Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Love On The Rock	By : sheherazade Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Het - Male/Female Views: 7113 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of his heirs or successors or anything to do with him. I earn nothing from this story.

Chapter List
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I pass a highly unsatisfactory weekend. The courier I am expecting with my Abyssinian shrivelfig does not arrive and I am thus unable to ascertain whether any progress is being made by the Order in the war. If only I had my owl I could make contact, but it was deemed too risky to keep her. I cannot avoid a series of depressing ‘what ifs’ infecting my consciousness – what if the war drags on for decades? What if the Dark Lord wins? What if Dumbledore’s letter is never found, or is found by the wrong side? What if I have to spend the rest of my days here?
By the time Ruby arrives on Monday morning, I am convinced that nothing will lift my mood, though her spick and span dress and appearance do contribute towards this in small measure. She is looking elegant in a fitted black pencil skirt and midnight blue satin blouse. Her hair is beginning to lose its unhealthy brittle texture and her skin is less pasty. She is wearing seamed stockings as well, the snaps evident through the tight fabric of her skirt. Hmmm. I walk behind her as she enters the main room, admiring the sway of her hips and bottom as she totters along in high-heeled black patent pumps.
“You have taken my advice to heart, I see,” I say approvingly. “This is much better, Ruby.”
She beams and flushes, flapping those fidgety fingers pleasurably.
I set her the transcripts of my experiments to type up and take myself upstairs to continue my work. About half an hour later she knocks on the door, although I have not given her permission to come upstairs, and I believe I made it abundantly clear on her first day that she was not to do so.
“Go back downstairs and wait for me,” I snap at her, stirring distractedly and hoping that my momentary lapse in concentration hasn’t corrupted the brew. I hear her heels click-clack down the wooden staircase and take a few deep breaths to dispel my irritation.
Ten minutes later, I join her in the main room, fixing her with a menacing glare and asking, “Well? What was so important that you had to ignore my rule and disturb me in my experimentation?”
“Oh,” she says, her face falling. “I just….I’ve finished the typing. I wondered what to do next.”
I pace over to the typewriter and snatch the sheaf of papers from the desk, continuing to pace as I read them. Her fearful eyes follow my back and forth progress until I slam them back on the desk, take a red pen and cross through all the errors of spelling and punctuation that litter the text.
“This is not good enough, Miss O’Riordan, not at all good enough. Do it again; I will not accept slapdash work.”
“But Sir…I can’t read your handwriting…” she protests weakly.
“I want it done again. I will expect perfection by lunchtime.” I return to my forbidden room, tense with frustration. Of more than one kind.
By lunchtime, it is hard to tell whether the simmering in the room is coming from me or my brew. As I descend the stairs, I reflect that Ruby had better not give me any more cause for displeasure if she knows what is good for her.
“All done?” I enquire tersely, and she nods, handing me the reworked sheaf. I motion her up from the desk and take my seat to read. She stands wringing her hands beside me – I am sure I have warned her about fidgeting – while I find the first two pages corrected to my satisfaction. The third, however, contains a spelling error, as do the fifth and sixth. I cross them through with the red pen and stand, thrusting them back to her.
“Once more, Ruby,” I say uncompromisingly. She opens her mouth, then closes it again. “No lunch until it is perfect.”
I return to my steam-filled lab, but before I open the door I am halted by the sound of something being thumped down on the desk. She is angry. Then the click-clack-click of her heels along the corridor and the slamming of the bathroom door. She should curb that temper. I steal back down, wanting to see her face when she emerges – has she gone in there to cry? Or, worse, cut herself? No! It suddenly becomes very clear what she has gone in there to do when the telltale waft of cigarette smoke filters through and up the staircase. Now she has gone too far. Smoking on my property, in my time. I think not.
I move through to the office and stand in the centre of the room, my arms folded in the intimidating manner I perfected in my former pedagogical role.
“Come here, Miss O’Riordan,” I summon, sixteen years of experience as an authoritarian evident in my commanding tone. I hear a woeful creak of door and she almost tiptoes into the room, her expression wary. As well it might be. I have struck dread into the hearts of two generations of powerful magical adolescents; this waiflike chit is no match for me.
“Professor?” she quavers, and her use of the honorific signifies her desire to massage my ego until I am softened. I am wise to all the tricks, not that she could know that.
“Miss O’Riordan, it seems that you are determined to defy me. In my many years of experience as both a scientist and a teacher, I have never accepted defiance, and I do not intend to start now. You are in need of discipline and I will not shirk from applying it.” I remove the typewriter from the desk and place the sheaf of ill-typed papers in its centre. “Bend over the desk, Miss O’Riordan, braced on your elbows, and look at your handiwork.”
She baulks slightly, her plump lips in an O of shock. She thinks I am bluffing. She does not know me.
Maintaining the same quiet but insistent tone, I clarify. “I have given an order, Miss O’Riordan, and I expect it to be obeyed.” I rarely need to raise my voice, I find, and this situation is no exception. Ruby steps over to the desk, her face pale and set, like Joan of Arc approaching the stake. She flicks her eyes over to me in the forlorn hope of a last minute reprieve, but I do not grant it. She bends at the waist and supports herself on her elbows, as directed, her nose almost touching the paper.
“Now read it,” I order, and, bemused at first then picking up pace and volume, she begins to do so. I take a moment to let my eyes rove at leisure over the swell of her hindquarters, so temptingly arranged, so vulnerable. It has been a long time since I have been able to indulge myself in this simple but exquisite pleasure. I deserve it. I am going to take it.
I step up and allow my right hand to hover millimetres away from the taut, round globes. The thin fabric of the skirt is stretched like a second skin; it will offer scant protection against the assault I am planning. The anticipation is so sweet I wonder idly for a second if reality can be any improvement. No, I am going to do it. The worst she can do is leave. But she won’t leave, unless I am gravely mistaken – and I never am.
I raise my arm as she drones on, stumbling over occasional unfamiliar words, and wait for her to mispronounce ‘asphodel’ before landing my first stroke. The crack of my hand on her bottom echoes satisfyingly and the jiggle of her astonished flesh sends a message of pure excitement to my sense-receptors. She cries out sharply and stops reading, disbelief in her voice, but all I have to do is instruct her to go on, and she does.
The text is lengthy, and her punishment lasts almost ten minutes, although the exhilaration of the experience is such that neither my arm nor my hand tire in the slightest; indeed, I feel I could continue indefinitely. Her recitation is mutating from jerky and squealy to breathy and husky. I am not the only one of us deriving some enjoyment from this, I gather. Once she reaches the end of the article, I am mightily tempted to make her repeat it, but I come to my senses and step back, watching the heaving of her shoulders as she struggles to regroup after the sound spanking I have dealt her.
I don’t want her to see the rather flamboyant erection I am sporting so I depart for my lab hastily, with a terse, “Type it up again, Ruby.”
I hear her footsteps; she is back in the bathroom. No sobbing, though, just five minutes of silence. I know she is checking the state of her buttocks in the mirror. Just imagining how red and marked they must be brings me to completion as I kneel on the wooden boards of my forbidden parlour. Sweet goddess. I put my forehead to the floor and listen for her next move. She will either run down the stairs and out of my life, or return to the typewriter. The latter, if my instincts serve me right.
The tip-tapping of keys rewards my instincts minutes later. I exhale deeply, scrub up the mess I have made of the floor and continue with my research.
At the end of the day, I prowl down and inspect her final version while she shrinks back in the chair, watching me with lemur-like eyes. There is a changed air about her; a sense of having been unlocked. She radiates a rapture of wantonness. She wants me to take her. But of course I will not.
“This is much better,” I comment, placing the papers back on the desk with a nod. “You may go home.” And I return to my lab without any further interaction.
*
I have certainly released the pent-up masochist in Miss O’Riordan, it seems. She flirts with me shamelessly for the remainder of the week. Every sentence that passes her lips ends with a breathy beat and a husky ‘Sir’, her eyelashes batting manically from lowered lids. She adopts the walk of a novice stripper, though she frequently totters on her too-high heels. Many is the time her breasts in their artfully-half-buttoned satin casing are thrust almost into my face as she offers me some typing to look over. The amateurish artlessness of it is strangely appealing; the erotic possibilities of having a pretty little ingénue hanging on my every command are not lost on me, though they must of necessity remain in the realms of fantasy.
I am not made of stone, however – well, not entirely – and I cannot resist indulging her in the corrective chastisements she so clearly craves. Every day a moment comes when she hands me a poorly-typed document, and every day it is obvious from the way her entire body seems to thrill before my scrutiny that she has made a series of deliberate errors in the hope of hearing my inevitable instruction to bend over the desk.
I know she is playing me, but where else am I going to derive any positive pleasure in this forsaken wilderness? The spankings are as much for my benefit as hers, and at least they appear to be having the effect of improving her attitude. Nonetheless, I find a myriad of less erotic ways to exert control over her, reminding her of the dynamic of our working relationship. I check her forearms every morning, and search her bag for cigarettes. Without her tar-loaded prop, Ruby falls to biting her nails, so I paint them with bitter aloe until she learns to keep them out of her mouth. One memorable afternoon I deal with her fidgeting by binding her wrists together and making her perform all tasks in this undignified position, from typing (difficult) to peeling potatoes (impossible). I instruct her on what to eat and what to avoid each evening before she leaves, but rather than express indignation at my overbearing manner, she absorbs it meekly, gladly. Perhaps nobody has cared for her properly before. Not that it’s any of my business. But she has a neglected air.
By Friday, I am beginning to have doubts about the wisdom of my methods of disciplining Ruby. She seems to be flowering like a sexually rampant exotic bloom under my iron hand, and I am finding her increasingly difficult to be around. I am a man with desires like any other, and the measured dance of attraction we are constantly engaged in is taking my mind away from more important considerations. I need to be thinking of potions, not passions. My head needs to be clear of the murky visions of frantic coupling that preoccupy it all too often these last days.
I decide that I will try to frighten her off course by administering a more severe punishment than she has received to date. It will not work if she is a true masochist, but if she is just a confused young woman mixing up my controlling behaviour with emotional involvement, it may force her to realise that she really doesn’t want me in the way she imagines.
So instead of the expected belabouring with my hand, her unsuspecting derriere has an appointment with my ruler this afternoon. I lay on thirty full-powered strokes, my blood racing through my veins from the first solid thwack of wood on flesh to the last ragged cry of pain and distress. Oh yes, she will be sore and sorry now; I suspect I may have the seen the last deliberate typing error and I replace the ruler on the desk in front of her tear-dripping little nose with an air of finality.
But I have miscalculated. Ruby remains in place for a few minutes, whimpering gently until her lungs are functioning effectively once more. Then she takes a deep breath, turns her blotchy face to me and asks to use the bathroom.
I give my permission and lurk in the corridor, expecting her to be coming to terms with the shock of my cruelty, considering her next move, which will be either to give in her notice or to continue here with a drastically subdued sexual charge. I suppose she needs the money after all. But she is taking a long time in there…she must have washed her face and inspected the damage by now…She will be bruised….hmmm…no pink-haired layabouts will be getting an eyeful of that little rear this weekend….good. What is she doing though?
I creep closer and screw my eyes up in defeat as the realisation hits home. I can hear her voice, whispery and sibilant on the other side of the door. “Professssssor…..Ssssseverussssss…..Sssssssnape….” She drags it out, her intonation heavily voluptuous, a long sighing moan of….Sweet goddess, she is pleasuring herself in there.
I march post-haste to my secret room and have to take care of myself immediately. This is unacceptable. She wants me to hurt her. She likes it. I wonder if she’d like hanging from a hook in my ceiling, naked but for collar and cuffs, taking a merciless cropping…oh gods, yes she would…oh gods. I have to stop this now. I can’t fuck a Muggle, especially not one that works for me. This is a disaster.
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Love On The Rock