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At the Headmaster’s Discretion Complete	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 80085 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 10
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any other characters/things/places created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money from my fan-fiction.

Chapter List
- 13
- 14
- 15
A/N: SSHG Smutfest is currently being posted on LiveJournal and AO3 (http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sshgsmutfest2017) if you are interested, DSxx
QueenKat – Thank you! I hope you continue to enjoy :)
Kvarta – I like you reviewing here best too. I’ll respond to your last review on AO3 so that it stays in context :) xx ‘Then again, not all loves are romantic ;)’ – Ooh, I like that - very true!
SickPuppy – ‘forcing students to stop being victims and start being in control of their lives by actively hating him and plotting against him’ – hmmm, I really like this piece of insight. This may well be the case. Thanks for sharing xx
OO – Glad you enjoyed the character development this chappie. Thanks also for pointing out the dodgy bits – I wonder how I let some of these clangers past my guard. I'm a little less busy this week thank the Gods, hence the slightly quicker update ;) xx
Talented_Mrs_Lupin – Thank you so much! Now updated :)

Chapter 14 – Master Blow
He felt tense against her forehead, his muscles bunched as though attempting to ward off her touch. But she continued to stroke him, massaging his back and buttocks as she reflected upon how much more comfortable he seemed with being whipped than caressed. Despite the realisation, she remained unfazed. He might desire to be free of both her touch and the binds, as indicated by the occasional jerk as he tugged against them, but he was still aroused—she’d checked, allowing her hand to stray around his hip to brush his firm length before returning to soothe the welts she’d created.
Whilst he’d clearly wanted them, she wondered how often he’d been damaged in the past and left to suffer alone. This wasn’t even on remotely the same level as what he’d endured previously, but she intended to use the opportunity to show him care—to make him understand that he deserved more than pain. It might not be the relief that he’d asked for but she hoped it would convey, despite her slightly underhanded actions, that she genuinely wished to help.
Finally releasing him, Hermione stepped back and withdrew her wand from her sleeve before moving around to stand before him. The gag clamped between his teeth seemed a little harsh but it was absolutely required, as confirmed by the largely incomprehensible but patently threatening commands that suddenly gushed forth when she raised her wand to him.
He didn’t trust her. She wasn’t surprised, but the question was why he had allowed himself to be placed in such a compromising position. Had he really thought that he could control her? That she would be malleable enough, even in a position of dominance, to do as he desired? Or was his ultimate goal in all this to challenge her? Was this yet another sacrifice? The possibility that he might be doing this for her was more disturbing than she could possibly fathom. And the idea that she may have undermined his efforts made it even more so. So she let it go—for her own sanity as much anything.
The furrow in his brow deepened as she placed the tip of the wand to his forehead. Murmuring a healing spell, she watched as the blood retracted back into the wound and the flesh knitted up, hoping it wouldn’t form yet another scar.
He fell silent. What had he thought she was going to do? Obliviate him? Studying the wary shift of his eyes, she had the strange sense that she might have been right. Was he afraid of forgetting the past? Is that what the scars were about? A constant reminder of what had happened? Of what he had done?
It seemed that his self-flagellation may know no bounds. Which is why she was now even more keen to follow through with next part.
Turning, she placed her wand on the chair and picked up the flogger instead.
“Despite what you may think, I’m not afraid to use this.” She held it up to him. “I also understand that pleasure is an extremely personal experience and that, for some, this is a legitimate source.” She rolled the handle thoughtfully around in her fingers. “For that reason, I will now use it on myself.”
His eyes suddenly widened.
Tossing it back down, Hermione proceeded to advance a few paces towards him before lifting a hand to finger the zipper of her top, lifting her chin suggestively. He paused, staring at her for an excruciatingly intense moment before dipping his head in response. Good. She wanted him in on this. Drawing the zipper slowly downward, she allowed the sound of the separating teeth to infuse the space between them whilst ensuring that her eyes never left his. At the bottom of its descent, she tugged the two sides apart before slipping one arm and then the other free, shrugging it off her shoulders before letting it drop to the ground behind her.
Next, she hooked her fingers under the hem of her T-shirt and lifted, again taking her time to drag it up and over her head, slipping the soft material off her shoulders before casually discarding it also. Skin prickling into gooseflesh, she was instantly thankful for the fire that Snape had thrown into the grate earlier. Whilst the whipping had certainly warmed her up, she had begun to cool down—although she strongly suspected that it would only be temporary.
Reaching both hands back, she unhooked her bra, curling her shoulders forward to allow the straps to slither down her arms, the cups peeling from her breasts before dropping to the floor.
His eyes were already there. She knew that he liked to watch her. He had from the very start—from the time he’d commanded her to stand over him and masturbate.
How the tables had turned.
Starting at her waist, she slithered both hands up her abdomen, riding the undulations of her rib-cage, to her breasts where she grasped both nipples and squeezed them, allowing herself to respond as though he were stimulating her. He would know if she was acting . . . or holding back—either would undermine what she was trying to achieve. And so she released the type of moan that she reserved only for the privacy of her own room . . . or for him, her lips parting desirously as she continued to roll and tug each straining bud.
His jaw muscles twitched . . . as did his cock. Another good sign.
She continued to stimulate herself, enjoying the tell-tale flare of his nostrils and the subtle cinching of his brow, until the throbbing in her pussy reached such a point that it required instant and urgent attention. Kicking off her flats one at a time, she pulled down the zipper of her jeans before turning her back to him and hooking her thumbs into the waistband. Bending gratuitously, she pushed her jeans and knickers down together. As she peeled off both layers, she continued to bend, arching her buttocks wantonly until he had what she hoped was a satisfyingly graphic view swaying before him, cheeks lasciviously parted as she stepped one foot out of her puddle of clothing and then the other.
Gradually unfurling her naked body until she was upright, Hermione sauntered with a deliberate hip-swing over to the chair. Perhaps she was overdoing it a little but she did want to give him a visual worth remembering. Grabbing the chair by the arms, she dragged it forward until it was positioned directly in front of him. Then she picked up her wand and the flogger, casting Scourgify on the latter before tossing her wand aside.
Ready.
Turning abruptly, she lowered herself down until she was perched primly on the edge of the chair. Demure . . . almost. However, she immediately undermined any sense of propriety by casually sliding her knees apart, exposing her almost-hairless pussy, before dragging the tails of the flogger lightly up and down her inner thigh. He stared back, the firelight dancing in the depths of his hooded gaze. While he was clearly still vexed and brooding, he was also interested . . . as evidenced by the bold prow of his cock which reared up as she dragged the flogger over her parted labia.
She felt surprisingly calm. This was so far removed from anything she had ever done before but she had the advantage of being driven by a deep sense of purpose. And any reservations she might have had about exposing her body had been ostensibly demolished by her past encounters with him. She doubted it was possible to be more exposed than she had been thus far. After all, he had seen more of her than even she had . . . and he was about to see more.
Giving her mons a final slithery stroke, Hermione slid her buttocks backwards in the chair until she was settled comfortably, before bringing her heels up to rest on the edge so that she could watch him through the vee of her legs.
Lifting the flogger, she suddenly performed a little manoeuvre that she’d perfected with her wand, flipping it neatly around her fingers so that she now held the tails in her fist, the handle protruding outward.
The black, bulbed end looked imposing but not impossible, especially considering what she’d taken from Snape only the night before, so she began by positioning the flogger between her legs, slipping the firm leather knob into her slit before gliding it up and down through what she could already hear was a significant pool of arousal.
When her gaze lifted to his, she found that she didn’t even have to try to be lascivious, her tongue naturally slipping out to moisten her lips, her shoulders retracting to expose her breasts, her eyelids sinking at the sight of the gag clamped between his teeth, jaw rigid, abdominal muscles taut with arousal as his cock strained skyward.
She sighed audibly, a breathy moan slipping out from between her lips. He really wasn’t doing himself any favours. If his intention was to be released, there was no way it would happen with his perspiration-gilt muscles rippling before her. It was simply more fodder to fuel her pumping wrist, which dialled up a notch, prodding the phallus into her opening, stretching it, before lifting to deftly whisk over her clitoris until she was aching to be filled.
Spreading her legs a little further, she brought the flared bulb back to her pussy and began gradually working it inside herself. Using her heels as leverage, she curled her hips forward, her head rocking back to rest against the chair as she thrust.
“Unnnhhhh,” she moaned as it sank deeper inside her.
There was a soft echo from across the room. Inclining her head, she saw his hands clenched into pale fists. Significant nose dipped down, his gaze burned her from under heavily knit brows. She wanted to believe that it was desire . . . not just revenge. And the glisten of his cock, the sparkling gem crowning his head suggested that she might just be right.
Slipping the fingers of her other hand down to rub at her clitoris as she plunged the phallus harder into her tunnel, she could almost imagine that he wasn’t her Headmaster, that their adversarial and transactional past was just that—the past . . . and that she wasn’t at risk of serious repercussions when she finally did set him free.
But she wasn’t prone to that level of delusion—her mind was too frustratingly honest. So she set her jaw, focusing on her desire to demonstrate to him that arousal could be achieved without the need for pain, in fact without touch at all. It would hardly be a revelation to him, conceptually at least—he understood far more than she about such things. But she wanted him to know that she knew . . . and that she knew it of him.
Agitating her fingers more frantically over her swollen nub, she fucked herself with the flogger and watched his pelvis twitching, the breaths billowing in and out of his broad chest. But it was his eyes that finally did her in. Having his gaze upon her, knowing the depth of what he knew, the breadth of his experiences, she found supremely erotic—especially being able to affect him in the way that she was after his past efforts to remain as callously cold and detached as possible.
Her pussy cinched around the handle, its ribbed length stuttering along her insides until she could no longer hold on.
Her jaw fell open, ragged breaths surging from her as she finished herself with a frenzy of stimulation.
“Uhhh . . . Yessss!” she cried, as her chin curled into her chest, the sight of her pumping hands blurring as she came undone, her core erupting into a chaotic flurry of contractions. The jerky undulations of her pelvis and sudden stiffening of her legs caused one of her feet to slip off the chair, jamming the flogger even deeper inside her. The result was a fresh wave of convulsions that drove her head back against the chair, a high pitched wail tearing from her throat. The seizing and writhing gradually subsided until she was left with her spent pussy throbbing around the rigid phallus, both hands slithering absently up and down her thighs as she sighed in contentment.
“Yo on bran o torta?”
Hermione cracked open her eyes. Unfortunately she could make out exactly what he said that time.
‘Your own brand of torture?’
She lifted her head to look at him. His entire body was rigid with tension—clearly hyper-aroused. But while he couldn’t be more vulnerable, he was still intent upon trying to provoke her. She wouldn’t be drawn in. She was in the driving seat now. He was clearly insinuating that she was a hypocrite . . . and perhaps she was.
Regardless, she had made her point, and now she was ready to make another.
“Yes. One that I’m suddenly rather taken with.” She gradually worked the handle out of her pussy before standing. “And I see that you’re rather taken with it also.”
Tossing the flogger aside, she approached him, taking slow, sultry steps until she was standing directly before him. Extending her index finger, she touched his cock, drawing her fingertip up the seam on the underside of his shaft, collecting the trail of dewy precum along the way before bringing her finger to her lips. Locking eyes with him, she drew her glistening digit into her mouth, rolling her tongue around it, savouring his taste before swallowing gratuitously.
A small sound in the back of his throat told her she had him exactly where she wanted him.
Raising both hands, she placed her palms against his chest. He quivered faintly. No doubt, in his experience, not all touch was intended to soothe. This time it was . . . at least partly.
Crawling over his pectoral muscles, Hermione traced her fingertips along the scars there before dipping her head to place her lips against one. He stiffened, tensing under her mouth but she continued to gently cover the length with small, feather-light kisses before moving down to nuzzle and then engulf the firm bud of his nipple.
He growled. A single bass note rolling around his throat. Again, she ignored it in favour of giving him what she suspected he had had very little of in his life . . . tenderness, affection . . . even sympathy. She doubted anyone had expressed sorrow for him, even after the multitude of sacrifices he’d made to help protect the Wizarding world. It was far easier to assume, as she had, that his cantankerous manner was due to arrogance, or a particularly caustic personality.
Laving gently, she plied one nipple and then the other, his growls turning into soft moans that infused her with an even greater determination to show him what it felt like to receive genuine care . . . and possibly something more.
Kissing his clenching abdomen as she slid down his body, she licked along the warm grooves between his muscles before finding herself eye to eye with his cock. She’d only been this close to a penis once before, but the result had been reasonably successful. Despite the size differential, and Merlin-knew how much extra baggage came with this one, she was hopeful for another positive outcome. And whilst she might be woefully inexperienced, there was a fiery determination burning within her chest . . . a trait that had eluded her for some time but that she was relieved to be able to draw from once more.
He’d spoken to her about oral sex in the past—the potency of the mouth, the ability of the tongue to communicate desire beyond words. But the greatest power he’d attributed to the eyes. What had he called them? The windows to the soul?
She would give him her mouth, and her hands, but she would mostly give him her eyes—so he could see the truth of her actions. He was the Master of Mistrust after all.
Grasping his hips, she steadied herself as she knelt before him. But it was only when she looked up that she realised, despite her earlier bravado, how ambitious this all was. It was one of the most daunting sights she had ever encountered—and not just sexually.
His imposing facade loomed above her, rendered even more ominous by the play of firelight and shadow—eyes burning like embers, the black gag slicing through his mouth, curling his upper lip and exposing glints of teeth. Dark hair hung in damp, clingy swathes that twisted around his features, making him appear even more fiercely commanding. His lithe form, glistening as it flexed against the binds, was not only imbued with an intense physical and magical potency but the scars spoke of courage and survival . . . someone who could prevail against the odds.
But most intimidating of all was the iron-clad phallus that hovered like a sceptre just above her forehead. From this angle she could see the horizontal bars across the shaft. They weren’t as neat as she’d originally assumed, the ragged edges clearly the work of a tool that was either dull or serrated. It would have been unbearably painful.
And so that’s where she started.
Tentatively, she lifted a hand to his shaft, grasping it gently before running the pad of her thumb along one of the raised ridges. Glancing up to gauge his response, she saw a complex mix of emotions tugging at his features—magnified when she leaned in closer. Keeping her eyes trained on him, she nuzzled the base, inhaling his musky, masculine scent before brushing her lips against the silken softness there. She trailed upward, pausing to feel the infinitesimal vibrations of his veins against her lips before meeting a thin rib of scar tissue. Dipping the tip of her tongue out, she stroked it, gently undulating her head back and forth to coat the symbol of torture with her own symbol of care, of healing, as one animal might do to another. This was met by a slight flexion of his expressive eyebrow, just the inner margin—a tiny indicator of need . . . that he needed this, or perhaps even her.
Inspired to continue, she interspersed her laving strokes with occasional kisses, especially at the knots of particularly severe scarring. Working carefully, she covered the entire battlefield of lines, her laboured breaths no doubt cooling his shaft but never managing to take the edge off his erection which remained solid in her two-handed caress.
Then, leaning back slightly, she dropped her jaw, giving herself room to finally take his head. She’d left it until last not only because it was one of the few parts apparently undamaged, but because she wanted to give it her full attention, and to give him her full attention as she did so.
Trailing her tongue around the substantial perimeter of his corona, she watched the stuttering rise and fall of his chest. And as she slid up to dip into his slit, tasting more of his salty essence she noticed that he stopped breathing altogether. Finally inclining her head, she was able to engulf his entire bulb, taking its smooth contours into her mouth with only a small amount of difficulty. The key was to remain calm and focused, and to breathe. It would be easy to choke on something of his size. And she wasn’t planning on doing that . . . not only because she didn’t fancy putting herself through it, but it would undermine the very message she was trying to convey.
So she remained focused on working his sensitive glans, sucking gently as she rocked her head from side to side before bringing her hands into action, gripping and stroking his shaft in time with her undulations. His mouth was no longer pulled into a grimace, his lips loose and hanging apart as his breathy groans rasped past the gag.
Her tongue caressed him as her fingers slid up and down the loose skin of his shaft, and the entire time she kept her eyes locked upon him, knowing that he would be able to see the truth . . . because she felt it everywhere. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it had happened—perhaps when he was desperately fucking her against the wall in the alcove. Maybe before. But she had a deep-seated desire for him now. Not the sort of loved-up boyfriend desire. More of a desire that transcended any sense of relationship. One that disregarded all propriety, one that was dangerously primal, not beholden to convention or correctness. An addiction that one feeds—that feels too right, too integral to one’s being for it to be wrong.
And she saw it in him—that he recognised her need. The glassy sheen in his own eyes was unmistakable, the sounds he was making so raw . . . she had made the connection.
He had given her forgiveness. She had given him acceptance.
And to reinforce her intention—so that it was absolutely unequivocal—she sped up her pumping fist as she took him in her mouth more deeply, sucking and stroking until she could feel him tensing, ready to come.
As the guttural groan began, like that of a dying man, she pulled back a little so he could watch himself entering her. Jerking her fist she felt the first warm shots splashing across her tongue, then more violent bursts, one missing her mouth altogether, painting her chin and cheek, the other hitting the back of her throat at speed. Still she continued to pump him, directing his surging tip onto her tongue, where the final deposits landed, pooling in the gulley of her open mouth until he was finally drained. She gathered the mouthful together, displaying it to him before swallowing, accepting him—his very essence . . . his most intimate part.
And then she saw it. A tear. A single glistening drop, trailing down one cheek. Was it the physical pain—like last time? Or was it something else? She couldn’t ask. She wouldn’t ask.
Instead she rose up, standing on her toes to reach him. Hooking her hand around his neck, she pulled him down until she could capture his lips which she kissed separately due to the gag—sucking the upper pad and then the lower into her mouth, running her tongue along them, licking the tip of his tongue, knowing he would taste what she had.
Then she stepped back, touching her own lips as she retreated from him. She suddenly felt overwhelmingly emotional. And she didn’t want to cry in front of him—not again.
Quietly, she dressed and retrieved her wand before moving around to the cupboard behind him.
Returning a moment later, she held up her book.
“I found this. I’m taking it with me.”
He didn’t respond. He looked like he had a lot on his mind.
She decided not to wait around to find out what it was.
Pausing at the bedroom door, she reversed the rope incantation before heading quickly for the entrance to his chambers. She considered it unlikely that he would chase her down but she was never entirely sure of how he might behave.
Slipping out the doorway, she breathed a sigh of relief. Then, as she started up the corridor, she may have done just one . . . tiny little . . . skip.
- 13
- 14
- 15
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At the Headmaster’s Discretion *Complete*

At the Headmaster’s Discretion Complete