The Sybil's Oracle Book Two

Chapter 9

By Pigwidgeon37

He could not have thought of England—or of anything, for that matter—even if he had wanted to. Too overwhelming was the sensation of her hands and mouth all over him. For a while, he kept his eyes closed. Off went his shirt, his shoes and socks, and Nathalie, still kneeling before him on the carpeted floor, began to gently explore his skin, every inch, leaving no single bit of it untouched. The warning that he had to keep silent, absolutely silent, without uttering a single moan or scream, was still embedded deep down in his mind—he had learned it the hard way and learned it so well that it had dissociated itself from the memories of his uncle, to stand there on its own, flashing red and forbidding him to let the tiniest sound escape his lips.

“Severus!” she whispered, interrupting her caresses.

His eyes fluttered open reluctantly. “Yes? Sorry, I… I got a little carried away…”

Nathalie chuckled. “Forgive me if I differ, but I have never seen anybody less carried away.” She put her hands on his shoulders and nuzzled his neck. “What’s the matter with you, Severus? Is there anything wrong? Don’t you like what I’m doing? You can tell me, you know?”

In hindsight, he thought that half an hour of torture had indeed been far too lenient a punishment for his uncle. This might spoil everything, for now he had to deny, to explain, to speak words that would destroy what had started so promisingly.

He took a deep breath. “I like what you’re doing. In fact, I’ve never enjoyed anything remotely as much as I’m enjoying this. There’s… something in my past, though, a… a very bad experience. I suppose it has left more traces than I thought. You…” He felt his throat constrict and had to clear it before he was able to continue. “You don’t have to put up with this. I think—” he grabbed for his shirt “—I’d better go.”

His hand was stopped in mid-movement. “Do you want to leave, Severus, or do you simply think that you have to free me of what you are convinced I might find tiresome? Look at me,” she said, cupping his chin with her other hand. “And now tell me. Do you want to leave?”

Severus grinned at her weakly. “I would be a raving lunatic if I wanted to leave, wouldn’t I?”

“That’s very flattering,” she replied, showing her dimples, “But maybe you are a raving lunatic. Are you? Do you want to leave?” He merely shook his head. “Well, that’s a beginning. You don’t have to tell me, but were you raped?”

He swallowed. “Kind of. Forced. But it… it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Certainly not,” she observed dryly, “It only makes you as taut as a bowstring. But,” she said, rising to her feet, “there might be a very effective, not to mention pleasant, remedy.” She was still holding his hand and now pulled him up to stand before her. “Your turn, Severus.”

No command, no directives—she had handed him the reins. For a moment, he simply stood, undecided and above all very clueless. What had she done first? Removed his shirt. Stroked and kissed and licked and bitten her way all over his torso. If she thought this to be pleasant—and it certainly was—then maybe that was what she would like him to do to her. And he so wanted to finally uncover those breasts… Slowly, though. He could take his time, gauge her reactions, find out what she liked. After all, he thought, while he brushed his lips over the soft skin above her collarbone, it was an intrinsically Slytherin way of thinking and acting. You took your time, probing and testing, memorizing the other’s reactions, and finally got a pattern to follow. It was, in a way, simple manipulation. A very enjoyable, if not entirely scientific, kind of research. An art. Ars amatoria—good old Ovid. The man had certainly known what he was speaking of.

He flicked his tongue over the spot, still the same one, then gently bit into the tender flesh. Her grip on his waist tightened, and she gasped. Severus smiled against her throat and continued his way towards the other collarbone, opening the next two buttons of her blouse in order to have better access. From the kisses they had shared at his house, he remembered that there was a spot at the small of her back where she very obviously liked to be touched. He let his left hand wander from her shoulder, over her spine, and to that spot just above her buttocks, to gently massage it while he dotted the base of her throat with kisses.

Her voice was throatier than ever when she muttered “Severus… are you positive you never did this before?”

“Absolutely. Don’t tell me you like it.”

She chuckled. “Isn’t that fairly obvious?”

“Fairly. But maybe I can do better.”

His left hand still on her back, he came up and kissed her while his right brushed over one small, firm breast still covered by her blouse. Her moan very nearly unhinged him. It was a heady feeling of power, so very unlike, so diametrically opposed to what he experienced when torturing or killing. Power had many, many faces, he thought, but this was certainly one of the more pleasant ones. Without breaking the kiss, he proceeded to open the next three buttons and slipped his hand inside the blouse. Her skin, already tender on her neck and shoulders, was even more delicate on her breast, especially on the lower side. For a while, he simply leaned his cheek on her hair, breathing in the scent and enjoying the texture of her skin against his fingertips. Then, he allowed his hand to shift an inch or so upwards, and his fingers encountered a very different kind of skin, a little rough, like exaggerated goose pimples. By now, he had his own arousal under control once again and was able to breathe evenly while he let his fingertips glide over the taut peak, memorizing its structure and relishing in the sound of her ragged breathing.

Curious how it might fell to stroke her there with his tongue, he withdrew his hand, opened the last buttons of her blouse and, his hands flat on her chest, his wrists brushing her breasts, slowly slid the garment off her, letting it fall to the ground with a soft rustle. The sleeveless top she had worn on the day he had rearranged the Rosiers’ garden had revealed a good deal, but to see her like this, naked to her waist, was simply breathtaking. Quite literally so. He badly needed to steady himself, or he was going to come into his trousers. So he pulled her against him—not quite the right thing for calming down, he thought, for the contact of skin on skin, the sensation of her nipples brushing against his ribcage was, if anything, even more arousing. They remained like this for a while, her hands resting on his back and her cheek against his shoulder, while he let his fingers wander up and down her spine. But he wanted to kiss those breasts…

Severus turned them both round and made her sit down on the edge of the bed. “I don’t think I can do this while standing,” he said, kneeling down between her thighs like she had done before with him.

“Are you saying that this is going to get even better?” she murmured, leaning into him.

“Let’s see,” he replied, and flicked his tongue over the breast he had been neglecting until now. The memory of Tabitha, sitting on Lestrange’s knees in their common room, eagerly watched by himself, Lucius and Owen, floated up in his mind. Nathalie’s reaction was surprisingly similar. Maybe this was something all women liked.

Gingerly, he took the nipple that was now shimmering with wetness in the faint candlelight into his mouth and gave it a tentative suck. Her hands, which had been resting on his shoulders, flew up to his head and buried themselves in his hair. He sucked again, a little harder this time, and she uttered a small scream. He released her immediately and looked up.

“Did I hurt you?”

Her bottom lip clenched between her teeth, she exhaled sharply and then drew a deep breath. Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled at him. “No, on the contrary. It was just… a little intense.”

“That’s good to hear,” he mumbled, and returned to his previous occupation, alternating between her left and right breast, while his thumbs were brushing over those particularly sensitive spots at the sides of her ribcage, the other fingers splayed on her back.

This was something he could do for hours on end, Severus thought, just lose himself in the pleasure of touching and feeling and listening to the sounds she made. Her thighs, pressing against his sides, reminded him that it might be time to move a little further. His hands roamed downwards, over her waist, her hips, down her thighs, to the hollow of her knees. The trousers she was wearing were of linen, much too thick and rough for allowing her to feel much of what he did with his hands through the fabric.

“Could we take these off?” he asked.

She sighed and then chuckled. “I thought you would never ask.”

He rose to his feet, ignoring the protesting screams of his knees, and took one step backwards, so that she, too, could stand up. Another long, deep kiss, and he opened the button and zipper of her trousers, which glided down, leaving her with only her underpants. They were of white satin, matching the long-gone blouse.

“What about you?” she asked, while he tentatively ran his hands over her silk-clad buttocks.

“I’d prefer to stay like this for a little while unless it terribly irritates you.”

“No,” she said, “As long as you get out of them at some point, I don’t mind in the least.”

Severus gave her a gentle push, so that she toppled over and fell on the bed. Smiling up at him, she scooted a little farther away, so as to leave enough room for him. He joined her, lay down beside her and propped himself up on his left elbow.

“Nathalie,” he said, putting his right hand on her belly, thus causing her to shudder, “is this…I mean, I’m not fishing for compliments here, but… you would tell me if I did something the wrong way, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh Gods,” she said, stirring against his hand, “let me phrase it like this: If you’re as good at potions as you’re at foreplay, you’ll get your Potions Master degree after one week of apprenticeship. And they’d wait one week only to spare themselves the embarrassment of giving it to you on the second day.”

“What a very unambiguous assessment,” he replied and bent down to kiss her. She lifted her hips a little, so that his hand shifted downwards by a few inches. “You want me to touch you there?” he muttered against her mouth.

“More than anything, but it’s your game. So, if you want to take your time…”

He chuckled. “I think this was the most insincere answer you’ve ever given me. The second part of it, I mean.”

For a while, he simply let his hand glide over her belly and thighs because he needed to play –and playing had seldom been more delightful—for time. Until now, things had been more or less simple, for a body was a body, regardless whether it belonged to a man or a woman, and it demanded to be caressed, reacting to the touch in approximately the same fashion. At least it seemed to be that way, considering his own reactions—even though he had not shown them, they had been there, and with surprising intensity—and hers when he had done the same things to her. But at the point where he was now, all similarities ended. Arms were arms, and legs were legs, be they male or female, but what was hidden under those few square inches of shimmering white fabric was dramatically different. Not the most original of observations, but maybe a good starting point, he thought. The easiest thing to do would be to ask. Only he did not want this to turn into a lesson of female anatomy-cum-erogenous zones. And, to say the truth—at least to himself—he felt slightly uncomfortable at the thought of actually talking about what he was doing. Back to trial and error, then. If he messed up, it would still be her fault, because nobody had compelled her to take an inexperienced eighteen-year-old into her bed.

So he slowly moved the tips of his index and middle finger over the sleek, lustrous white material covering her lower abdomen and noticed with pleasure that the farther down he went, the quicker she breathed. Tentatively, he returned to his point of departure and promptly earned himself a half-angry, half-disappointed sound. No surprises there. And a striking similarity to the globe: the nearer you went towards the centre, the hotter it was. So maybe he should try the centre. Index and forefinger made their way downwards one again, in a straight line this time, and brushed tentatively over what felt definitely soft. A lot warmer than the rest. And damp. Although he had never really appreciated Lucius’s comments about his playthings, as he used to call them—Severus had always thought them crude and derogatory, and tried to ignore them—he had to admit that right now he was grateful for some of them. Without Malfoy’s enlightening observations, he would probably not have known what to make of that wetness that was seeping through the fabric. He did not really believe in instinct; it was all well and fine for coupling and nourishing oneself like animals, but eroticism and haute cuisine were better seen to by knowledge and experience. Good old Ovid…

She breathed “Severus, please!” in a very urgent tone of voice exactly at the moment he had decided that the panties had to go. Sitting up, he hooked his fingers under the elastic and pulled them down while she slightly lifted her hips and, with an impatient movement of her legs, sent them flying into the far corner of the room. Index and middle finger went for the same, leisurely stroll again, drawing tiny circles on her lower belly, slowly approaching the black curls, tangled and a little coarse, the exact contrary of the material that had previously hidden them. Her very own scent, usually disguised by the mingled aromas of roses and lemon, had become dominant now, drowning out the perfume by its heady notes of musk, sweat and… well, Nathalie. This and the wetness his fingers now encountered proved to be extremely arousing, and he had to fight for countenance and control, for otherwise he would simply have ripped off his trousers and buried himself inside her, regardless of whether she enjoyed it or not. For a moment, he just let his fingers rest embedded within the soft, hot, wet flesh, and laid his head on her chest, listening to the wild thumping of her heart while he regained some measure of command over his mutinous instincts.

When his fingers started to move again, slowly mapping the area that was so obviously ten times more sensitive than even her breasts, her hands started to run restlessly over his chest, arms and back, in fluttering, almost nervous caresses that were orchestrated by soft moans of pleasure. The moans became a cry when his index finger glided over a small nub—he returned there, to let the fingertip linger on it for a moment, so that he could feel the blood pulsing there, then increased the pressure imperceptibly and moved again, and she cried out again, her whole body shaking and trembling. Strange, he thought, while moving away again, back towards the source of her wetness and stroking those rough curls with his thumb, strange how the physical reactions to extreme pleasure resembled those to extreme pain. When he had subjected Avery to the Cruciatus Curse, the man had been shaking, and his face had been covered in a thin film of perspiration—had he not known better, he would have thought that he was hurting the woman writhing under him. When she lifted her hips to intensify the contact with his hand, his finger glided into her. For being purely accidental, it was undoubtedly a success. He pulled out, very slowly, and slid inside again, contemporaneously placing his thumb on the recently discovered, sensitive nub. And continued, in and out, all the time massaging her gently with his thumb.

Nathalie’s hands stopped their aimless wandering and instead gripped his shoulders to pull him down into a fiercely devouring kiss, which she abruptly ended to pull him further down and bite his shoulder. He felt her muscles contract rhythmically around his finger and continued to move inside her, more gently than before when he had nearly lost control over his movements because of her violent kiss. When her body relaxed and her breathing slowed down, he bent over her to kiss her again, and she responded languidly, holding him tight. His right hand retreated towards her inner thigh, kneading and stroking the tender skin there that was moist with perspiration.

“That was—” she inhaled deeply “—that was incredible, Severus. Forget what I said before. You’ll get your Potions Master degree right away, the moment you enter McLachlan’s house.” She smiled at him and traced her hands down his sides and towards the fly of his trousers. “May I?”

He nodded, the tension returning, but not as strong as it had been at the beginning. Delicate fingers undid the buttons, pulled down the zipper, slid the garment down his legs. Sitting up, she removed it completely and, with a questioning look, apparently not quite sure whether he wanted her to take back control, gently pushed him backwards into the pillows. The last protection was gone. But he wanted this, didn’t he? It was a choice this time, and the choice was his. He was able to accept or refuse, and if he accepted, nothing was going to happen to him—nothing bad, that was—for he was a lot stronger than she and thus able to claim command of the situation at any given moment. To yield the reins to her expert hands was a decision that could be revoked whenever he wanted. He could allow her the illusion of being the one who set the rules for the game; in fact, she would probably enjoy it more if she thought she was the one in command. But in reality, she did not possess that power. She had only borrowed it from him. He smiled at her and relaxed under her touch.

The sight of her kneeling over him, with the mellow light of the two candles casting a feeble golden shine at the contours of her body from behind, was as powerful an aphrodisiac as the slow caresses of her lips and hands. Lazy, tantalizing gestures, deliberately avoiding his erection, coming close but never arriving there, making him gasp and pant and beg… But it was still his game, his decision to let her torture him as long as he wanted.

“No!” he said sharply, grabbing her shoulders and stopping her in mid-movement when she was about to take him into her mouth.

She gave him a nonplussed look. “You would be the first who doesn’t like that.”

“Maybe. But I’d rather suggest that we—” he flipped her onto her back with one swift gesture “—try something else. My turn, just like you said before.”

When she had eagerly submitted to his caresses before, in breathless anticipation of what he was going to do next, the sensation of power and dominance had been a mere foretaste of what he was feeling now, having her pinned to the mattress under him, spanning both her wrists with his left hand and holding them down above her head, his right hand under her pelvis, his erection already touching but not yet entering her. She desired him to do it, and he knew it, not to mention that he wanted it as badly as she, but his own pleasure was growing with every second he kept her waiting, aching for him, prolonging her need for him. He had to admit that he now understood why Lucius and Owen were so sex-crazed. If there was a better way of combining pleasure with the unmitigated feeling of power, it had yet to be discovered.

Nathalie was looking up at him, her eyes slightly unfocused under half-closed lids, tongue darting over her lips, nostrils flaring with irregular, shallow breathing. He bent down to tease her earlobe with his tongue, and felt her stir against him.

“Severus, please…”

“Please what?” he murmured and lightly bit the base of her throat.

She gave an inarticulate moan and repeated “Please!” a little more urgently.

Summoning all his self-control, he entered her, but not more than an inch or so, then stopped and shut his eyes for the sensation was truly overwhelming. “Please this?” he asked as soon as he was sure his voice would not fail him.

She nodded, biting her lower lip and closing her eyes. Without letting go of her wrists, he lowered his mouth onto hers and kissed her, noticing with satisfaction how eagerly her tongue met his, enjoying her small whimpers of passion and need, and then her muffled scream when he finally entered her, deeply and none too gently. For a moment, he thought he was going to pass out cold with the sheer impact of hot, wet, pulsing softness encompassing him. When he felt her legs encircle his hips, he freed her wrists, to increase the sensation of being wrapped by, buried in, ensconced within and melting into her body. Her arms were holding him in a tight embrace, and now that he did not need to keep her hands in place anymore, he inserted his left arm under her upper back and his right hand under her neck while their kiss persisted, tongues licking, teeth biting each other’s lips that felt raw and swollen and sensitised.

He needed to move, or he was going to explode. To judge from how she was stirring under him and rubbing against his hips with her thighs, she was as needy of release as he was. He retired, slowly and almost hesitatingly, relishing the friction and the convulsive contraction of her muscles, then thrust back in, deeper even than before if that was humanly possible, and out again and in again, his whole being concentrated into that sensation of almost-but-not-yet-quite-exploding, that increasing tension in his loins and cock and balls;, felt her shift slightly under him so that his pubic bone was pressing harder on that sensitive spot… It was like a bottomless descent and vertiginous ascent at the same time, into fathomless darkness specked with blinding points of light, a pleasure so intense that it verged on pain; and then again the rhythmical contractions of her muscles that annihilated all restraint and made him reach the bottom of the abyss and the highest possible point of the spiral, crying out in release and fulfilment and disappointment because it had come to an end. One more contraction of the limp body underneath him, and an echo of the madness he had felt before cut through him, making him shiver and shudder and give one final thrust before he released her lips and let his head fall on her shoulder.

They lay motionless for some time, listening to each other’s breathing and heartbeats return to normal while the consciousness of being at some well-defined point in space and time seeped back into their minds. Severus propped himself up on his elbows and looked at Nathalie’s face; she was still flushed, the short black hair plastered to her moist temples, lips raw and swollen. Very slowly and cautiously—he could not have made a single quick movement for the life of him—he pulled out of her and rolled over onto his back, retrieving his left arm from under her, so that the physical contact was now broken. Which was exactly what he wanted, in order to reassemble himself, so to speak. Get the pieces that had been propelled in all directions by the impact of his orgasm together again, become the rational being that he was meant to be. He had not lost his grip on himself for long, a mere couple of seconds, but the throes of ecstasy had thoroughly undone him. It would take some time and practice, he surmised, to learn keeping himself together even when his whole being screamed for him to let go. But then, this had been the first time, and thus some weakness could still be allowed for.

He looked at the woman lying beside him. She had obviously fallen asleep. Well, he thought, all the better for him. The last thing he desired was for her to see him sleeping, or start a discussion whether he should stay the night. Ignoring his protesting muscles, he quietly got up, dressed and left the bedroom, heading downstairs to the fireplace and the safety of his house.