Narcissa and Hermione
...It's a been a while, thinks Narcissa Malfoy, since I've tasted a woman.
With a languid fascination she strokes a hand over Hermione's breast, exploring the softness of her skin – Narcissa is taking her time with this. She understands Hermione as a girl prone to rebellion and consequently wishes not to startle her – she wants to take Hermione to her in steps so small that the girl will be unable to find reason to challenge them in their individual insignificance.
A touch of the breast, and the pinkness of Hermione's areola is charmed to prominence within the tips of Narcissa's delicate fingers. Hermione breathes out – loudly – and Narcissa admires the rise and fall of her chest. The girl is such exquisite candy, so delightfully naieve that Narcissa cannot help but ply the sharp crescents of her nails to the lightly freckled skin of Hermione's shoulders – Narcissa is reminded of the way the sun dapples the ground at noon and is enchanted – by the poetry of it, though poetry seldom arouses her in the heat of sexual intimacy, and also by this revelation of the girl's character: Hermione is earthy, down to earth – she is a simplex creature, forged of honesty, loyalty and pride.
And yet here she is, naked and kneeling at the feet of the mother of her enemy and raising her cosmetic-dulled lips for another kiss. Narcissa leans forwards, obliging – Hermione says something, makes a small weak sound of protest, but the words, whatever they are, are muffled to silence in the warm closure of their mouths. Narcissa – still gentle, still serenely in control – rolls her hand along Hermione's chest between the plush, if diminutive breasts, and continues lower even as she coerces Hermione's tongue to sacrifice the last traces of restraint.
The girl's reflexes cause a shiver to suffuse her form, shoulders arched in gasp. Narcissa straddles her, one hand staying Hermione's hands, shackling them by the wrists and pressing them to the girl's bosom. The girl's mouth opens – another wordless entreaty Narcissa silences as before. Below her the girl moves, fretful now, a battle fought against the zenith that curls its way into the musky pit of her, a composition of teases and tortures orchestrated by Narcissa's hand.
Salty-sweat and the smell and the girl buckles, a pinacle of stifled vibrato.
"I want you to scream when you climax," says Narcissa – she purrs the words into the girl's mouth.
Hermione struggles – whether she does so against or with Narcissa is hard to tell. Her face contorts, the plain features granted a strange beauty when set in such despair. Narcissa enjoys watching this; there is nothing she loves more than to see another at her mercy. Hermione whines, a weak and fragile resistance. This is music to Narcissa's ears; the piteous whimper of prey to predator.
She says again, "I want you to scream."
Hermione still resists. She cannot fight Narcissa off and does not want to and yet she is twisting, her lip is between her teeth and she bites on it, hard, a prick of blood to marr the purity of her plight. Innocent, thinks Narcissa. Innocent, homely fool, to imagine that she might play hard to get, with me..
And then Narcissa realises with a suddeness that Hermione is not resisting Narcissa but resisting herself, and that she is waiting – as a slave to her mistress – for the order of release. The tables have turned and Hermione does not resent this, and Narcissa kisses her impulsively, because she can and because she is beguiled by the girl's obesiance; it is like a lure to a shark.
"I said, scream."
The girl screams.
Narcissa bites Hermione's neck as the girl slumps against her, and tastes sweat and fatigue and the chemical slur of perfume.
They lean into each other for a while, a drunk steadied against the rock of her addiction, finding solidity in the conduit of her frailty.
"The loss of power can induce the most remarkable feeling of euphoria," says Narcissa, softly.
"..oh?" Hermione's voice is barely audible.
Narcissa nods. "At least, that is what they tell me."
Narcissa kisses Hermione, licks away the saliva which crests the red burn of the love-bite. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees that someone is watching – Lucius, silent and impassive, his slim, black-shrouded body posing a vacuum of illumination against the light beyond the door...
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