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wildestrangerIn good news, my writer's block seems to be gone. Now I have only ten more stories to finish in the next two weeks. They will probably be posted every few days or such. I plan to be prolific. :)
In bad news, I have become horribly depraved.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
pre_raphaelite1 asked Tom/Minerva with a corset and I managed to squick myself while writing this. Be warned, it is the filthiest thing I have ever done.
So, er, Merry Christmaspre_raphaelite1! I hope it's a porny one! *goes to hide*
Title: A Wand and an Audience
Pairing: Tom Riddle/Minerva McGonagall
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Masturbation, object insertion, voyerism, implied BDSM.
Words: 1139
Disclaimer: JKRowling owns these characters (although I seriously doubt she would want them back after what I've done to them) and I have no permission to use them. I am making no money out of this and no infringement of copyright is intended.
Notes: Thanks tokabeyk for reading through this several times and for reassuring me that it really was terribly perverted.
A Wand and an Audience
The mirror is clear; Tom knows that she cleans it every morning after she makes her bed. Not because she likes to look at herself; Minerva isn’t vain about her looks. But she likes to keep things clean and in their proper place. Mostly this suits Tom’s purposes.
Her image in the mirror is dark, her face clouded by shadows of black hair. The sliver of sunlight allowed in the Head Girl’s room is small, a long thin stripe that hits Minerva’s back and makes the white of her skin dazzle. The contrast with the cold red of the corset is striking.
It isn’t a present, precisely. She knew he liked it, but also knew that he would never buy her such a thing. She used the money she got from her father for her birthday. They do not discuss it.
The strings are pulled up taut, crossing her back in bloody streaks and pulling her waist into a strange curl. Yet her back is poised despite the discomfort. Good girls in Hogwarts do not torment their flesh so, they keep themselves reigned in, not too loose, not too wantonly tight. Minerva’s flesh swells above the material, stretched into sinuous shapes that make Tom lean against the door and smile.
He has seen girls in corsets before, pale shivering things trying to hide their limbs, too poor to afford undergarments that fit. The orphanage gives them clothes inherited from older generations, grey and thin from washing. There’s a shiver of momentary resentment for Minerva and her plush satin, her well-tailored robes. But then Tom considers what he is allowed to do to Minerva’s robes and settles down, sliding further into the room to watch.
The marks on her buttocks are fading, but the tight stretch of cloth above them makes them look obscene, red scratches across the milky flesh. She moves her hands along the curve of the corset, but stops when her fingers come to her skin. She doesn’t want to touch herself.
“Use your wand.”
Only the slightest of tensing and Tom curves his mouth into a pretty smile. It isn’t even about getting her to do what he says, although of course she does. He can see her discomfort, being exposed like this to cold afternoon air, with the door open behind her. Her body harnessed into something she rarely allows it to be; a thing of pleasure, a toy to be used. He watches the breeze move across her skin, leaving goose bumps and trembling flesh in its wake. He also see how wet she is, despite the humiliation, because of it.
“From behind.”
His voice is gentle, always gentle with her but she twitches at the sound of it. She doesn’t, however, disobey.
She bends over and picks up her wand, her cheeks of her arse spreading slightly in invitation. Her fingers are shaking now, barely able to hold on and there’s a blush staining the marks on her flesh. Yet she spreads her legs willingly, allowing a glimpse of her glistening cunt. Then she twists her arm behind her, slides the tip of her wand down the crease, and stands poised in anticipation. She doesn’t look at him, she knows that she is not allowed, that the pleasures of voyeurism are only for him. For her, it is enough that he is watching, that she is spreading herself as spectacle.
“Fuck yourself, Minerva. With your wand.”
The first touch of cold wood inside her makes her gasp, and he imagines it, the narrow hard thing against her wet hole, not enough to fill her. He knows that by now the ache is almost painful, the flesh of her cunt tightening in need. She pushes on, deeper, and moans, and he thinks about the juices steeping into her wand and how she won’t be able to hold it for weeks without thinking about this. It will smell of her humiliation and her want and she will think about him.
“Pull it out.”
She pauses, and he watches her quiver around the wand. But she does as she is told, slowly removing the object, with slight rubbing against her clit at the end. The wood is dripping and Tom can smell her on it and in the air, the heavy musk that always makes him hungry.
The muscles in her arm are pulled taut as she holds her position. There’s a sob waiting inside her mouth, longing for the next touch and her shameful release.
“Push it in. And tilt your arse up.”
A slight jerk of her body but she obeys, bending her upper body down and spreading her legs wider. He can see the angry red of her cunt now, violently dark against her pale skin. Taking in the wand, sucking it in as she moans, smooth folds parting before its hardness.
He takes a step into the room.
“Do it faster.”
There’s a stifled groan and she isn’t careful anymore, she’s rubbing herself with her wand and twisting her body to move against it. Tom thinks about dropping down in his knees behind her, spreading her with his fingers and fucking her with his tongue. But it isn’t time for that yet. She is still aware of her shame and he wants her to be, wants her to know that she is doing this thing not only because of him, but because she wants to. He wants her to remember that she likes being brazenly opened, in a room where anyone could walk in, that she likes touching herself now.
Tom steps closer, until he is almost at her reach. She can hear his footsteps, of course, and he can hear her breathing go faster. He will not touch her, though.
“Make yourself come, Minerva. And use your other hand to spread your lips.”
This is what embarrasses her most, her own fingers on her cunt, feeling the wetness on her hands. But there is also freedom in this, and he knows that she enjoys it. He likes to think that he gives her what she needs in order to become something more than the Gryffindor Prefect, the Head Girl, Professor Dumbledore’s favourite.
A wand and an audience.
And as Minerva begins to twitch and moan, Tom walks up to her, takes hold of the wand and pushes it hard inside her. His fingers do not touch her skin and he fucks her ruthlessly, the narrow wood rubbing harshly against her heated skin. Yet she comes with his name on her lips.
He allows her to lean back against him even as he insinuates one leg between her thighs and strokes the sensitive flesh until she cries out. Then he holds up her wand, drenched in her juices.
“Now lick it clean.”
What she needs and perhaps, what he needs as well.
In bad news, I have become horribly depraved.
pre_raphaelite1 asked Tom/Minerva with a corset and I managed to squick myself while writing this. Be warned, it is the filthiest thing I have ever done.So, er, Merry Christmas
pre_raphaelite1! I hope it's a porny one! *goes to hide*Title: A Wand and an Audience
Pairing: Tom Riddle/Minerva McGonagall
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Masturbation, object insertion, voyerism, implied BDSM.
Words: 1139
Disclaimer: JKRowling owns these characters (although I seriously doubt she would want them back after what I've done to them) and I have no permission to use them. I am making no money out of this and no infringement of copyright is intended.
Notes: Thanks to
kabeyk for reading through this several times and for reassuring me that it really was terribly perverted.A Wand and an Audience
The mirror is clear; Tom knows that she cleans it every morning after she makes her bed. Not because she likes to look at herself; Minerva isn’t vain about her looks. But she likes to keep things clean and in their proper place. Mostly this suits Tom’s purposes.
Her image in the mirror is dark, her face clouded by shadows of black hair. The sliver of sunlight allowed in the Head Girl’s room is small, a long thin stripe that hits Minerva’s back and makes the white of her skin dazzle. The contrast with the cold red of the corset is striking.
It isn’t a present, precisely. She knew he liked it, but also knew that he would never buy her such a thing. She used the money she got from her father for her birthday. They do not discuss it.
The strings are pulled up taut, crossing her back in bloody streaks and pulling her waist into a strange curl. Yet her back is poised despite the discomfort. Good girls in Hogwarts do not torment their flesh so, they keep themselves reigned in, not too loose, not too wantonly tight. Minerva’s flesh swells above the material, stretched into sinuous shapes that make Tom lean against the door and smile.
He has seen girls in corsets before, pale shivering things trying to hide their limbs, too poor to afford undergarments that fit. The orphanage gives them clothes inherited from older generations, grey and thin from washing. There’s a shiver of momentary resentment for Minerva and her plush satin, her well-tailored robes. But then Tom considers what he is allowed to do to Minerva’s robes and settles down, sliding further into the room to watch.
The marks on her buttocks are fading, but the tight stretch of cloth above them makes them look obscene, red scratches across the milky flesh. She moves her hands along the curve of the corset, but stops when her fingers come to her skin. She doesn’t want to touch herself.
“Use your wand.”
Only the slightest of tensing and Tom curves his mouth into a pretty smile. It isn’t even about getting her to do what he says, although of course she does. He can see her discomfort, being exposed like this to cold afternoon air, with the door open behind her. Her body harnessed into something she rarely allows it to be; a thing of pleasure, a toy to be used. He watches the breeze move across her skin, leaving goose bumps and trembling flesh in its wake. He also see how wet she is, despite the humiliation, because of it.
“From behind.”
His voice is gentle, always gentle with her but she twitches at the sound of it. She doesn’t, however, disobey.
She bends over and picks up her wand, her cheeks of her arse spreading slightly in invitation. Her fingers are shaking now, barely able to hold on and there’s a blush staining the marks on her flesh. Yet she spreads her legs willingly, allowing a glimpse of her glistening cunt. Then she twists her arm behind her, slides the tip of her wand down the crease, and stands poised in anticipation. She doesn’t look at him, she knows that she is not allowed, that the pleasures of voyeurism are only for him. For her, it is enough that he is watching, that she is spreading herself as spectacle.
“Fuck yourself, Minerva. With your wand.”
The first touch of cold wood inside her makes her gasp, and he imagines it, the narrow hard thing against her wet hole, not enough to fill her. He knows that by now the ache is almost painful, the flesh of her cunt tightening in need. She pushes on, deeper, and moans, and he thinks about the juices steeping into her wand and how she won’t be able to hold it for weeks without thinking about this. It will smell of her humiliation and her want and she will think about him.
“Pull it out.”
She pauses, and he watches her quiver around the wand. But she does as she is told, slowly removing the object, with slight rubbing against her clit at the end. The wood is dripping and Tom can smell her on it and in the air, the heavy musk that always makes him hungry.
The muscles in her arm are pulled taut as she holds her position. There’s a sob waiting inside her mouth, longing for the next touch and her shameful release.
“Push it in. And tilt your arse up.”
A slight jerk of her body but she obeys, bending her upper body down and spreading her legs wider. He can see the angry red of her cunt now, violently dark against her pale skin. Taking in the wand, sucking it in as she moans, smooth folds parting before its hardness.
He takes a step into the room.
“Do it faster.”
There’s a stifled groan and she isn’t careful anymore, she’s rubbing herself with her wand and twisting her body to move against it. Tom thinks about dropping down in his knees behind her, spreading her with his fingers and fucking her with his tongue. But it isn’t time for that yet. She is still aware of her shame and he wants her to be, wants her to know that she is doing this thing not only because of him, but because she wants to. He wants her to remember that she likes being brazenly opened, in a room where anyone could walk in, that she likes touching herself now.
Tom steps closer, until he is almost at her reach. She can hear his footsteps, of course, and he can hear her breathing go faster. He will not touch her, though.
“Make yourself come, Minerva. And use your other hand to spread your lips.”
This is what embarrasses her most, her own fingers on her cunt, feeling the wetness on her hands. But there is also freedom in this, and he knows that she enjoys it. He likes to think that he gives her what she needs in order to become something more than the Gryffindor Prefect, the Head Girl, Professor Dumbledore’s favourite.
A wand and an audience.
And as Minerva begins to twitch and moan, Tom walks up to her, takes hold of the wand and pushes it hard inside her. His fingers do not touch her skin and he fucks her ruthlessly, the narrow wood rubbing harshly against her heated skin. Yet she comes with his name on her lips.
He allows her to lean back against him even as he insinuates one leg between her thighs and strokes the sensitive flesh until she cries out. Then he holds up her wand, drenched in her juices.
“Now lick it clean.”
What she needs and perhaps, what he needs as well.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-12-04 01:13 pm (UTC)*whispers*
I really liked it. Does this mean I'm horribly perverted too? Probably. But I really did. It was the humiliation, I think. Yes, it really was. I'm hiding now, much like my icon.
no subject
Date: 2005-12-05 02:37 am (UTC)But thanks for reading and commenting! I'm glad you enjoyed it.