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
- 4
- 5
- 6
On Monday, I revert to a formal demeanour, avoiding as much as possible any contact with my saucy young charge, who has turned up in an almost transparent blouse with a velvet choker at her throat. It looks like a collar. I look away, set her a mountain of typing and retire to my brewing.
When I descend at lunchtime, she has prepared a most palatable prawn stir-fry – has she been reading recipe books? – and she places it before me with geisha-like subservience, keeping her eyes lowered and scampering back to her own place on the tatty sofa.
“Did you have a nice weekend, Sir?” she asks coyly.
“Not particularly. This lunch is almost edible, Ruby. I’m pleasantly surprised.”
“Oh, thank you, Sir,” she gushes. “It was in one of the Sunday supplements. I thought you might like it.”
“Hm.” I stare into space, closing my face into its least approachable expression.
She coughs slightly. “I’ve finished the typing, Sir, do you want to look at it?”
“Hand it over.”
As expected, it is peppered with elementary mistakes, to the point of parody.
“What is this foolishness, Miss O’Riordan?” I ask witheringly.
She almost giggles with excitement and I roll my eyes. This is like one of those Muggle pantomimes…everybody knows what is going to happen, everyone knows what is expected. Not this time, young lady.
“You gave me to understand that you were adequately qualified in English language. Were you lying?”
“No, Sir.” Her blue lamps of eyes are troubled. I have deviated from the script.
“Then why are your spelling and grammar so woeful, Miss O’Riordan? This drivel would disgrace an infant. I suggest you correct it until it reaches a standard above that of a monkey or I will have you out of here and back at school for remedial classes. Clear?”
I rise and tower over her, frozen with a forkful of red pepper halfway to her dumbstruck mouth.
“Ah…yes, Sir.”
“Good. Do not disturb me for the rest of the afternoon, please. There are dishes to be done in the sink and laundry in the basket.”
I sweep out of the room. She is disappointed. Good.
*
That night there is heavy rain and it drums noisily on the rotting-framed skylight in my lab while I test an early prototype of my Veritaserum antidote. I cannot judge its efficacy quite to the standard I would like with only myself to experiment on and I wonder if I could persuade Ruby to act as a guinea-pig tomorrow…
The thought of Ruby leads me to drift into contemplation of that white throat encircled by the black velvet choker she wore today. Translucent skin that is made to be marked. But not by such as I.
I am startled from my reverie by a banging at the door. Surmising that somebody has mistaken it for the entrance to the curry house again, I ignore it at first. But it persists, and I grudgingly put my work aside to investigate.
I am disconcerted to find the sodden form of Ruby on my doorstep. She is in her habitual ‘Goth’ attire; her mascara has run into sludgy black tears and her hair resembles a rats’ nest. I feel an odd urge to dry her off and shelter her, but this must be quelled. I must not encourage her…foolish crush, or infatuation, or whatever it is. She should not even be here.
“What are you doing here?” I ask tersely.
“I just…” Perhaps it isn’t just the rain; she looks as if she has been crying. “I just wanted to…tell you….” She gasps for breath and I maintain the intimidating level of my stare. I’m not sure I want to hear this. She appears to change her mind. “To tell you….I forgot to switch off the computer. Earlier. I’m sorry.”
She turns to leave, her hands over her mouth, and tears threatening to mingle with the grey streaks on her face. Gods, I can’t bear a weeping woman. But…
“Ruby.”
She turns. “Yes, Sir?”
“Since you’re here, you can help me with something. If you have time.”
“Oh…yes, I have time.”
I usher her in and up the stairs, handing her a towel from the bathroom to dry herself while I fetch my new compound.
“Take a seat,” I direct her and she plumps herself down on the sofa. I sit beside her. She smells of wet cigarette butts. I will break her of this habit, I swear.
I pour her a glass of orange juice and infuse it with a small quantity of Veritaserum; enough to last no more than ten minutes.
“Drink this up, Ruby, then I will ask you some questions.”
Obediently she drains the juice and lifts her face enquiringly towards me.
“Now I want you to answer the following questions absolutely truthfully. What is your full name?”
“Ruby Elizabeth O’Riordan.”
“How many cigarettes have you smoked today?”
Shamefacedly she confesses, “Ten.”
I tut at her and she flushes. “Have you ever made a deliberate typing error in the hope of earning yourself a punishment?”
“Yes,” she gasps, her hands flying to her mouth. I smirk. I can’t resist it.
“Are you and Pinkie lovers?”
“No.” Even better. Excellent.
“Why are you here?”
“My parents had a fight and I’m fed up with all my friends, and Pinkie, and I think about you all the time and I just wanted to see you,” she blurts indiscriminately.
Without moving a facial muscle, I pour her another glass of orange juice and tip in a tiny vial of my experimental antidote.
“Thank you, Ruby, now I would like to repeat this exercise, but this time, you must answer with a deliberate lie. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” At least I know she is telling the truth.
“Good. Now drink the juice.”
She knocks it back in one, looking curiously composed given the circumstances. Fatalistic, I suppose.
“What is your full name?”
“Ruby Tuesday.”
It really seems to be working. I raise my eyebrows and permit myself a small smile.
“Where do you live?”
“Paris.”
“Are you sexually attracted to me?”
She is silent. Veritaserum would have had her spilling out an affirmative, so this is good as well.
“That’s not a fair question,” she mopes eventually.
“That is true, Ruby. I thought you understood that you were supposed to answer with a deliberate lie?”
She just looks desperately up at me, willing me to make a move. When I do, it is towards the door, which I hold open for her.
“Thank you, Ruby, this has been extremely helpful. I appreciate it.”
“Is that it?” she gasps. “Aren’t you going to tell me what all this is about? Are you making some kind of truth drug? Are you working for the secret services?”
“That would be telling, wouldn’t it? Good evening.”
She looks wildly from me to the door several times before flouncing out and flinging herself down the stairs. At the bottom she stops for one last look of dying-swan appeal. I blank it and return to my rooms.
*
I have no recourse but to withdraw from her. Her desire for some kind of deeper attachment is transparent, and I simply cannot give it to her. I regret the passing of the brief and exhilarating dominant/submissive game we enjoyed, and I cannot deny that the nocturnal exercises of my right hand are overwhelmingly inspired by her. Indeed, the temptation to fling my reservations aside for one glorious episode of congress…preferably on my desk, I think…is quite strong. But I have developed my genius for stoicism over a long period, and it will take greater skill and determination than hers to break down the defences now.
On Tuesday morning, she turns up looking certifiably stunning; with her sharp bob cut, fitted skirt suit and elbow-length gloves she could have stepped out of some New Look era fashion plate. She looks glamorous and deadly; a far cry from the bedraggled Goth at my door last night. I spend about ten minutes or less of the day in her company. I am not falling prey to this kind of campaign. I am impervious. Everybody knows I am impervious.
On Wednesday, she brings my cup of morning coffee with a compliment.
“That white shirt looks good on you, Sir. With your colouring,” she says, with a combustible cocktail of coyness and sexual intent. Very, ah, affecting. But I choose not to be affected.
“I am obliged to you,” I say, picking up my newspaper offhandedly and dismissing her. I make her scrub out the dustbin and scour the oven.
On Thursday I almost manage to avoid her for the entire day.
“Goodbye,” she calls up to me before leaving the office.
I do not reply and wait until she has definitely left the building before descending to my living quarters. I am perplexed to find a vase of flowers – roses – on my desk. I am even more perplexed to find a framed photograph of her wearing a corset of some kind and a come-hither expression.
The photograph is not unalluring – indeed, I keep it propped beside my fold-up bed for the evening – but I am perturbed by this turn of events. I realise I should contemplate dispensing with her services.
She has become invaluable to me in a short space of time; the relief of not having to deal with the minutiae of Muggle existence has been a considerable relief. However, she is not irreplaceable. I may have to revisit that damnable employment agency.
On Friday I make sure the photograph and the flowers are optimally visible in the wastepaper basket before she arrives. As soon as she has entered the building, looking perfectly fuckable in a sheer black lace blouse and skirt so tight she can barely walk, I retreat to my lair and leave her to the business of her menial tasks. Before she leaves tonight I will suggest she seek alternative employment. I will provide her with an excellent reference of course…but I cannot have this glaring invitation to the horizontal tango in my house for one more day.
The mid-morning coffee break comes and goes without my leaving my cauldron. She calls up to ask if I am coming down but I do not reply. With any luck, I can make it to five o’clock without any further social contact. Or such is my hope, at any rate. A vain one, in the event.
Shortly before the day ends, a jarring aroma muscles into the expected fusion of jasmine and aloe vera. I put my sensitive nostrils to the test and diagnose….cigarette smoke. Is that confounded girl smoking on my property again? This is utterly beyond my forebearance. I slam out of the room and storm downstairs to find the brazen article standing, shoulders fiercely thrown back, in the centre of my living/office room, puffing on a cigarette, having just stubbed out another on….Merlin’s beard!...on my research notes, which are similarly decorated with little piles of ash. Insensate with fury, I freeze and take a second or two to bring myself back down to a level of mere rage. She is going to pay for this. Oh yes.
The infuriating little hussy stares coolly into my eyes for an expanding moment, daring me to…to what? To…I don’t care. I know what she wants. She is going to get it, and then some. And then some more. Until it is what she wants no longer.
Without moving a muscle, I snap out a low-toned, “Remove your skirt, Miss O’Riordan, and bend over the desk.” Her eyes widen. Good. She wasn’t expecting to have to take any clothes off. She bites her lip in indecision but I do not drop the intensity of my glower one notch and finally she reaches around to unzip her skirt and shimmies it over her hips. Hmmm, stockings, suspenders, lacy black knickers. A bit retro, I realise, but entirely to my taste. She gawps gawkily while my eyes make a swift mental snapshot of this alluring picture – scantily clad little temptress stripped off for punishment. Might be pulling that one out of the album tonight…along with…
I point impatiently to the desk. “Do I have to repeat myself?” She trots obediently across and positions herself over it, gripping the far edge and presenting the perfect companion-piece to my earlier freeze frame. Black lace stretched over taut little cheeks, white thighs framed by tight black elastic. So vulnerable, trembling slightly with fearful anticipation. Delicious. Surely I have earned a treat?
My jaw twitches with satisfaction when I notice her body stiffen at the sound of my belt unbuckling and swishing out of its loops. You weren’t expecting that, were you, my little rebel? There will be no friendly hand-spanking over the seat of your skirt this time, Ruby. I mean business.
Wrapping the buckle end of the supple leather around my palm, I pose a question. “When you smoked that cigarette, Miss O’Riordan, what did you imagine that the consequences would be?”
“I thought you might…spank me,” she confesses.
“And that would be a desirable outcome, presumably?”
“Well…yes, Sir.”
I crack the belt down on the desk beside her. She screams.
“So this is what you want, is it, Ruby?”
Her voice is faint. “I…don’t know, Sir. Please…don’t hurt me.”
“Are you telling me that I didn’t hurt you when I spanked you before?”
“Well…yes, you did…but I didn’t mind.”
“Whereas you will now?”
“Uh…I don’t know…I’m worried…you might go too far.”
“You’re afraid?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good. You should be. Because I am going to hurt you, Ruby. I am going to see to it that you have to spend the entire weekend making excuses to your friends and family as to why you can’t sit down.”
She squeaks. Gods, this is fun. I wish I could do it more often.
“Is it still what you want, Ruby?”
“I…I…oh God…I don’t know.” She is losing coherence. Now is the time to strike.
I bring the belt down with a full-force slap on the straining lace of her knickers. A long moan is my reward, though whether of pain or pleasure is not entirely clear. I will need to repeat the experiment forthwith. I apply the belt forcefully and with uncompromising pace for upwards of ten minutes. The changes in her physiological and emotional response are interesting to observe during the course of her chastisement. Initially she makes a sterling effort to contain herself and maintain a stoical façade despite noticeable discomfort; she gasps and groans a great deal, but makes no attempt to avoid my attack. Within a few minutes, however, she is wriggling furiously and making pitiful pleas to my better nature. She isn’t to know I don’t have one, I suppose, and I lay on more strokes unrelentingly, reminding her as I do so that punishment is not intended to be pleasant.
The next stage is highly physical as she kicks her helpless little legs and tries to straighten up and shield her blazing bottom with her hands. It is the work of a moment to push her down by the nape of the neck and hold her there with my left hand while my right continues to pepper her posterior with snapping slaps of the belt. She is now extremely vocal, alternating between begging, whimpering and calling me every name under the sun. Silly girl. Extra strokes for that.
The final point in the cycle is reached roughly eight minutes in. The fighting reflexes drain out of her and she slumps acceptantly, taking the bite of the strap without complaint, although her tears are flowing. These, I take it, are tears of repentance, signalling that I can begin to ease up on her soon and bring the correction to its conclusion.
I give her another two minutes worth of my very best shots then unwrap the belt from my hand and put it back on.
“Lesson learned, Miss O’Riordan?” I enquire, but my only reply for some time is woeful sniffing and light whimpers. The enchanting pattern of black lace and white flesh that made such a pretty picture before is now an even more enchanting pattern of black lace and bright red flesh. Those exposed thighs graduate from alabaster through pale to blush to cerise pink and finally, just beneath the knicker elastic, a sunset crimson. Rather aesthetically pleasing, in my view. But I want to see more. I need to see more. Indeed, I deserve to see more. Why not? Why shouldn’t I?
“Lower your knickers,” I instruct, once the sniffing has died down a little. She makes a little catchy noise in her throat. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to touch you. Unless you want me to?”
She cannot answer that. She wants me to touch her, all right. She just doesn’t want to say so. I shrug mentally. Her loss. Then I take a long, deep breath as she obeys my order and delicately, wincingly, pulls the lacy knickers down over her rear and thighs to rest at the back of her knees. That….is a sight for sore eyes. Though she is presumably the sore one in here. That has to sting.
Her soft, plump rump is lobster-red and showing no signs of fading for the foreseeable future. It seems my pledge that she will be too sore to sit for the next two days may have been honoured. I am pleased with my handiwork. Very pleased. As my cock will attest.
Defiantly, giving a two-fingered salute to the area of my brain that is cautioning me against it, I unzip my trousers and remove the organ in question. Oh, I have no intention of violating the little minx, but that expertly-spanked arse demands this tribute. Mere moments are all it takes to bring me to that exquisite point of no return and a base yet ineffable joy sears through me as I watch my seed splash on to Ruby’s ruby backside and add its heat to her already considerable skin temperature.
A querulous “Oh!” can be heard from the other side of the desk. I have shocked her. I wipe myself with a tissue, replace my cock and leave the room. My work here is done.
*
When she leaves for the weekend a couple of hours later, I notice that the egregious Pinkie is waiting for her on the low wall outside the takeaway, smoking a cigarette. I lurk behind my tattered nets and watch as he takes another cigarette from the packet and offers it to her, motioning her to sit beside him. She declines to take the seat…how unsurprising…but also turns down the cigarette. I raise an eyebrow – does she suspect me of watching her? Or has she decided to give up now?
If the latter, then I can fire her on Monday with a clear conscience. I have done her two very good turns. She no longer cuts herself and she has renounced the evil weed. Really, what more does she want from me?
- 4
- 5
- 6
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Love On The Rock