Azael's Chains

Surrender

The room room stopped breathing, the air in it stifling in the stagnant walls. The only sounds were the slide of her feet against the duvet. Then--

"You are truly my Galatea, my goddess breathed to life." He kissed his way up her body, empty hand twisting a hardened nipple until she groaned. Hermione could still feel him when he pulled away. The point of the knife settled on the notch of her throat and dragged down. When it passed the delicate ridge of bone it rolled to the edge proper and she shrieked as it sliced a clear line down her abdomen.

"There, there, kitten." His fingers trailed through the welling blood, painting her screaming scarlet. "It's a surface wound, see?" Dolohov played at the clean edges of her wound. "I told you we would progress slowly, no? I'm hardly going to stab you, pet. No, you certainly would howl at that." Wet slurps sounded from his direction; he was sucking her blood from his fingers.

When his tongue swept the length of the cut she held a dry sob at the sting. He was moaning, lapping at her with all the enthusiasm he had shown elsewhere. And then his fingers danced to her apex, rubbing sweet circles on her clit and it drowned her in sensation.

Two slick fingers stretched her as they entered, thumb taking over the play of the little bundle of nerves. Sweet Circe, it was wrong. He stroked that spot inside her in time to the delicious strokes of his thumb, and his tongue working as though to part the connective tissue that held her together. And the sting fed into the pleasure until she was throbbing, panting, whimpering.

"Didn't I promise you pleasure? Hm?" The words were prefaced by a lick striping down her stomach. "See how the pain feeds it? It is addictive, no? Soon you will crave this, need it for your release."

The next slice crossed one thigh from above the knee over the curve of her quadricep. All the while his fingers twisted and plunged inside of her and his thumb worked just a touch too gently, just a little too slow. And she arched into it, hissing between clenched teeth as the lap of stinging, sharp pain stirred the pleasure, curling into it until the two were inseparable, a braided rope of pleasurable pain.

"Fuck. You are glorious. A banquet of possibilities." The warm pressure of his presence faded, the dark euphoria of his fingers leaving her empty, and she dropped on the bed in a whooshing tumble that spun her head until she lost all sense of direction. "I need you, my sweet girl. I need to be inside of you."

The sound of clothing rustling, buttons and buckles popping accompanied the crackle of the fire. Then he was on her, kissing her with a terrifying passion, his hard body seeking to meld his flesh to her own. He kicked her knees apart and thrust into her, too thick, too much, but her senses were all mixed up and she moaned, hips jolting toward him.

Antonin tore his lips away, panting over her. "You," he groaned as he snapped his hips once more to sheath himself inside of her. "There are no words, kitten, to describe how delicious you taste. The silk of your mouth, the drooling slick of your cunt, your filthy blood, even your little rosebud. I would live off the flavors of your body if I could." He began a rolling rhythm against, each thrust stabbing against her cervix in a whirl of pleasurable pain that had her sobbing dry moans.

A large hand massaged roughly at one breast, vacillating between twisting her nipple and digging into the tender flesh. His pubis slammed against her clit with every thrust, the rough curls rubbing the bundle so she rocked with him for more.

There is no wrong in this. I'm playing the game and building a Heaven in Hell's despair.

And it felt like Heaven. Or Hell, temptingly delicious, sinful delight.

Pain lanced through the curve of her waist from the dip on her right nearly to her navel. Antonin slid his palm through the sticky fluid and smeared it up over her breast. His mouth collided with her own and she could taste metallic flavor lingering on his tongue.

His pace picked up and she heard a soft thump as he tossed aside the knife, grabbing her waist with bruising fingers to slam her hips against his own.

He was spewing Russian, snarling as he spoke, and her core tightened, the sound vibrating through her. It was dirty talk, she knew. Hermione cried out, shaking with want.

"Please, please." Was that her? So desperate, toeing the precipice.

Full throated laughter crashed into her and he was bending toward her face once more. "'Please,' kitten? 'Please,' what ?"

Hermione choked on a sob, the irritation at his mocking just feeding the miserable need. "More, I need more."

She moaned as his mouth dipped to her sensitive throat. "More? What does my little mudblood whore need more of, hm? Does she need more pleasure? For me to stroke her pretty little clit? More pain? More of my hard cock filling her up? Tell me what you need, katyonok . Tell me and I will give you what you need."

"Everything." It was a broken word, but she wrapped her legs around him and writhed.

His growl vibrated through her like a deep purr. "Needy girl. I'll give you what you want." He rose over her again, pulling her still bound arms to her core. "Stroke your clit for me, pet. That's it. Doesn't that feel good?" She nodded, mouth lax as she focused on the sensations she produced and how they mingled with the thick cock-- such a dirty word-- stroking her insides. One of her hands was pressed so far between them she could feel the strange length on the out-strokes.

Her back arched with the flood of pleasurable hormones building inside of her, She was so close to tumbling down the deep well of release, so close she could feel it in her toes.

Her head whipped against the luxurious sheets, cheek stinging from the pain, bones aching from the force of the slap. The skin throbbed. Then his thumb was petting her carotid before the curve between that and his forefinger pressed into her and her vision started sparking behind the blindfold.

It was with a mix of slapping her tender cheeks and choking the oxygen out of her mind that sent her diving down, down, down.

She quaked with it, shivering sparks throughout her body, full-throated moans until he locked them away. It rushed over her, her walls fluttering around the hardness that kept pumping, that eased that deep itch inside, that wrung pleasure from her until she twitched and whimpered in a limp heap.

His Russian was softer now, coaxing, and he slid his arms around her to meld them together once more, a hand supporting her head of curls and the other around her waist until there was nowhere that was not filled with him.

When his thrusts became staccato little aftershocks shot through her, walls fluttering in remembrance of the pleasure as he emptied into her with a long groan.

He lowered her gently, curled her to his chest, sated but still eyeing her bloody, battered body with delight. His thick lips curved into a smile and he kissed her forehead as he came down from the high of orgasm. She expected him to want post-coital conversation, but he just held her to him as they both drifted away.