus, Hermione had hated it, wanted to die even as she started to shudder.  She felt a sudden sharp pain but couldn’t place it; it faded, anyway, and got lost in the varying jumble of sensation, the rattle-jangle of her orgasm, hands pressed flush against Ted’s chest.  She heard Bellatrix laughing.

            Later, back in the dark, Ted pulled her close again, guiding her arm around his waist, her fingertips brushing the circular burn, neatly healed, risen like a coat of arms.  She fell asleep against him, whimpering as his fingers brushed the edges of sore, hot skin, already starting to heal.