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“Come here.”
Pansy’s command is met with a bitten lip, the toe of one shoe overlaying the other, Hermione knock-kneed.
“You know what happens next,” Pansy says. Deliberately, she relaxes the tension in her trousered thighs, letting them fall open. She waits, an eyebrow lifted, until Hermione wanders closer, her school-girl skirt swishing about her legs.
“Do I have to?” Hermione asks, that breathless quality to her voice that makes Pansy so wet. Hermione’s gaze is downcast, shy. No. Reserved. Holding herself back, for now.
“That depends. Have you been a good girl then?”
Lips compressed. The faintest blush. Hermione shakes her head no. Hermione is, of course, the best person Pansy has ever known. That fact is neither here nor there.
“That’s right, you haven’t,” Pansy agrees. Then she runs her hand down her thigh, catching Hermione’s gaze with the movement. “Over my lap. And lift your skirt.”
The breath that catches in Hermione’s throat is real, even while the innocence is feigned. Or not so much feigned, actually. It’s simply drawn from within, someplace deeply buried, protected. Pansy knows how honoured she is to see it. To be the one who sees it.
Hermione lays herself over Pansy’s legs, arse up. Her skirt rides up the backs of her thighs, but then Hermione’s quivering hands appear and flick it up a bit further. And there, for Pansy’s pleasure, the down-soft undercurve of her buttocks.
“Bit more,” Pansy says, and watches as Hermione at first hesitates. Then she twitches the skirt to reveal her knickers, her head dropped down. Even the backs of her thighs are blushing.
“Lift it up a little… your bum.”
Hermione arches just a touch, the tops of her thighs coming apart enough that Pansy sees the wet spot. Her own cunt aches.
“Count them,” Pansy says.
And when her open palm slams down on Hermione’s lifted arse, the number falls out of Hermione’s mouth in a rush: “One!”
Hermione tenses: back, thighs, arse. Pansy smooths her hand over Hermione’s bottom—silk and warm skin. “Do you want to be a good girl for me? Hmm?”
Hermione nods. “Yes. Yes, please.”
“Then relax it for me. That’s right, darling. Tilt it up a bit more.” As Hermione obeys, Pansy sees the damp spot grow. “Oh yes, that’s lovely. Are you ready for another?”
A tight little moan. Hermione has Pansy’s trouser leg gripped in her hand. She nods.
Pansy smacks her arse, hard, three times. The slapping sound rockets through the room. Hermione squirms under the strikes, but not away this time. She arches still more, and Pansy catches her between the legs on the last one, provoking a hard in-drawn gasp and a breathy, “Four, oh God.”
“Mmm.” Pansy watches her writhe a moment before slipping her hand up under the leg of Hermione’s knickers and gripping a bare arsecheek. “No squirming, do you hear me?”
Hermione, quaking a bit, forces her own stillness, and Pansy rewards her, a thumb ghosting close—so very close—to the warm bud of her arsehole. Hermione bites down on a moan. Pansy removes her hand and pats her bottom. “That’s a love. Only a few more.”
Hermione relaxes over her lap, but Pansy knows it has little to do with tranquility. It has much more to do with dropping into the warm recesses of subspace… of relinquishing her strong hold on anything and everything. She falls limp into it, and Pansy regulates her own breathing to keep from giving away the height of her excitement for it.
“These knickers are in my way,” Pansy decides. Though it was always going to happen this way; it’s not a real decision at all. “Take them down.”
Hermione keens a bit but lifts her arse up, her fingers hooking in her own panties and shimmying them down.
“Just there,” Pansy says, and Hermione leaves them to cup her bum, a pretty pink frame for the art her arse is about to become.
“You hold still now and be a good girl,” Pansy breathes out.
She spanks Hermione hard, ceaseless, the sound of her hand decadently violent. Words, numbers ascending, fall from Hermione’s lips, quivering and soft. Her bum bounces against Pansy’s hand, the flesh jiggling with every strike. Pansy lets herself devour the sight of it.
When Hermione gets to a shaky twenty-five, Pansy stops. Hermione’s arse has red handprints across it, quickly blending together into a rosy glow. Pansy fights the urge to bend down and rim her.
“Open your pretty thighs, dear,” she tells Hermione. “Are you very wet between your legs?” At the tense silence, Pansy goes on, “If you don’t tell me, I’ll be forced to check you myself.”
Hermione, maybe incapable of answering now, just opens for her.
“Very well,” says Pansy and slips two fingers through her folds as though testing, distant. “Mmm,” she murmurs. She takes her fingers away. Hermione groans at the loss. If honest, Pansy would like to groan too. But she steadies her voice and asks, “Do good girls get wet for spankings?”
“Nnnnno.”
“Are you a very bad girl for liking it?”
Hermione nods. Her legs part further, near to ripping the silk of her panties. Her arse lifts, exposing the slick shine of her. “I can’t help it,” she whines. “Please. Please. I couldn’t help myself.”
Pansy knows what she wants, knows what she cannot say. She makes her wait, loving the way Hermione’s waist curves, the roundness of her hips, the helpless tilt for more… for Pansy to touch her, to take advantage.
“Please what?” She slaps Hermione’s arse once more, purely for her own enjoyment, and Hermione cries out. Then, quaking, “Twenty-s-six.”
Pansy lays her hand over Hermione’s bottom, her fingers innocently resting between her cheeks, not yet in pursuit of anything, not caressing, touching her arsehole without intent to arouse (except with every intent), so very near her dripping cunt.
Hermione moans, her arse bouncing in Pansy’s lap, a plea for what she needs. Pansy taps her arsehole with two gentle fingers. “Hush now,” she says, hoping her lover will never, ever hush. Fortuitously, Hermione nearly sobs against her trouser-leg.
“Merlin, look at you.” And now Pansy descends, her fingers parting the folds, stroking sweetly over the wink of her clit. “Look how badly you want it.”
There is something starkly powerful in the small growl from Hermione, something unstoppable. Pansy breathes her appreciation of it… of the fine line Hermione is riding between begging and taking.
“Who’s my bad girl?” Pansy says softly as she dips two fingers into Hermione’s hot cunt, pushing in and drawing back out slowly.
Hermione stills, poised over Pansy’s legs, taking it. She shakes just slightly. An undeniable little “Ohhh” comes out.
“Merlin,” Pansy says, breathless at watching it. She fucks her, adopting a rhythm, doing it harder.
Hermione pushes herself back into it, parting her legs as much as Pansy’s lap will allow. Pansy would give anything for Hermione’s mouth on her at this point: her own fingers disappearing into Hermione’s pussy and Hermione’s hot mouth opening over her cunt, her tongue flicking dutifully. Pansy would come in moments.
“That’s right,” she tells Hermione. “That’s a good girl. You just lie over my lap and get fucked.”
This is the part when it’s most difficult to maintain the facade and the absolute most satisfying to let it drop just a bit, just enough. Hermione wantanly rides her fingers, and Pansy elects not to stop her—assuming she even could. The orgasm whips through Hermione’s entire body suddenly; Pansy feels her clamp down as a groan rips its way from her lungs. Pansy pats her bottom with her free hand, pumping into her, slow and hard.
“That’s my girl. That’s my darling.” She no longer tries to conceal the awe in her voice.
When Hermione’s body goes lax over her, Pansy gently withdraws her fingers. Hermione gives a small, muffled mewl, her face pressed to Pansy’s leg. Pansy pats her bottom some more. “You were so very good,” she says. She rubs up Hermione’s back, strokes over her bushy hair.
“Pans,” Hermione whispers.
“Come here,” Pansy urges, and Hermione lifts slowly, as though drugged. Pansy helps her take her panties off and then rearrange herself, curled in Pansy’s lap. Pansy holds her close. “Sweetheart,” she says. “My darling.”
After a few moments, Hermione, her lips against Pansy’s neck, says, “My God, that was good.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t be stupid.” There is a lazy smile in her voice. “I’m still thrumming. Do you want to feel?”
She takes Pansy’s hand and slips it between her legs. She rocks a little.
“Fuck,” Pansy breathes.
Hermione, for the first time since they started, lifts her head and meets her eyes. “I want you,” she says. And then she’s slithering from Pansy’s lap, onto the floor at her feet.
“Oh God,” Pansy says, even before Hermione parts her thighs and fits her mouth to Pansy’s cunt through her trousers. It’s warm and slow, and Pansy sinks her hand into Hermione’s hair. She catches Hermione’s eye for a moment and sees the wicked sparkle there.
Hermione Granger is about to fucking take her apart.
“So very bad then,” Pansy decides.
Hermione’s soft chuckle against her sends sparks through her belly.
Pansy lets her head drop back on an indulgent sigh, as Hermione unfastens her trousers.