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toujours pur

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Hermione hates this—the toe-curling pain throbbing low in her gut, the irritation swirling in her skull, the all-consuming itch she feels smarting terribly beneath her very skin… Her “time of the month,” for all intents and purposes.

 

And of course, it’s not as if anyone likes managing nausea-inducing cramps and steady vaginal bleeding and an overarching sensation of profound irritability creeping its way undeviatingly into every little thing one does over an extended period of time, but it’s all Hermione can do not to think to herself—Really? Now?

 

For one, her living situation is rather… peculiar, to say the least—she currently resides in Malfoy Manor, of all places, in which she’s been given not only her own quarters (complete with a four-poster bed adorned in silken all-black sheets), but her wand has been returned to her as well, along with a small score of her personal belongings.

 

And for another, the state of her own domestic entanglements… well, she can think of one vague (but nevertheless accurate) word with which to describe it succinctly: complicated. So bloody complicated.

 

The short version, for whom it may concern:

 

The war is lost; Voldemort perished along with Harry in the final days of battle, yet regardless his ascendancy reigned—or, at least, the remaining Death Eaters did so in his stead.

 

It’s new—shaky, at best, this off-the-cuff improvisation at ruling the Wizarding World in the wake of their Dark Lord’s untimely death. As of now, there stands a governing “council” composed largely of Death Eaters that claim seniority; they’ve since agreed upon the appointing of Corban Yaxley as “head” of the council following a democratic (interestingly enough) vote that left him with 70% of the majority vote, with many other as of now unnamed positions yet to be elected.

 

(It’s childish, this attempt at ruling—almost comedically abecedarian, Hermione thinks, for even she herself could construct something better if given the slightest chance.

 

She supposes she might cut them some slack, however—it has only been a short three months since the fall of Hogwarts.)

 

What remains of those she once called friends—Ginny, Neville, Ron… well, she doesn’t quite know, nor is she so inclined to ask. She’s learned all too well by now what becomes of her should she dare garner the nerve to ask.

 

The sole reason the question of her livelihood even remains is entirely in thanks unto the criss-crossing accumulation of scarcely healed-over scars marring the pale flesh just inside her left forearm, rosy-pink disfigurements that amass to spell “Mudblood” in scratchy font… which is gruesome, of course, and some days Hermione can only just hardly help herself from carving every inch of blistered flesh from her inner arm no matter how much it’s wont to bleed, desperate to rid herself of that shameful taunt.

 

But it’s not what keeps her here; it’s not what binds her to this house… to her.

 

No, it’s what lies burnt into the delicate tendon of her wrist just beneath the near illegibly carved slur upon her skin, branded into her flexor pollicis longus ligament by magic far older than any she’s ever known or read about, once concealed cleverly by its maniacal author with a potent Disillusionment charm—the crest of House Black, its escutcheon-shaped shield (the surface emblazoned with twin stars above an inverted Chevron insignia and an unsheathed vertically-upright sword) flanked by two ferocious wolves on their hindquarters, underscored by a parchment banner bearing the words “Toujours Pur” in an elegant cursive script.

 

Toujours Pur. It’s French, Hermione knows. The English translation? Always Pure.

 

It’s almost funny that it’s tattooed permanently into her flesh, onto the skin of a Muggle-born witch with the crudely-carved “Mudblood” slur etched just aloft it as further proof of her unrepentantly tainted blood.

 

But nevertheless—irony aside, it’s that which binds her to this house, to the truly delirious Pureblood witch that once fancied herself Bellatrix Lestrange, proudly brainwashed paramour of Voldemort and blindly loyal lieutenant in all his deplorable endeavors.

 

This bond between them, the one that’s quite literally been burned into her very flesh such that it may never leave… it not only stipulates Hermione as a card-carrying servant unto House Black for all eternity (though at this point, Hermione thinks she might almost have preferred that); no, more importantly, it tethers her untenably as property of Bellatrix Black Lestrange, eldest daughter and heiress to the Black Family fortune.

 

It means that Hermione is hers in every sense of the word—hers to claim, hers to keep, hers to fuck until Hermione is no more; she’d read avidly about it herself in every book with even the merest mention of this antiquated breed of soul bonding available to her within the ornate gilded library of Malfoy Manor, scanning and re-reading and scribbling notes with a feathered quill on charmed parchment in invisible ink such that no one else might read it…

 

(Not that it’d have mattered anyhow; she would find eventually that any magic she cast, unless deposited with the sole intent to protect her Mistress, would be moot unto Bellatrix’s purview.

 

Her very wand, crafted from vine wood encasing a dragon heartstring core, seemed to conspire actively against her in every defensive and offensive measure she foolishly deigned to take against her new Mistress, impeding every murmured hex and curse and charm… anything and everything designed with that which did not implicitly include a means to serve Bellatrix in mind, rendered harmless. Useless. Counterproductive.

 

And Merlin knew Hermione was not one for counter-productivity.

 

Much had changed in the past six months; that much was true.

 

But not that.

 

Never that.)

 

And now… well. Now, she’s here: curled up in the fetal position on a four-poster bed retrofitted with obsidian-black silken sheets, her lower stomach ripping itself to shreds in a place that doesn’t quite yet feel like home, some inexplicable (but undoubtedly fundamental) part of her body aching for her Mistress’ touch, for the presence of the only thing that might make her feel better through the near blinding pain.

 

(Though some painkillers certainly wouldn’t hurt—not that she has any chance of getting them around here.)

 

Five minutes later sees her pain lessening (if only slightly), and she decides quite suddenly to mobilize rather than lying in wait for the next wave of migraine-inducing pain to rack her small figure; she’d always felt better doing something rather than nothing, even when there wasn’t necessarily all that much to be done.

 

She slides herself off the bed with a groan, eventually coming to stand barefoot upon polished sleek hardwood, bare legs trembling unsteadily beneath her—she’s dressed in a pair of lacey black panties (Bellatrix’s) and an oversized violet-purple university T-shirt from her father’s alma mater in the States (New York University, particularly their College of Dentistry) with its acronym “NYU” emblazoned proudly across the chest in blocky white letters.

 

She wonders briefly whether or not she should concern herself with pants, too, before quickly deciding it’s not worth the bother.

 

(And no, it has absolutely nothing to do with the words of her Mistress floating loftily in her mind, telling her, “You’re mine, Muddy—your body is mine. Do not dare hide it from me.”

 

… No, of course not. That would be… No.)

 

She’s descended the arched staircase (inlaid generously with molten gold), padded quietly across the impeccably-cleaned marble of the foyer and into the sparsely-decorated (but undoubtedly pretension) kitchen space where she’s just begun rummaging on her tippie-toes through cabinet after cabinet in search of anything that might even scarcely resemble some remedy for her pain… when she feels it: a telltale prickling sensation at the back of her neck, a traitorous warmth pooling low in her belly amidst a dizzying aggregation of achey discomfort, a soothing balm spreading steadily across the tattooed crest upon her inner wrist that itches unrepentantly with every moment she spends apart from its architect.

 

Her scattered thoughts (hindered from the pain) have only just arrived upon what—or who, rather—is responsible for the precipitous (yet subtle) changes within her when—

 

“Oh, don’t feel the need to stop on my account, kitten,” comes her Mistress’ airy, commanding tone, the sound of it sending a full-bodied shudder down Hermione’s spine that has everything to do with how Hermione aches for her and precious little to do with the kernels of leftover resentment for the maniacal witch that linger stubbornly in her chest (much to her chagrin).

 

Hermione feels her cheeks flush as she shuts the twin doors of the cabinet overhead, lowering herself from her tippie-toes (thereby causing the hem of her father’s T-shirt to shift, the threadbare fabric successfully drooping to conceal the pert swell of her buttocks from view) and turning on her heel to face her Mistress—she feels Bellatrix’s dark heavy-lidded gaze following her all the while.

 

She doesn’t dare lift her gaze to meet her Mistress’, keeps her chin deferentially bowed and her posture subservient even as she acts in unquestionable defiance to the only words Bellatrix has uttered since entering the kitchen—that Hermione not stop that which she was doing on Bellatrix’s account.

 

She thinks it’s something of a miracle that her Mistress doesn’t comment on it. “What were you looking for, Muddy?” she questions instead, voice breezy and light—though there’s a certain steel underlying every word, an unspoken warning that tells Hermione she’d do well not to lie here.

 

Hermione swallows, keeping her gaze fixed steadfastly upon the marble flooring beneath her as she answers, “Painkillers, Mistress.”

 

Bellatrix frowns at that (though Hermione can’t see it), then draws closer to her pet, bridging the space between them in a matter of moments. “‘Painkillers’?” she repeats in a skeptical tone, placing a single slender finger beneath Hermione’s chin and forcing her gaze upwards to meet her own.

 

“Y-Yes, Miss,” Hermione stammers, doing her very best not to lose focus as she looks obediently back into darkened eyes (her Mistress’ irises such a deep shade of brown they’re very near black), subversive arousal flaring low in her gut at her current predicament.

 

“Why?” her Mistress demands next, something dangerously akin to worry flaring for a moment in her shadowy-black eyes before quickly disappearing, just as swiftly as it’d come.

 

Hermione bites at her lower lip, shame flooding her fair cheeks with warmth as she murmurs something very near intelligible in answer.

 

Bellatrix cocks a single brow at that, finger beginning to dig painfully into the delicate skin beneath Hermione’s chin even as her other hand creeps possessively up beneath the cotton hem of Hermione’s shirt, stroking soothingly over the feverishly heated flesh just above the waistband of her panties—as if she knows. “Speak up, Muddy,” she demands, her tone ripe with warning. “Or we can do this the hard way.”

 

“I… “ Hermione trails off, sighing contentedly at her Mistress’ alleviating ministrations against her lower stomach, remedying her pain in such a way no amount of muggle Ibuprofen ever could. “I-It’s my period, Mistress,” she murmurs out eventually, when she can feel Bellatrix’s well-groomed fingernail (covered in chipped black nail polish) piercing the flesh beneath her chin. “It hurts.”

 

She sounds like a whining kitten when she says that, a petulant child—but Bellatrix doesn’t seem to mind, if the way she sighs unhappily at the admission is any indication… as if it hurts her, too.

 

(They're rare from her Mistress, these moments of humanity… of caring and something curiously close to empathy, if Hermione didn’t know any better.

 

Hermione knows better than to expect such a thing from someone so cold, so sadistic and unrepentantly insane

 

And yet, there’s a curious feeling in her chest on the rare occasion that it happens, that her Mistress’ near-black irises seem to soften with something like understanding, that her abrasive personality seems to curb itself in favor of an inexplicable attitude that’s infinitely more benign, that her typically bruising touch ghosts so gently across Hermione’s skin as if she’s something fragile, something to be protected.

 

Hermione revels in those moments, scarce as they are.)

 

“You won’t find any pain reliever here, kitten,” she speaks gently, and it almost sounds like an apology, though Hermione’s far too wary to believe it. “Come along with me to my chambers. I have something that will help.”

 

And with that, she’s retracting her touch from Hermione’s skin (Hermione has to swallow the whine that threatens to escape her at the sudden loss) and turning swiftly on her heel, striding out from the kitchen in her typical blatantly promiscuous attire with a determined poise to her gait that suggests she expects to be followed.

 

And Hermione does without a moment’s hesitation—she follows after her Mistress, just as she always will, eager as ever to appease the one that owns her.

 

— —

Chapter Text

Confession time: Hermione totally checks Bellatrix out the entire way to the older witch’s bedchambers as she struts self-assuredly out the kitchen and across the foyer (Hermione nearly tripping over herself to keep pace in pursuit), then up the arched staircase (every step carved of beautifully polished mahogany timber along with a meticulously gilded railing of the same material snaking its way alongside the glorious path) before hanging a sharp left once she’d reached the second-story landing and gliding unhurriedly into the first open doorway on the right.

 

This isn’t new in any sense—following her Mistress to her bedroom, that is. Another thing that isn’t by any means new or unfamiliar: the all-black impossibly skin-tight attire Bellatrix constantly parades herself around in, the mouth-watering curves of her incorrigibly elegant figure, the bone-deep desire that flares so hotly in Hermione’s nether regions (despite every modicum of her rational being warring so vehemently against it) at the sight of her.

 

Today is no different, it seems—her Mistress adorns herself in a slim-fitting stygian-black tank top along with a sinfully tight pair of matching leather trouser pants that cling to every inch of shapely legs like a second skin, polished ankle-boots equipped with 3.5-inch heels (at least) and a thin gleaming silver bangle (without a clasp in sight) encircling her left wrist.

 

Wild ravenette-black curls are pulled up and out of the older witch's flawless pale complexion into an uncharacteristically simple ponytail cinched at the crown of her skull, dark heavy-lidded eyes graced with a healthy coating of smokey-black eyeshadow (and full pouty lips painted a shudder-worthy bloodred hue), a thin leather necklace secured loosely around her elegantly-sloped neck (its conjoining pendant hidden beneath the low scoop-neck hem of her tank).

 

(It’s curiously Muggle-esque, her apparel, though Hermione knows far better than to remark upon it.)

 

She looks utterly magnificent, to say the very least.

 

Which of course, is nothing new.

 

And yet, there’s a certain sense of wondrous novelty to be found in the way Hermione just can’t quite seem to keep her gaze respectfully downcast as she dutifully trails after her Mistress—where before her questing eyes could be all too swiftly excused under the guise of irrepressible curiosity and young-adult hormonal excitement, it's begun to stem from another place entirely as of late, a place that terrifies Hermione on an innately fundamental level just as much as it excites her more than words can say.

 

Now, she can’t help but look not purely for surface-level rationale, but for the shamefully chaste warmth that gathers in her chest (a sensation that starkly contrasts the simultaneous molten arousal pooling low in her gut) at the sight of this women—this goddess—that has chosen Hermione to call her own.

 

It’s the kind of adoring fondness that makes her want to press dainty little kisses to every bit of her Mistress’ snow-white skin in a way that’s so incredibly far from sexual, that leaves her yearning so profoundly for another of Bella’s remarkably rare genuine smiles that Hermione thinks she might do just about anything to see once more, that has her wishing desperately (read: foolishly) on every night Bella throws her into bed that this might finally be the time her Mistress bares herself to Hermione—all of her, not just slivers of pale scar-ridden skin here and a flash of bare well-toned alabaster thighs there and panties pushed unceremoniously aside to pleasure herself with Hermione’s tongue until she’s sated.

 

To make matters all the more confounding, Hermione finds that it’s wholeheartedly impossible tell at this point how much of this blooming devotion she feels in her chest is a direct byproduct of the antiquated magic binding their souls as one, and how much of it is entirely of her own design, the way she can feel herself slowly but surely growing inexplicably enamored with the very same maniacal witch that once tortured her on the sleek wooden flooring of this very Manor, that Hermione once held with such justifiable hatred in mind (a dislike she’s becoming increasingly unsure was indeed justifiable with every passing day), that embodies every single fundamentally corrupt ideology Hermione so self-righteously opposed for longer than she can reasonably recall…

 

It begets a truly horrid conflict in Hermione’s heart, a painfully chasmic discord within the very core of the the person she’s become, the person she believes herself to be—because after everything, after all the resentment and anger and distaste she once held for Bellatrix in spades, she can’t help but feel every last ounce of that long-held revulsion decaying steadily like the sordid remnants of a desiccated perennial with every achingly gentle caress and unmistakably condescending (but oh-so-delicious) morsel of praise and the way her Mistress soothes her so attentively after every sob-inducing punishment with merciful reassurances and tiny nibbles of Honeydukes chocolate and feather-light kisses pressed delicately upon every bruised and sweat-damp inch of Hermione’s utterly wrecked body.

 

She can feel it happen, this wholly indefensible admiration she’s garnered for her Mistress like a malignant cancer spreading gradually through her flesh, proliferating far more rapidly and with much more haste than she’s been equipped to handle… and all along, she can’t help but think—what is there, exactly, for her to “handle”?

 

She doesn’t “handle” things—Bella does.

 

She doesn’t quite know why she troubles herself with these things, truly—Merlin knows it’s not her place.

 

“You’re thinking too loudly, pet,” Bella’s musings snaps Hermione abruptly from her train of thought, her cognizance returning even as she feels her cheeks flush at having been caught in such a complacent state.

 

They’re in her Mistress’ bedroom, now, the twin white-painted doors shut securely just a handful of strides behind where Hermione stands dazedly upon polished hardwood flooring, a bemused-looking Bella seated comfortably upon the plush cushioned wine-red divan sitting opposite the imposing four-poster bed, bare outstretched arms resting luxuriously atop the sofa back and leather-clad legs confidently askew.

 

Hermione shifts awkwardly from one bare foot to another, ivory cheeks flaming with embarrassment. “I—I’m sorry, Miss.”

 

“Come here,” Bella orders loftily, her typically high-pitched intonation gentle but firm.

 

Hermione immediately concedes, approaching her Mistress on unsteady feet before dropping to a demure kneel at her feet between either knee, head bowed subserviently and hands clasped neatly in her lap.

 

“That’s it, Muddy, there’s a good girl,” Bella coos as Hermione settles obediently in place, reaching out a hand to stroke surely at the sensitive skin beneath her jaw—Hermione can’t even pretend that it doesn’t alleviate her immensely: the warmth of her Mistress’ touch, her saccharine-sweet words of praise (even supplemented by that contemptible slur) falling over her like honeyed bliss, the heady sensation of euphoric surrender descending upon her like a potent cloud of nullifying fumes.

 

The turbulent pain of minutes earlier is now nothing but a dull roar in the furthest recesses of her mind, unintelligible shouts muffled beneath a sea of blessed calm, the kind that only ever seems to come when she’s kneeling at her Mistress’ feet, baring her submission unto the one that owns her.

 

She doesn’t see Bella brandish an unopened bar of Honeydukes chocolate (she doesn’t even know where her Mistress had been hiding that on her scantily-clad figure), doesn’t even really know what’s happening (though she’s notably content to stay that way, quiet and docile under her Mistress’ ubiquitous sovereignty) until she hears the telltale crinkle of the wrapper as Bella tears it open, followed promptly by the sound of chocolate breaking beneath her Mistress’ deft fingers.

 

She’s entirely at ease just kneeling patiently in wait, the once all-too-prominent sense of throbbing pain in her gut seeming to diminish steadily all the while, light-footed (but no less pervasive) acquiescence overtaking her slight figure in potent waves until—

 

“Open,” her Mistress commands simply, her honeyed tone brokering no room for argument.

 

Hermione instantaneously obeys, tipping her head imperceptibly backward and allowing her lips to part as Bella offers out a small square of Honeydukes milk chocolate (infused with magical healing properties), placing the sweet tenderly into Hermione’s open mouth.

 

Hermione willfully accepts it with an appreciative hum, closing her lips around the sugary treat, somewhat (though not entirely) oblivious unto her Mistress’ lust-filled darkened gaze upon her as she chews slowly (such that she might savor its decadent taste) then methodically swallows it down. Seconds later, she thinks she can viscerally feel its restorative properties taking root within her belly even as its wonderfully saccharine aftertaste lingers upon her tongue, deliberately eclipsing the ever-dulling discomfort with a heavenly scintillation that warms her expeditiously from inside out, ripping another contented hum from her throat (this one noticeably louder than the first) before she can think to stop it.

 

Through the thickened haze of her foggy compliance and rapidly alleviating pain, she scarcely notices the sound of a door opening off to her left, the brisk click of a familiar high-heeled gait making a swift approach; truly, she doesn’t even quite register that another has joined them until the newest presence is there, shiny black heels perched upon glossy umber-brown hardwood less than an arm’s length from where Hermione kneels compliantly betwixt her Mistress’ feet, the most recent occupant's decidedly authoritarian (not to mention cogent) demeanor causing Hermione’s kneeling figure to shudder instinctively as it surely surrounds her.

 

(She also can’t quite deny the way the woman’s proximity seems to only further ease what little remains of the tingling ache besieging the Black Family crest burnt invariably into the delicate skin of her inner wrist, the way it definitively envelops Hermione in a preeminent sway she couldn’t hope to fight even if she wanted to, so inexplicably likened unto Bella’s yet unmistakably nuanced in its own anomalous respect… )

 

Narcissa.

 

“Cissy!” Bellatrix acknowledges delightedly (therefore confirming Hermione’s sure-hearted suspicions), a wide smirk evident in her borderline hysterical tone even as she turns her attentions back to the obedient pet knelt demurely at her feet, three chocolate-smudged fingers lazily outstretched. “Clean my fingers, Muddy.”

 

Blushing intensely, Hermione does without a moment’s hesitation, leaning forward to suckle each of her Mistress’ finger tips in turn, far too distracted by her task to stifle the complacent purrs that escape her at the sweet chocolate-y taste—similarly, she spares nothing more than a half-formed thought in passing for Narcissa’s presence as she dutifully licks and sucks at the pads of her Mistress’ fingers; at this point, she’s no stranger to “performing” (for lack of a better term) under the glacial Black sister's watchful eye.

 

(It had startled her quite thoroughly at first, of course.

 

There was one occasion in particular upon which Narcissa had strode confidently in on one of Hermione’s more brutal punishments, causing her exertion-flushed face to redden even further and incoherent pleas to fall from her lips at the mortifying prospect of another bearing witness unto her unmerciful debasement.

 

Still, her Mistress had done nothing except pause to let out a rather insane cackle at the sight of her well-restrained pet’s visible distress before returning swiftly to the task at hand: beating Hermione’s naked buttocks a brilliant candy-apple red with various implements of choice, though at that exact moment it had been a thick leather strap biting painfully into Hermione’s cheeks, if she recalls correctly.

 

Meanwhile, the sisters had administered a brief medium-toned exchange, that which Hermione didn’t catch a single word of, far too consumed with the agonizing burn seeming to set her behind quite literally on fire that only worsened exponentially with every heavy-handed blow—afterwards, as her Mistress tossed the leather strap aside, thereby affording her a brief respite from the harrowing abuse, Hermione could distantly hear her offering the wooden cane to Narcissa, asking her, “Would you like a turn, Cissy?” in a lofty tone.

 

A second had passed, then two before Narcissa’s haughty tone filtered over to Hermione’s tied-down figure: “My darling sister—I do so love it when we share.”

 

Needless to say, Hermione hadn’t been able to sit down for weeks following that excruciating encounter.)

 

“She’s grown rather obedient, hasn’t she?” Narcissa muses coolly from above, her icy blue-eyed gaze burning through the crown of Hermione’s scalp.

 

Hermione, for her part, doesn’t dare acknowledge it, just devotes herself to nipping mildly at the last of the melted chocolate upon her Mistress’ fingertips with kitten licks and burning cheeks, then leans meekly back onto her heels when she’s finished.

 

“It’s simply darling, wouldn’t you agree?” her Mistress remarks agreeably, and Hermione can’t help the way her thighs clench reflexively together at the unfettered approval audible in her haughty tone. (She prays silently that neither Bellatrix nor her younger sister took notice.) “Aw, did you see that, Cissy?” her Mistress taunts moments later with an elated giggle, thereby squashing Hermione’s admittedly naive hopes that her slight telltale maneuver might go unnoticed. “Pet liked that, didn’t she?"

 

Hermione can hear the smirk in Narcissa’s frosty intonation as she replies, “She’s not even being touched, the wanton little thing. You haven’t fucked her in some time, hm?”

 

(Hermione can’t help but shudder and clench her thighs together once more, feeling her nipples harden beneath her father’s college tee at the uncharacteristic lewdness in her words, such a stark contrast unto the youngest Black sister's typically so immaculately poised disposition… and a shamefully delicious one, at that.)

 

“I did, just last night!” her Mistress exclaims gleefully, sadistic rapture in her voice even as a steady hand reaches down to nuzzle affectionately at the flesh beneath Hermione’s jawline with soothing fingers. “I put a vibe on our Mud-puppy’s clit while I fucked her, made her count every time she came—oh, Cissy, you should’ve seen her! Writhing around bucking her hips like a bitch in heat, begging for more and sobbing pitifully that it hurt too much to continue, all at the same time.”

 

Hermione wouldn’t be surprised if her face well and truly burst spontaneously into flames at this point, profound shame and overwhelming arousal warring violently within her at the mere memory; she feels a damp spot quickly beginning to form at the crotch of her lacey black panties even as she vehemently wishes for the ground beneath to swallow her whole.

 

“Is that so?” Narcissa questions curiously, her interest clearly piqued. “That must have been quite the sight to behold.”

 

“You should join us next time.”

 

Narcissa’s response to that is quick, devoid of reluctance: “Perhaps I will.”

 

Hermione’s eyes widen even as a perfidious liquid warmth settles lower and lower in her gut at the momentousness of what her Mistress has oh-so-casually proposed, at what it would inevitably mean for her should Narcissa (who harbors a sadistic streak that well surpasses the ferocity of her sister's, though she does awfully well to hide it) “join” them in the bedroom—she imagines the sheer magnitude of pain she’d no doubt be made to endure, the unearthly amount of humiliation that would indubitably follow close on its heels… pain and punishment and torture of a breed she’s still yet to bear witness unto, the perverse creativity of which would be only intensified a hundred fold beneath Narcissa’s scrupulous guidance.

 

Horror fills her gut, her body trembles with terror… and yet, her panties soak themselves with her own slick just the same, arousal and dread churning nauseatingly in her stomach until it’s impossible to tell one from the other, until it’s all she can do not to grind her hips like a wanton whore and let out woefully needy whines from deep in her throat and beg for them to take her here and now, using and abusing her for their own ends until she’s begging them to stop, then feeling them continue on to ruin her even further anyways because what she thinks doesn’t matter, because what she feels doesn’t matter—because the only thing that really matters is the marks her owners beat into her pert young body, the innate satisfaction they get from making her scream for them, the pleasure they derive from her until there’s nothing left of her to take.

 

Heaven help her, but oh how desperately she hopes Narcissa will join them soon.

 

— —