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UnBroken	By : OddDoll Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Het - Male/Female Views: 6172 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 16
- 17
- 18
Unbroken
By Odd Doll
Chapter 17
Phoebe didn't want to chat with Severus, knowing they would end up talking about their problems. She dropped off the books, remained as long as good manners demanded, and Apparated into her suite at the resort.
As soon as she arrived, she dropped her purse and briefcase on the dining table and collapsed into a chair. The clock registered eight p.m.; she should eat something. The refrigerator in the suite's small kitchen gleamed, it was so clean and bare. She slammed the door shut and strode into the bedroom. Phoebe knew she was on the verge of a panic attack. The tightness in her chest, her shortness of breath, and the tingle in her fingertips were a good sign that she was losing control.
I am calm. I am in control.
I should pack something, she thought, just in case. Phoebe flung the closet doors open and stared at a rack of business suits and leather garments. The things she needed were at home. Her trunk and casual clothes. She fingered a red leather bustier and knew what she had to do.
The suite's fireplace appeared large but normal. However the firebox extended to over six feet high behind the mantle, so that an adult could use it for flooing. She knelt before the hearth, built a magical fire, and tossed a bit of floo powder into it.
"Michael Smith. Michael Smith."
The head of a curly-haired man with round, wire-rimmed glasses appeared in the flames.
"Phoebe! I was just there a few hours ago."
"Michael, I need you. Can you come down?"
Michael looked off to his right before answering. "Steve and I were about to have a late dinner. How about tomorrow?"
"Michael," she said with pleading in her voice, "it can't wait. Please. Tell Steven I'll buy you dinner anywhere, and a show too, but I've got to see you tonight."
"Hold on." He disappeared from the flames. Phoebe never bit her nails, but thought she was about to start. Steve never liked her much, probably out of jealousy. The men in her own life had never cared much for Michael, either.
After a long minute, Michael reappeared. "Give me about half an hour."
"Thanks, Michael." Having called him, a soothing calm spread from her scalp to her fingertips. She put out the fire and went to shower. Afterward she opened a trunk in the sitting room, picked out a few things and laid them in a row on the coffee table. She looked around the room, but it was fresh and clean. All she could do now was wait.
When Michael Apparated with a soft pop, she was kneeling, naked, in the center of room. It obviously was not what he expected.
"Oh, Phoebe. It's been a long time. Are you sure this is what you want?"
"Yes."
"Panic attack?"
"Not yet, but this will help. You know it always does."
"It's been so long. I thought that was over."
"Please..."
Phoebe switched from time to time, and she kept it secret from all but a few close friends. Tonight the depth of her need scared her. A session with a dom, particularly if it included sex, left her drained and boneless, and robbed her of every thought and feeling. She needed that now or sometime in the next day or so she would find herself on the floor, wracked with pain and terror.
She could not look up at Michael's face, knowing she would find worry in it. Instead she stared at the cuffs of his tan chinos and the round tips of his brown leather shoes. They remained still for a moment and then turned toward the coffee table. Phoebe continued to stare at the spot of carpet where he had stood, but she heard him move objects around, whispering a fire charm that in seconds filled the room with musky incense. His footsteps crossed the carpet behind her. The CD tray opened, followed by soft instrumental music with a deep, throbbing base. The shoes returned. Phoebe closed her eyes.
"Look at me, Phoebe." His voice was still soft, but now held a tone of command. Phoebe looked up and saw him frowning. He held a flog in his right hand. She looked into his face. Though he frowned, it still held warmth. His eyes were an icy shade of blue behind the gold-rimmed glasses and had the beginnings of crow's feet. His hair was blond and curly, and his skin was very fair. A light tan, a bit of sun damage along his cheeks and nose, and his lean, fit body were all testaments to his love of the outdoors.
"You know I won't treat you any different than any other sub." It wasn't a question, but she nodded. "Untie my shoes."
She reached toward them, but he snapped his wrist and the flog stung her upper arm. "With your teeth. You know better, Phoebe." When he saw her tiny smile, he lowered the flog onto her upper back. "If you bait me, I will get very, very angry." Michael liked the flog, and the leather strap, and the riding crop. She would be covered in welts before long.
The flog made Phoebe's body lurch forward and her face hit his knees. She cringed in embarrassment, but heat flared in her sex. With her mouth and nose an inch from Michael's feet, Phoebe inhaled the mixed aromas of shoe leather, rubber, and sweat. People often asked her about aphrodisiacs, and she always said leather with a secret smile, thinking of Michael. She allowed herself another moment of inhaling the scents that signaled the beginning of play.
"Get moving, woman. You are very spoiled." Another snap of the flog, just to remind her of her place.
Phoebe took a shoelace between her lips, but it slid through them when she tried to pull. The laces were slender and round, and covered with a waxy film. He also seemed to have tied them very tight. With the lace clamped in her back teeth she managed to pull it free. Working with her teeth and tongue, she loosened the laces from the shoe so that he could slip it off. After she finished with the second shoe she waited with her head lowered, running her tongue over the roof of her mouth to lessen the taste of wax and cotton string. She knew what was coming next.
"Socks," he said after he slipped out of his shoes and kicked them across the room.
Phoebe lifted his pant leg with her nose and slipped her tongue between the sock and the smooth skin of his ankle. She gripped the sock between her teeth and tongue and let her tongue slide down his skin as she lowered the sock down to his heel. He raised his foot an inch off the floor so that she could remove the sock completely. The second sock came off in the same way and she stared at his bare feet. Michael's feet were long and slender, with well-defined bones and long toes. She always thought they should be sculpted in white marble. Like the rest of him, his feet were beautiful. On an impulse she leaned forward and kissed the tops of both arches, and felt an aching desire ignite inside her. Sometimes she just wanted to make love to him. In the past, she had.
When she looked up she caught him looking down at her with a wistful smile that disappeared the moment she saw it. He leaned forward and took a handful of her hair and pulled lightly until she rose to her feet.
"How old are you now, Phoebe?" He placed one hand under her breast and hefted it until the nipple pointed upward. She bit her lip and took a long, deep breath.
"Forty three."
"And still so hot," he murmured as he bent forward to place his warm lips over the nipple. An electric wave of pleasure rolled from her breasts to her clitoris. He sucked and then nibbled gently. Phoebe fought the urge to place her hands over his head and hold him down. Just as she thought she could hold back no longer, his lips were replaced by the cold, hard steel of an alligator clip. She screamed.
"Michael, that hurts. A lot."
"Does it?" He clamped her other nipple. A fine chain connected the clamps and he gave a little tug.
"Michael, please." Tears sprang to her eyes. "It's been a long time. I'm not used to it any more." She could feel her heart beat throbbing in her breasts in a counterpoint to the throbbing base of the music.
"How long?"
She hesitated. "About a year."
Michael dropped out of character for a moment. "Phoebe, that's the last time I was with you. When was the last time you had sex?" He unclipped the clamps and massaged her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers.
"I'm a dominatrix. I engage in sexual behavior all the time."
"Phoebe, dominatrices do not have sex with their clients." He dropped his hands and went over to the coffee table. "And it's not sexual behavior for you if you never get gratification from it."
"I do...sometimes."
"Liar. How long, Phoebe?"
"About a year."
He lifted his head and looked over his shoulder at her. "I mean not with me. When was the last time you had vanilla sex with a man. A date."
"You know, you've really spoiled the mood."
He came forward with a different set of nipple clamps in his hands. "Don't change the subject."
"I don't know. Maybe eighteen months. Okay? Is there anything you else you want to know? The date of my last period? How often I masturbate?"
"I imagine it must be fairly often. Just for that I'm not going to let you take off my shirt with your teeth."
Michael knew what she liked, and nuzzling her face into his chest while her tongue flicked against his salty skin was one of them. Phoebe sighed as he placed the clamps over her nipples and tightened them. She winced and knew they would be throbbing before long, but never as bad as the alligator clamps.
At the table again, Michael picked up a bottle of heavy oil and a tiny butt plug. Phoebe felt the cool, thick liquid drip onto the top of the cleft of her buttocks and then run down across her anus. His fingers followed, massaging the oil into her skin and dipping into the entrance to lubricate inside.
"Mmmm," Phoebe said. Her sex throbbed again and she bit her lip. The butt plug slid in with almost no resistance and she let out a small moan. Michael drew his wand from his waistband and said a charm she had never heard before. She wondered what he was up to and then chastised herself for thinking too much. Soon, she hoped, she would not be able to think at all.
Michael next took black silk ties and bound her arms folded across her back. He pressed against her and she could feel his erection through the fabric of his pants. As he placed a blindfold across her eyes and tied it, he whispered in her ear, "What is it you really want from me tonight?"
His lips brushed her ear, and warm puffs of breath caressed the side of her neck. Phoebe melted into him. The music surged into forefront of her mind. The throbbing base was louder now, a heady, mesmerizing sound. She swayed with arousal and vertigo.
"I want you."
"How do you want me Phoebe?"
"I..." She wanted to taste him and suck on him and fuck him. "I want your cock in my mouth."
He slapped her backside hard enough to make her hips thrust forward. "Liar," he hissed. Michael now had one arm wrapped around her ribs. He wrapped the chain around his forefinger and twisted it. Phoebe bit her lip as her nipples stretched.
"Tell me the truth now."
"I want..." Her voice was a husky whisper. "I want you to hurt me."
"Sir."
"Sir."
"Say it again, all of it, and beg."
Phoebe swallowed. "Please, sir, I want you to hurt me. Please."
He took her upper arm and guided her to the couch. After shoving the coffee table out of the way, he helped her to her knees and sat. Phoebe felt a falling sensation as he pushed her shoulders down until she rested with her torso across his thighs. The crack of the paddle came so quickly she screamed. She had not even heard him pick it up.
"That is for ruining my dinner date with my lover, you selfish whore."
Three more blows, not too hard, but enough to sting.
"And that is for all the sucking up I'm going to have to do to get Steve in a good mood again."
His free hand slid over her backside, rubbing. He nudged between her thighs until she spread her legs wide, and the paddle came down hard. Five times he hit her, and her body jerked forward with each blow. Her heavy breasts swayed and throbbed with pain from the tight clamps.
"And that is for wasting the years of your sexual peak in damn near celibacy." He sounded truly angry with her, making tears of shame spring to her eyes.
Michael rubbed her backside and let his hand slide down between her legs and rub over her clitoris. She was so wet her juices ran over the tops of her thighs.
"And these are because you are a spoiled brat who has let herself get soft and weak."
The blows rained down without pattern or rhythm. Some were soft, most were hard. Michael was practiced enough not to hit in the same spot over and over again, but still, there would probably be bruises.
Blindness magnified all other sensations. The music, louder now, pounded in her ears and the scent of the incense was cloying. Her breasts swayed, pulling the chain and clamps on her tender nipples until they burned. Her backside grew heated and the pain no longer ceased when he paused to rub it, or fondle her sex or breasts. Amidst all this, she ached and throbbed for release. Phoebe squirmed in Michael's lap, trying to press her mound against his thigh or bring her legs together for relief. He yanked her back with rough hands, and slapped her with his bare hands. His erection was like a rock under her ribs as she moved against him.
"Michael, please. I need to come."
He slapped her cheek lightly. "What do you call me?"
"Sir," she whispered.
"Not yet, Phoebe." He lifted her up to a kneeling position and stood.
"No, please." This was worse than pain. She heard his zipper.
"Engorgio."
"Oh, my god," Phoebe gasped. The butt plug had doubled in size. She wriggled around with the pain and pleasure of it.
Michael pushed her knees apart with his toe, so that she could not find release by pressing her thighs together. His hands grasped the back of her head and pulled her forward.
"Suck."
She hesitated. "What?"
"Fellatio, woman. Surely you've heard of it."
This wasn't in the script. Although he varied his methods, Michael never started with fellatio; it meant that she was in control of his orgasm, even tied up as she was.
The flog came down on her back. "Okay," she said quietly.
The velvety head of his penis brushed against her lips. Phoebe opened her mouth and he thrust himself in deep. She gagged, but he didn't withdraw. She inhaled the warm musky scent of him and worked her tongue around in her mouth. Michael was particular. He did not like fondling or licking, he only wanted her to suck. For a time this was all she thought about. Pre-cum burned the back of her throat, and his cock stretched her wider until she took all of him. Phoebe let him slide into her mouth and the back of her throat, and then sucked as he withdrew.
She had to lift up her thighs, and tilt her head back to reach him. It was uncomfortable and her thigh muscles burned. Without sight, her rocking movements dizzied her. She was starting to wish it would be all over when he said, "Vibrato," and the butt plug began to vibrate.
Phoebe groaned. She sucked harder, eagerly, and Michael threaded his fingers into her hair and pulled her into him. He took control, thrusting into her mouth until his cum exploded into her throat. She coughed as she struggled to swallow. Michael swayed, still thrusting slowly, and she feared he would fall. But he recovered himself, and knelt down to wrap his arms around her. He kissed her deeply, tasting his cum on her tongue. Phoebe rose up, leaning into him. She opened more than just her mouth to him; it was if her heart and soul blossomed just for him.
"Michael," she breathed.
"Hmmm, Phoebe." He held her tight, and kissed her neck once before pulling away. "I'm not through with you."
Phoebe felt like she could cry at the loss of his touch, but she knew there would be more. She heard his clothing slither to the ground, but the music had grown too loud to hear whatever else he was doing. After a few moments he took her arm and helped her to her feet. He removed the bindings on her arms and massaged them. Then, taking her hand, he led her to the center of the room and raised her arms to a pair of padded cuffs that hung from the sturdy, wrought iron chandelier. With a word he stopped the vibration of the butt plug, but left it inside of her. He pushed her legs wide apart with his foot and stepped away.
She waited and grew anxious, but he drew near and kissed the tops of her breasts. "Phoebe, where other women are a dish, you are a feast."
She smiled. "It's all starting to sag, I'm afraid. I'm going to need a cast iron bra to keep those babies up before long."
His hands slid down her sides to her hips, and she let out a long, happy breath. One hand stopped at her lower belly.
"Not perfectly flat any more," she said.
He knelt down to kiss her navel. She swiveled her hips into him and he turned his head to cradle the side of his face against her. His hands roamed over her hips and buttocks.
"A little extra padding there," she said. He was being unusually tender, and she wondered why.
He laughed. "You're fishing for compliments. I'll oblige. A little adipose is a good thing. I repeat, you are a feast." He kissed the tops of her thighs. And you have great legs."
Phoebe didn't argue. She knew she still had great legs. "Yes, sir. Could you possibly find it in you to like women just a little more than men?"
Michael chuckled and dove into her, separating her lips with his tongue and running it across her clitoris. She arched her back, pressing her clit into his face, but he held her firmly with one hand splayed across her rump. He teased her, licking the rim of her vagina, and ruffling her pubic hair with his fingertips. She had been worked up twice now, and tried to hold back. Just as she thought she might win the struggle, he thrust two fingers inside of her and clamped his mouth over her clitoris. He sucked and nibbled, and his fingers alternately pressed and rubbed at that spot that he knew so well how to find. Phoebe's knees grew weak and she let her weight hang on her wrists. She arched her back...and he stopped.
"You bastard!"
He stood and slapped her rump. Without warning, a wide leather strap fell across her back. Phoebe screamed. The strap fell again and again while she twisted and turned as far as the cuffs would allow, in a futile dance of escape. She noticed the music had stopped, she had no idea when, and she could hear his breathing and the small grunts he made when the leather hit her flesh. The paddle had hurt, but the strap was agony. He paused to fondle her, keeping her arousal at its peak. A few twists on the chain and a small bite kept her breasts throbbing. And still he whipped her -- down her thighs and between them, across her mound and breasts, even her tender butt was not spared. It went on and on until the pain was no longer pain, and each blow was a thud of lead in her gut. A red haze filled her mind. She felt euphoria and desire, and didn't realize he had stopped until he lowered her arms.
Michael pulled Phoebe to him and she sagged into his arms, too drained at first to notice how gently he held her or the soft kisses he trailed down the side of her face to her shoulder. For several minutes they stood like this as her heartbeats slowed from their frantic gallop and the strength returned to her limbs. Gradually, though, she grew more and more puzzled. A beating aroused Michael to a state of feverish, uncontrolled desire, and he often took Phoebe roughly the moment he released her.
She looked up to see his closed eyes and a small sad crease between his brows. He opened his eyes and said, "Come, Phoebe." An arm around her shoulders, he carefully guided her into the bedroom, and he kept his arm around her while with the other hand he drew back the black satin coverlet on the bed. Stunned, Phoebe allowed him to help her down onto her back, his body following to hover over hers. He kissed her deeply. Rather than inflame her, it settled her arousal into a warm steady hum that she knew he would slowly coax into a shattering climax. And while he made love to her like he hadn't done for years, her barriers crumbled and hope blossomed in her foolish heart.
They kissed, nuzzled, and stroked like the lovers they should have been. Phoebe pressed as much of her body against him as she could. She wanted to possess him. Before long Phoebe was grinding her clitoris into him, and her hips rose to meet him. She arched her back and fed a nipple into his mouth. He sucked hard and they both came with violent spasms. Waves of pleasure rocked her, growing weaker until he collapsed against her shoulder. After a minute of kissing her gently, he rolled to one side and they lay there, recovering.
Michael raised himself up on one elbow to look down at her. "Phoebe?"
"Hmm?" she said in a contended little sigh and smiled up at him.
"You know you're my best friend ever, and I love you."
Phoebe stilled inside. She knew that tone, and she couldn't keep the trace of chill from her voice when she said, "But...?"
He pursed his lips a little and blinked a few times. "If you hadn't taken me in when you did, I wouldn't have ever had a relationship like this with a woman. Even you."
"We've been over this territory before." And usually it was when Michael had met The One. If their conversation was written in a letter, it would begin with 'Dear John.' Now she knew why he was acting so oddly. She closed her eyes and said coldly, "Just say it, Michael."
There was a moment of silence before he said quietly, "It's over, Phoebe. This is the last time."
Phoebe turned her face away from him to stare off into the shadowy corners of the room. "It's Steve, I suppose. He's 'The One.'" She knew she should be adult and generous about this, but she had been in too much pain to begin with.
"It's partly Steve. It's serious between us, and I promised him."
She nodded, but didn't turn to face him. "Of course you did. You always do."
"Phoebe, look at me." When she looked at him again, she was shocked by the pain she saw in his face. "Phoebe, this is the last time ever, whether I stay with Steve or not."
"What?" Never had it gone like this.
"Look at yourself, Pheebs. If you didn't have clients, you'd be living like a fucking nun."
"Funny. Nuns don't fuck. And if I didn't have clients I wouldn't have to live like a nun. I could have a normal relationship with a normal man. And what's that got to do with it?"
She sat up abruptly, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Michael stopped her with a hand clasped gently on her upper arm. "Just listen to me. Please."
She turned her body to face him, but kept one foot on the floor. Michael sighed a little and sat up cross-legged at her side. He raked his fingers through his curls before saying, "It's taken me a long time to realize how selfish I've been, and I'm sorry."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"All this time, I've left you over and over again, and I always knew that if it didn't work out, I'd have Phoebe. Except when you were with Phil, you were there for me."
"So? I love you, Michael. What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing. You're wonderful. But what I didn't notice--"
"If I'm so wonderful, why are you saying all this?"
He lost some of his patience. "Would you please just listen?"
She finally noticed the tears that threatened to spill over his lashes. She took a breath to calm herself. "What?" she said quietly.
He looked away for a second. "What I never noticed," he said, tears falling now, "is that you never left me. Not once. It's been, what? Over twenty years? Nearly twenty-five?"
Phoebe ducked her head. After a minute she turned her back to him, resting both feet on the floor, hunched over with her forearms against her knees. There were no more tears left, but her eyes stung anyway.
He placed a hand on her back, and she couldn't stop the reflexive jerk of her shoulder, shying away from it. He kept it there anyway.
"You've been waiting. You've been waiting for me to change my mind. And I'm telling you I'm not going to. Ever. I love you, sweetheart, but I love men more and I can't change that." He sniffed softly before continuing. "I've watched you go through man after man, and you never stayed with any of them. I don't know how you managed to get back together with Phil and then actually marry him."
With each word he said, true words that she could not refute, the stillness inside her grew tauter, and she retreated further and further into it until she could do no more than whisper when she said, "You should go."
"I want to talk to you."
"You should go. Steve is waiting."
After several very long minutes he rose from the bed and went to the living room to dress. When he returned she hadn't moved. He bent over her and kissed her cheek. "I'll call you in a few days," he said before he Apparated away.
There was no one to beat her and no one to bring her sexual release. The only refuge Phoebe had left was a still, quiet place she had found inside her. The path to it had grown one small agonizing step at a time. One step had come on the day Phil had first tied her to a bed and kept her there for hours and hours while he used her for his own pleasure. Another was placed on the day she could no longer fool herself into thinking the money she took for domination was just 'tips.' And another on the day she realized she no longer cared. It wasn't a cold place, or a cynical one. Neither was it the kind of peaceful meditative trance that people sought. It was simply empty, without thought, without judgment, without doubt. And most of all, without pain.
Phoebe curled up on her side in the bed, tucking the comforter around herself, and found that place all too easy to reach.
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