Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

The Story of H	By : AnyaToile Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 62388 -:- Recommendations : 4 -:- Currently Reading : 11
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any of the characters associated with it; I am not making any sort of money or compensation for this work.

Chapter List
- 13
- 14
- 15
Author’s Note:

            Please don’t send out the mobs with pitchforks and torches. I know I promised at least two chapters by Sunday, but a project that I was working on took much longer than I had expected.

Alina/Liz- You can’t be brilliant and sexy and not have wit enough to insert a well-placed, albeit out of character, joke I hope you find a lot of future aspects of many characters refreshing.

Aviendha- Now that you point that out, I see how my wording has failed me. When I go back to edit, I will change that so that it shows that once the original agreement is made, it cannot be undone; thus, an unspecified time remains an unspecified time regardless of later decisions.

MollysSister- Go ahead with the questions. It helps me see gaps in my own writing and lets me know what isn’t understood so I can either redo that area or make it more explicit. Just don’t expect answers because if I answer everything, then there is no need for a story.

Kattniptwo- First of all, is your name in reference to a Hello Kitty character from the 80s? If so, mad props. Second, I understand that you want him softer. Without giving anything away, he’s going to appear much crueler before he gets to that point. On the subject of a safeword. I personally would never engage in extensive, rough play with someone without a safeword if I didn’t trust them with my life. Safewords are just good common sense in real D/S relationships. However, with that being said, there are some serious and healthy D/S relationships which do not use a safeword and at this point in the plot, Hermione and Severus aren’t even in a D/S relationship. Accept the points of non-realism at this moment.

KatieKrm- Don’t get attached to this Snape. Also, thanks for the heads up on the story.

vonHardenberg- I don’t have a notification list and honestly, I don’t know how to go about doing that.

SweetSev- Good points but Hermione’s wand is actually 10 ¾ inches, which is only one inch longer than the average chopstick, something that is often worn in one’s hair. Trust me, a quill isn’t enough to hold a bushy, curly, thick mass of hair. And note that Minerva had gone out of the room. The yellow ink, I hadn’t thought about it before but I’ll fix that when I go back to edit. Also, as far as her falling down all the time, lets chock it up to writer’s freedom.

Dani- Now.

Now, without further ado, let’s wrap this scene up.

            Hermione jumped as she felt something cold run down the cleft of her bottom. She was leaning on her left forearm over the wooden desk as she wrote furiously with her free right hand, her bottom naked and legs spread as the potions master, dreaded bat of the dungeons, was lubricating both her and an enema nozzle that he was going to force in one of her most private cavities. Hermione had to pause mid-line as she felt the strange nozzle being pressed against her tight hole. Its strange shape kept it from sliding in as seamlessly as the previous one that had been used on her.

            Snape wiggled the nozzle as he eased it forward, causing Hermione to whimper and snap a second quill in half. She drew a shaking breath through her nose and laid her head down on the cool wood of the desk. Closing her eyes, she focused on relaxing as the nozzle inched in. Once it was fully seated inside her, Snape removed his hand and stepped back, giving her time to adjust to the new sense of fullness. This was most defiantly not unpleasant.

            Hermione rocked her hips slightly, her breath coming faster and faster as she squeezed her muscles. She began to think about how it would feel to have the nozzle sliding in and out of her like the potions master’s fingers had been a moment before, but Snape’s sharp voice cut through her fantasy.

            “I suggest you begin writing now. You will not be allowed to release the enema until you’ve finished all three hundred.”

            Hermione groaned slightly and reached into the box of quills, retrieving one intact, and dipping it into the ink well.

            “This will ensure that you don’t have any…accidents,” Snape’s voice came rather close to her- he had stepped back behind her and was fidgeting with the nozzle.

            As she felt the sudden growth of the balloon inside of her, she understood what he was doing. Snape added air slowly to the inner balloon, allowing her a moment between pumps to adjust to the increase. The first two pumps were surprising, but they satisfied her intense, primal need to have her bottom filled and stretched. The third was uncomfortable and by the forth squeeze she was squealing.

            “Stop!” She cried, “That hurts. It’s too much.”

            Snape ignored her and inflated it once more before starting to inflate the outer nozzle.

            “Sir, it burns,” she whimpered.

            When he continued to ignore her pleading, she reached around, trying to grasp the nozzle and deflate it herself.

            Snape’s hand shot out and grabbed her wrist in a vice-like grip.

            He bent down to softly speak into her ear, “If you attempt that again, Miss Granger, you will be sorely sorry. I am fully aware of your discomfort. You are not injured. You will handle it without complaint. Is that understood?”

            Hermione sniffled but let out a whispered, “Yes, sir.”

            Snape let go of her wrist and continued to fill the outer balloon. When he was finished, he turned around and began to hook the enema bag to the nozzle, the vibrations of the movement sending little pulses of pleasure to Hermione’s core despite the so called discomfort.

            With tears blurring her vision, she picked up the quill again and furiously wrote, focusing completely on that task; if she could spend all her energy on writing lines, she would finish all the more quickly and be able to remove that awful, delightful, torturous thing from her bottom. She’d managed to get to line one hundred when she felt the first trickle of warm water.

            She registered that Snape had levitated his chair from behind the desk to behind her, well, behind. By line one hundred and fifteen, the warm water flowing into her had allowed her to relax so much that the pain of the nozzle had dissipated to a hot ache.

            Hermione consciously acknowledge that she needed something, anything, to relieve the pressure in her quim. She brought her legs, which before had been spread to just a little wider than hip width, closed; she pressed them tightly together, noting in the back of her mind how the wetness that had dribbled onto her thighs made them slide smoothly across each other. She was sending herself into new heights of maddening heat as the pressure of her legs rubbing together at once quenched her thirst for stimulation and increased it.

            Suddenly, she lost balance and toppled; Severus Snape had kicked her legs apart.

            “You’ve proven you have as much grace as a duck, Miss Granger. You’ll need all the balance possible in a few moments; you’re legs need to be at least hip-width to stabilize you,” he said, his tone patronizing and carrying no hint that the sight of her dripping wet and bent over his desk half-naked affected him in anyway.

            The fact that he seemed so detached from an experience that was clearly driving Hermione mad with lust and need was both frustrating and stinging. She knew it was silly to think her mature, experienced and dark professor, one who had hated her and her friends for nearly a decade, might find a know-it-all a swot the least bit attractive; yet, Hermione found that she wanted some kind of reaction from him. Hermione bit her tongue and continued to write. She was afraid of what she might say or ask if she opened her mouth.

            She was in the middle of line one hundred fifty when she felt the intense pressure to release her bowels. She clenched her eyes for just a moment, and took a steadying breath. She knew from last night that it would only get worse and she still had one hundred and fifty more lines to go.

            She wrote much slower now, going at about half the pace as before because she would have to stop to allow a rolling cramp to ripple through her stomach every few moments. She broke several more quills and wished for the first moment during her time at Hogwarts that the wizarding world would modernize and start using pens- they weren’t nearly half as fragile and you didn’t have to stop to re-ink them.

            By line one hundred seventy-five, she had to lay her head down on the wooden surface. She’d never do this. She couldn’t. Hermione Jean Granger was going to just lay down her on the desk, give-up, and die. She understood why Snape had instructed her to stand with her belly hanging free as it grew and distended with the flowing water. She needed to go so badly. She decided that she couldn’t be any more humiliated than she had already been and let her bowels relax before bearing down. She was met with a rather sharp, searing pain in the ring of muscle at the opening of her hole.

            She quickly stopped pushing and realized that the nozzle was far too big to slide out of her.

            “I don’t suggest doing that again, Miss Granger,” Snapes voice lightly said as if he were suggesting she try a particular dish, “Even though the nozzle will remain in place and help you hold the enema, a little liquid may escape. In that event, we’d have to start this process over and inflate the nozzle even more. Also, trying to push against that nozzle will cause you injury and lasting discomfort.”

            “Please, sir,” Hermione said in a dry, scratching voice, “I need to go so badly, professor, if you could…”

            “Then I suggest you begin writing.”

            Hermione buried her head in her arms and let out a frustrated scream. The man was impossible. However, once her tantrum was over, she picked the quill back up. She was finishing sentence two hundred ten when she felt the tell-tale vibrations in the nozzle. Despite the pain of the shooting cramps, she moaned at the stimulation and arched her back. The move caused her bum and quim to brush against Snape’s woolen trousers. The slightly scratchy sensation, though so brief she might have imagined it, was like lightning to her nether regions.

            Snape’s hands shot out and grabbed her by the back of the neck and pressed her against the desk.

            “Control yourself, Miss Granger!” His voice was angry, even disgusted.

            Hermione felt new tears well up into her eyes. He found her repulsive; her behavior, disgusting. She began to quietly cry, letting out an audible sob when he removed his hand from her neck.

            “Finish writing, girl,” he said dismissively as he gathered the tubing and enema bag.

            Apparently, he had clamped the nozzle shut and disconnected it from the bag. Hermione watched as he disappeared through the bookcase door.

            Her disappointment and shame ebbed into anger and outrage; how dare that man, impertinent and infuriating, leave her here alone!

            She huffed and began writing again, digging the quill in so hard that it sliced through the parchment in some places.

            Hermione managed to get to line two hundred and fifty before she had to take a break. The cramping was so intense, far more so than the night before. She’d only just laid her head down, however, when Snape returned with the bag, apparently cleaned and ready to hang up to dry. Hermione’s head shot up and she went back to writing, taking just a moment to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand.

            She’d be strong. Later, she’d cry and hug her cat to her chest while she ate chocolate-dipped caramel. But right now, she wouldn’t show this man who cared nothing at all for her an ounce of weakness. She’d allowed herself to lose her inhibitions in front of him and it had led to total mortification.

            She was managed five more lines before the largest cramp yet came rolling through her. It took everything Hermione possessed to stay upright. Sweat trickled down her brow and she could feel that her shirt was beginning to stick to her back.

            Suddenly, she felt warm hands massaging her stomach. The movements were reminiscent of something Snape had done the night before, so why did it feel so foreign? Then it struck Hermione; the hands that touched her belly and massaged her last night had been latex-clad. These hands were warm and calloused. She turned and looked over her shoulder. Sure enough, there was Professor Snape, his black eyes burning a hole into the small of her back, the paleness of his face almost luminescent.

            Hermione stood in shock as she processed that her Slytherin potions master was deigning to touch her bare Gryffindor skin with his. Snape’s eyes shot up to her face and he glared at her hard. With his left, unoccupied hand, he slapped her bottom hard, causing her to yelp and break the quill in hand.

            “Do not waste my time. Write. I realize Gryffindor’s are notoriously slow, but I haven’t all night to wait on you.”

            Hermione glared back at him before turning back to the smeared and sloppy parchment. She muttered, “Insufferable,” only to receive another sharp slap to the other cheek. Hermione tried to push the pleasure it gave her out of her mind; she was already a freak enough by being turned on by enemas. She managed line two hundred seventy before the pain of another cramp had her yowling.

She wrote two more lines while whispering, “Please, God, please.”

She threw the quill and laid her head down on her arm to sob. She was so close but the need to go was beyond that of last night and she was suddenly very aware of the nozzle’s incredible size inside of her. She vaguely registered Snape’s warm hand closing around hers and forcing her to pick a new quill up. He guided her hand in writing three more lines in which Hermione didn’t even attempt to help. Finally, he placed his mouth by her ear and spoke, his breath blowing hot against her with each word.

“How typical,” he goaded, “Giving up when it’s the least bit uncomfortable for you. You and your friends wouldn’t last two seconds in the real world if you had to rely on actual ability.”

Hermione snatched her hand back from him and growled, “I think we proved we were more than capable of handling the real world last year. We managed to obtain all the horcruxes and found a way to destroy them on our own when we lost the sword…”

“Any idiot would have known better than to lose Gryffindor’s sword, you…”

“And we avoided being killed…”

“You’re carelessness got yourselves captur…”

Hermione shot up, an inferno in her eyes as she spat, “And I managed just fine writhing on the floor of your friends’ sitting room floor. I didn’t once break as they tortured and branded me with a slur of my heritage, or did you forget I carry the word “mudblood” carved forever into my skin?!”

She shoved her marred arm in his face.

“How do you explain how we survived if we lacked any sort of ability, sir?”

Snape’s hands, which had stayed in contact with her rounded abdomen during the exchange, dropped to his sides and he straightened up to sneer down his large nose at her. Hermione vaguely registered that she missed the warmth they had given, the texture of those fingertips against her smooth skin.

“Sheer dumb luck. You survived based on nothing more than…”

“Ability, you horrid, hateful man! Our accomplishments were not accidental and unearned in anyway. Why can’t you see that?”

“Because, you pretentious, prideful little girl, you’ve given up on such a simple task,” his voice never raised much higher than a murmur, but the weight of his words carried so much more violence than a scream ever could.

Hermione’s face dropped, the anger in her eyes diluting with a mix of frustration and realization.

She let her eyes fall from his face, and turned slowly back to the desk, bending forward over the parchment. She grimaced as she picked up a quill, a cramp deciding to spasm through her at that moment. She began writing, the room eerily silent and tense and screaming. The only thing indicating there was any life in the room was the constant scratching of the quill’s tip across the parchment’s surface and her panting, dragging breath. She’d written five more sentences when she jumped at the unexpected touch to her stomach.

Snape had replaced his hands against her middle and had continued his massage. Hermione found her breath hitching as his firm ministrations helped to take the edge off the discomfort of her bowels and heighten the discomfort between her legs. Her need never lessoned, not even when they clashed as they had. In fact, that moment had only increased the butterflies that caressed her inside. Hermione couldn’t place her finger on why exactly but she was almost positive that it indicated that she was quite mad indeed. Bellatrix’s Crucio session must have left a lasting mark on her sanity.

She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she hadn’t realized she’d written three hundred five lines until Snape plucked the quill from her fingers half-way into the middle of the three-hundred-sixth sentence.

“Follow me.”

The command was sharp and clear. It was so distant and Hermione noted how his demeanor completely juxtaposed with his careful massages. It was unnerving.

Clutching her stomach, she followed him into the room behind the bookcase.
- 13
- 14
- 15
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The Story of H