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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
- 4
- 5
- 6
A/N:
OO – ‘Bondage by blouse entrapment. All the privacy of a changing room with all the access you've come to know and love’ – Bahahaha! It’s really an underestimated approach don’t you think? Nothing more unerotically awkward. ‘Damn you for interrupting my sex with thought!’ – I know, I do apologise for the increasingly intrusive nature of this forced-thought thing. I should have contemplation warnings instead of smut warnings, what do you think? ‘I've been a bad girl and I need to be locked in a tunnel of shame’ – hey, you need to get out of the piano first ;). ‘Forcing her to own up to the visceral reality of what just happened’ – indeed, sneaky, dirty headmaster. ‘I'll practice my shirt-restraint sex positions in the meantime’ – LOL - let me know what you come up with . . . this Snape enjoys a bit of creativity in his debauchery. x
Kvarta – ‘Revealing his motives would dampened it considerably at this point and through the better part of it, I think.’ – Yay! I’m glad you agree :) ‘And suddenly she's just supposed to "fit back in", like nothing happened? Isn't that something he went through in his youth?’ – yesss, I think you’re going to enjoy this chapter! ‘But she is "typical" example of repressed personality (brains or no brains), concerned more to fit in to the boundaries of the socialy accsepted normes then to be her true self’ – excellent, more reflection on this in the current chapter too. ‘her book back . . . and her wand . . . and her freedom - odd order of things and priorities, wouldn't you say so?’ – yes, but there might be a reason for that ;) ‘More to the point she is more honest with him than she is to herself.’ – hmmm, this is interesting. ‘we'll see if you'll come up with some plot to turn things around the bend’ – this one’s definitely more smutty than plotty but I have a few things planned ;) x
Remarkable – ‘He's an imaginative bastard, I'll give them up’ – he does seem to like keeping her off-kilter . . . and he’s probabl spent a lifetime thinking them up ;) ‘I honestly *must* ask you what allure the word 'quim' holds for you’ – well that’s an interesting question. You might be surprised to know that it is the first time I’ve ever used it (and maybe the last). I tried your other suggestions but it just didn’t seem right, too aggressive or colloquial for a man who is extremely specific about his word choice in this context. I’m happy to use it here, but it certainly won’t be my word of choice for any other contexts. I’m Australian so I guess I get the best of both British and Americanisms :) ‘How odd, but I guess it kept her trapped’ – yes, he is keeping her disoriented, sensorially deprived, confined in some parts and totally exposed in others . . . heightening her vulnerability and diminishing her control. ‘I had to wait until my yapping family had gone to bed to properly enjoy it’ – I’m glad I’m not the only one who has to do that :)

Chapter 5 - Thighmaster
Hermione lay on her bed. She’d only intended to sit on it for a brief moment to peruse her timetable but, as was increasingly the case, she’d succumbed to the insistent pull of her thoughts which ended with her flopping backwards onto her quilt to stare at the ceiling. According to the discarded parchment beside her, she was supposed to be in the library finishing off her assignment on Norse runes but instead she was running her eyes in a feverish loop up and down the ceiling’s wooden slats as she brushed her thumb distractedly back and forth over one cotton-clad nipple.
Things were muddy. She didn’t enjoy muddiness of any sort. She loved problems—problems with solutions. But her current predicament was complex in an unsatisfying way, labyrinthine—made so by the increasingly tangled array of unanswered questions—that and the intense feelings that swamped her without warning, that seemed to arrive unbidden and take hours to leave.
Right now she felt like she desperately needed to make herself come. She could do it easily—as she had numerous times over the past week—but she was attempting to improve her self-discipline after deciding that it was a most unproductive way of spending her time. She’d become rather obsessed with herself . . . her functions . . . her sensations. It wasn’t her natural predisposition at all. Her body had always been secondary to her mind in everything. In fact, much of the time she’d felt that it was simply a vehicle for carrying around and sustaining her brain. She’d barely ever considered what it did, or even what it looked like.
Now she was doing all sorts of things to it—hunting about in her room for items to try out on (inside) herself. It was probably a good thing she’d had her wand confiscated—who knew what she might have transfigured and tried to shove up herself otherwise? As it was, there were an array of toiletries that she’d had to scrub quite intensively, and with a good dose of humiliation, in the basin of her small bathroom. What the fuck was wrong with her?
Despite her mortification, she continued to lightly rub her nipple. There was an odd comfort to it. A power. A connection. It was titillating (though she tried not to use that word) and curiously exciting. The possibilities in that sphere had become vast. She should be pleased. But the manner in which her sexual epiphany had been realised, that and the person responsible, were still sources of extreme disquiet.
Snape.
Her skin prickled and crawled simultaneously, attraction and repulsion in equal measure. How was that possible? How did he incite conflict in even her most primitive impulses?
She had no doubt that it was all quite deliberate. He clearly had an agenda, and one that was surprisingly well orchestrated for an apparently spontaneous response to her request for point redemption. Had he done this before? Was this his preferred mode of ‘punishment’ for girls (or even boys) who transgressed? The thought made her feel even dirtier—as though her very personal awakening was nothing more than the forced opening of another callow neophyte, made to ‘explore themselves’ by a man who got off on the power.
But then there were parts that seemed quite personal—as though they were about her. The mention of two bucks, ‘stags’, for example—was that simply a reference to two archetypal males in the wild? Or was it more than that? James Potter’s Patronus was a stag. As was Harry’s. Was he suggesting that two males had wanted her? Harry and Ron? Or was this actually about Snape—referencing his conflict with James Potter over Harry’s mother, Lily? Or was it none of these—just another example of her remarkable ability to over-cogitate and over-interpret.
The other confusing part was that he had gone to considerable efforts to humiliate and objectify her, using a relatively crude brand of domination to reinforce the frosty distance between them. But then he’d also been considerate . . . even gentle. He’d shown concern. There were even examples of his own personalisation—such as when he’d stated that she would eventually ‘accept him’. He had been referring to his presence in her arse at the time, but it was an unusual turn of phrase all the same.
She sighed. Her arse. Why would he go there? What was he getting out of it?
She’d not seen a hint of a hard-on at any time—although he had made it very difficult for her to see very much of him at all. And why did he use his hands and voice so much? Did he want everything to remain ‘manual’, instructional, detached? Would it be overstepping some ethical boundary to use any other part of himself? Did he even have ethical boundaries?
For some reason she kept coming back to the problem of whether or not he actually liked her. She wasn’t even sure why it mattered. After all, there would soon be a clear end to their interactions. There were five hundred points to redeem and then it would be over. It was transactional. She didn’t have feelings for him. How could she? But what if he had feelings for her? Would he let her go so easily? She needed to ensure that he was left in no doubt that she was there for the points. Nothing more. Which she was . . . almost entirely.
He’d turned her away the last two times she’d gone to see him, citing a busy schedule—although he hadn’t looked particularly busy.
Her fingers twisted her nipple, making her writhe. Finally she succumbed, lifting her heels onto the bed and slipping a hand down her knickers.
She just needed to get this whole thing over and done with—sooner rather than later. She might even need to up the ante—create some opportunities . . . and be prepared to chase the big points.
***
“I have come to the conclusion,” Snape had his back to her and was returning an armful of books to his bookcase, “that, to date, there has been very little ‘earning’ on your part.”
Despite his words immediately having her on edge, Hermione remained quiet.
“Therefore, I will be seeking to make you work considerably harder for your next points reward.”
“How many, sir?”
He paused without turning. “I will decide. Based upon effort, stamina and . . . resilience.”
That didn’t sound promising. He could give her nothing at all.
“I ask that you decide quickly or leave,” he added tersely. “I am a busy man.”
“Yes, sir—I’ll try,” she responded quickly.
He turned with an impatient huff but it didn’t fool her at all—she saw the lithe roll of his shoulders . . . the unmistakably dark heat to his gaze. He was clearly anticipating something . . . significant.
As his eyes flickered up and down her body, she was relieved to see the snide displeasure gone. She’d worn her uniform again—it had seemed the safest option.
“Everything from your waist down . . . off,” he ordered before making his way over to his desk chair and sitting down.
She did it quickly without embarrassment, realising that too much had gone between them for that part, at least, to be uncomfortable.
She stood, bare legs pressed together, toes curling against the cold stone flags.
“Come . . . here.”
The dark reverberation of his voice alone was enough to send a shiver ricocheting through her vertebrae.
Knees quivering from a combination of cold and apprehension, she approached.
“You will kneel here.” His hands slid smoothly along the arms of his chair. “Facing away from me.”
Fucking hell. How was she supposed to do that?
He raised an expectant eyebrow, hands tightening around the worn leather.
There was only one way she could do it without touching him. Turning, she climbed onto the desk with her back to him. Then, twisting her head around so that she could see, she proceeded to extend one knee backwards, setting it on the chair arm after he’d languorously removed his own. Pushing back with her hands, she placed the other knee on the opposite arm and proceeded to shuffle backwards until both shins were lying flat and her feet were touching the back of the chair.
Her legs were spread extremely widely above his lap and her bare arse and pussy were literally in his face. She kept her hands on the edge of the desk for balance. Whatever his intention was, she could already tell that it was going to be bloody difficult.
“You run,” he stated mildly. “I’ve seen you by the lake.”
She nodded, swallowing hard.
“Yes.” The word was little more than a whisper as his hands skimmed silkily up her taut hamstrings before coming to rest on her buttocks.
“You will now use my fingers to bring yourself to orgasm.” She felt his thumbs curl under her, spreading her labia even further apart. “And this time I expect you to do all of the work.”
Hermione tilted her head down to try to see what he was doing but realised that, although his body was visible below her, he had managed to hide his face from her once again. She stared at his crotch. Not a twitch.
Dipping one thumb down, he proceeded to massage her clitoris. The vast spread of her thighs meant that the firing from that single button felt like an electrical super-highway, sending shockwaves rippling through her entire body. Her legs tensed, attempting to hold her still.
“I see evidence that my instruction has not been wasted.”
Oh, shit. Could he?
“You’ve had objects inserted inside both holes. It has been rather protracted and, on occasion, quite . . . vigorous.”
Hermione had a sudden desire to fall unconscious. She would gladly risk the head injury to avoid the mortification flopping around inside her like a dying fish.
“Who was he?”
He?
Snape rubbed her clitoris more insistently. “Tell me.”
“I don’t know who you mean.” Her response was hoarse.
“Who were you thinking of when you were doing it—when you were reaming yourself? Whose cock was it?”
“No one’s. I just . . .”
He sighed, slipping two fingers into the entrance to her pussy.
“The female orgasm is considerably more mental than physical. This is not a difficult concept for you, of all people, to grasp. You were thinking of someone . . . and I want to know who it was.”
Hermione closed her eyes. He was a Legilimens. There was little point in lying. “I wasn’t thinking of anyone’s . . . cock . . . I was thinking of their . . . their . . . hands.”
“Whose . . . hands?” he demanded.
She chewed her lip before releasing a pitiable rasp, “Yours.”
He let out a long breath. “Then that should expedite the current process.”
“Unnhhhh!”
Both fingers plunged in to the hilt.
Then stopped.
“Now. Fuck yourself.”
Despite being in a rather compromised position, Hermione found herself on the verge of suggesting that he do the same. However she quickly thought better of it, drawing a steadying breath. She’d managed to take everything that he had thrown at her so far without resorting to his level of coarseness, and without allowing him to visibly anger her. It gave her confidence that she could continue . . . that she would be able to perform as instructed.
Gripping the desk with both hands, she slowly rocked her body forwards, feeling his fingers slip from inside her. As she pushed herself back, her tunnel gradually filled with him again. It took a few repeats, forward and backwards for her to get a sense of her range of movement. She readjusted the position of her knees and then began rolling her hips as she thrust forward. It was like nothing she’d ever tried to do before. Backwards fucking. Normally the forward thrust would fill her and the backwards would leave her empty but this was the opposite. She really had to concentrate.
Smack!
A sudden stinging pain across her backside had one of her knees slipping off the arm. He caught her and slid her back into place.
“Furthermore . . . you should be aware that every time you present your buttocks to me, there is a chance that I will spank them.”
Spank? How old was she? Five? Even her parents had never spanked her. It was utterly ridiculous.
As she pushed back onto his fingers again, the palm of his free hand landed with a hard slap on her other cheek.
“Fuck!” she cried out, her chin curling into her chest.
“This will give you an opportunity to reflect upon the nature of your remorse.”
Remorse? What fucking remorse?
It came again, that bright flash of pain, and she jerked forward, away from him, his fingers slipping out of her vagina entirely.
Breathing heavily, Hermione stared at the desk. She’d paid for it. She was still paying. There was no reason for her to continue to feel guilt-ridden, whatsoever.
But she did. Of course she did. It was her default state. It had been for a long time.
In fact, it had been her attempts to divest herself of that thorny cloak of culpability that had led to much of her reckless behaviour in the first place. She’d mistaken guilt-free for carefree, consequence-free . . . it hadn’t quite worked out . . . obviously.
The sting had died down leaving a few glowing embers prickling her cheeks. It wasn’t a particularly severe pain but the shock of it, the unexpectedness of its arrival, the innately disciplinary nature of each short, sharp visitation made it feel worse than it was—that and the fact that he knew. He somehow knew that the crippling burden of remorse was not only very much present, but she suspected he was also aware of how firmly it had rooted within her. The sword in the stone; impossible to dislodge.
She could leave. She doubted he would attempt to stop her.
Perhaps he would even allow her to return in the future . . . perhaps not.
But the points redeemed to date weren’t nearly enough, she was still without her wand, and she couldn’t even leave the castle.
There was too much at stake. She had to at least try.
If she put in a reasonable effort, Hermione knew she would be awarded points—she trusted him that much at least. And whilst everything to date had been extremely difficult, she had to admit that she had learned a surprising amount . . . not only about sex but about herself. And whilst she wasn’t under any illusions about whether this was normal sex—the sort of thing that she would do with someone she loved—it was somewhat less disconcerting because it was so extreme . . . almost out of the realm of anything relational entirely. And his cold and detached delivery certainly helped to make it so.
Regardless of what his intention for her was, she would ensure that she gained something from this experience. She wasn’t a masochist after all . . . was she?
Biting her lip, Hermione gradually slid herself backwards again, his fingers driving all the way inside her. The slap didn’t come this time, so she curled her hips and glided forward, focusing on the sensations manifesting in her pussy and attempting to build enough stimulation to make her want to come. It was going to be tough. There were so many distractions. Her thighs were already starting to tire from trying to hold her body up whilst being stretched so widely. He’d stopped stimulating her clitoris. She was beginning to doubt whether it was even possible.
Then they came again. Sharp slaps. Two of them in quick succession. Hermione cried out but kept pumping her hips, trying to maintain a rhythm.
“You like to come, don’t you?”
Hermione’s insides clenched. She was always shocked by how viscerally his voice affected her.
“I can tell by the animalistic way you thrust. You’re very primal . . . So at odds with how you seek to present yourself.”
Hermione lost her rhythm. He was right about the mental nature of the female orgasm. And he happened to be totally fucking hers up right now.
“Perhaps I should provide some assistance.”
The spanking suddenly became more vigorous. Every time she pushed backwards, her cheeks parting before him, he landed another, sending her forward with a reflexive jerk, her throat closing and her breathing coming in ragged gasps.
“Remember what you have learned about surrender,” he coaxed . . . so gently that her eyes stung. “It is an act of strength . . . of courage, not weakness.”
She shook her head in refusal, but at the same time she couldn’t stop the hot tears that squeezed out from under her eyelids. Sniffing loudly, she continued to rock. The whole thing seemed futile. She wanted to simply collapse, curling into a howling ball of guilt-ridden grief on the cold flags.
But then she heard him speak again, one word, “Good,” murmured quietly, followed by his palm soothingly rubbing her burning rump.
His approval released a confusing gush of warmth that instantly had her admonishing herself, and then he did something completely unexpected, something that finally did her in.
When she finally gathered herself to push backwards, accepting his fingers into her and expecting to feel the sharp bite of his palm once more, she was shocked instead by a sensation that made her gasp audibly. It was his mouth—it had to be—a sinuous pressure, impossibly soft and feathery against her clitoris. She remained there, unmoving, not paralysed by it but drawn irrevocably to the silky warmth.
It was wrong. He’d crossed the line. A line. Some line . . . surely. Was there a line?
There must be. But was this really so different to anything else he’d done? Hermione wasn’t certain but it felt different. Very different. It was too gentle. The soft caresses between her swollen lips, sensuous strokes up and down her throbbing clitoris, the way his tongue seemed to beckon her back into his mouth.
She wasn’t thrusting at all now, simply grinding against him, his fingers pressing deeper inside her, his tongue laving more insistently. The spanking started again but this time she didn’t shy away from it—she remained open, exposed, and as she hovered, precariously balanced between the agony of his hand and the soothing ecstasy of his tongue she felt herself rapidly building, her core winding ready to come.
Her mind began to drift. She remembered something . . . an experiment. A baby monkey in a cage. It was offered two mothers, one made of wire but harbouring a bottle of milk; the other made of soft fur but offering no nourishment. The monkey chose the soft mother. Even though its survival was compromised.
The need to be nurtured is so ingrained, so fundamental, that it overrides all other instincts.
But Hermione had chosen the other. She had enforced it. When she’d Obliviated her parents she had chosen survival . . . and the cold rejection that came with it. Part of her had died that day . . . and the constant ache in her chest was worse than anything.
Raising her face to the ceiling, Hermione wailed mournfully. The pain was what was driving her now, coaxing her out of herself, pushing her over the edge. What Snape had done—what he was still doing—was undoubtedly wrong but something about it gave her permission . . . permission to feel.
She cried out as she came, jaw dropping open as her pelvis heaved and jerked. The release was so wild, so emotional that fresh tears sprang from her eyes, hot breaths choking out with each convulsion. If her previous orgasm was akin to a possession, this was an exorcism—a whole-of-body rejection of some festering malevolence buried within.
Her shaking limbs finally gave in. She fell.
Snape instantly grabbed her, hooking his arm around her waist as he stood. She was slumped over the desk, all of the weight of her lower limbs taken by him. She couldn’t stand, her legs completely drained.
They remained that way for a long time, her only sense of him the steady pressure around her pelvis as she gradually regained the use of her legs.
Finally she attempted to stand. Her knees buckled once, twice, before they locked. She took a step sideways. Then another. Despite her unsteadiness, she was determined to leave.
She needed to think.
Without looking at him, Hermione squeezed around the desk, staggering a little on her way to the door.
“Fifty points.”
She didn’t respond. She couldn’t.
Placing a hand on the door handle, she suddenly felt the sensation of her clothes wrapping back around her body. She’d forgotten them. She would have left the Headmaster’s office without them, her glowing buttocks on show for all to see.
How had it come to this? What the fuck had happened to her?
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At the Headmaster’s Discretion *Complete*

At the Headmaster’s Discretion Complete