And there it is again. That almost gentle thrum that pulses through with each heart beat. The one that destroys you so sweetly that you almost crave it. The one that soaks not only the panties but the jeans and the seat beneath you. You're told to sit still. Don't move. Don't speak.

But these are the things that your body begs you to do. It begs to move, to speak. Anything in an attempt to release and relieve some of the tension building in your nipples, your cunt.

You'd almost pray for it. But the thought makes you shudder in revulsion. Something about praying for the man who circles you so closely, nearly touching you, always watching you, to finally grab you, to hurt you, to fuck you-anything to relieve that now pulsing and desperate need… well, it makes you feel much like the whore he claims you are. Something about including God and what you want this man to do to you together in one thought process pulls you back from the edge just a bit.

And then the moments that follow are filled with doubt. Are you a whore? Are you doing the right thing? Is this too wrong? Have you crossed over that line, teetering and then slipping to the side that will surely send you to Hell?

And then his gloved fingers lightly pinch your left nipple as he circles you again, then travels up your collar bone to your cheek, and with a small slap he asks you if you've been a good girl.

You're quick to answer, promising you've always been a good girl. You've been quiet & you've hardly moved at all. But you forgot the soft "Sir" at the end of your address. A harder smack this time.

There's no room for God in your thoughts now.

The chair he has you sit in, never actually restrained though… no, that would be too easy. He tells you to sit, to stay still, and not to make a sound. He lets you sit there, struggling to obey and to please him, but all the while so desperate to be released and relieved that you're willing to misbehave just to be punished.

But this man is too smart for such games. He knows what you want, what you need. That simple fact alone is why you continue to come to him, to subject yourself to this endless torturing thrumming and throbbing in your cunt. He knows.

And so when you forget to address him as "Sir," he knows you've done it on purpose. And you've become the bad little slut he knew you were. And your punishment begins with that little smack, but it does not end there.

He circles you again, coming to stand right behind you. He doesn't say anything, but is close enough that you can feel his body heat on your back. You wiggle slightly in the seat.

Don't. Fucking. Move. His voice is harsh and it almost brings tears to your eyes.

He leans down, his lips right against your ear. You're a fucking slut. If you move or even so much as whimper, we're done.

And of course you want desperately to let him know you understand and that you won't disappoint him, just please, please let you come. But he hasn't told you to answer him, so you're silent. And then his gloved hands come from behind you and tweak your nipples once again. Your cunt tightens and a new wave of desperate, tortured pleasure pulses through your body.

But you make sure not to move, not to make a sound.

And then he backs away and all is silent for a long while.

You know he is there, you can feel him. His eyes are on you, fucking you when his body will not. It makes you hot & uncomfortable. The chair is hard and now covered in a pool of your moisture. Your nipples strain against the cotton of your t-shirt and your jeans are suffocating. Your mind starts to drift and you begin imagining what you want him to do to you.

You want him to pick you up, push you against the nearest wall and fuck you until your brains are mush. You want him to spread you so wide that you're ready to die. You want him to tell you that you're a good girl. You want him to press his hand tightly against your throat. You want him to force you to bend over the chair you are sitting in, a hand firmly in your hair, dictating your movements.

You want him to flick his tongue over your clit, biting lightly, and then consuming you so completely and repeatedly until your body gives into oblivion. You just want him.

Not this silence, not this ache. You're ready to beg so pathetically if that is what it takes. You are restrained only by your mind and his command and your dire need for this not to end. But God, you need it. Please, your mind whispers.

And then he's there, you can feel his body heat again at your back. His lips are again against your ear. He's whispering, and God, you want to focus on what he's saying but you cannot focus. Your body feels his lips and imagines them doing wicked things much lower than your ear.

But then his hot, wet tongue travels along the joint where your ear and neck meet and you nearly come apart. But you're still quiet. You still don't move. You're a good girl, you chant in your head. A good girl.

But then his voice pierces through the pulsing fog.

"And have you been a good girl, Miss Granger?"

"Yes, Professor Snape, Sir."

FIN. What do you think, dear ones? It's been a long time since I've written anything & longer still since I've toyed with these kinds of themes. I'd appreciate to hear what you think? Would you like more stories like this? I've got lots of dark and dangerous ideas in my head… ;)