Azael's Chains

Sight

Her hearing muffled, her sight gone, Hermione's body tensed deliciously. Her little breasts shook with the force of her breaths. It would be warm under her hood, her breathing creating an uncomfortably humid atmosphere within the canvas.

Antonin leaned against the wall to appreciate her beautiful helplessness for a moment. Her body was only slightly blemished by his attentions the night before; the deepening circles from his teeth, the peppered fingerprints along thighs and hips and arms. If anything, the reds and purples just made him want to paint a galaxy of bruises across her body.

His hand pulsed around his wand, drawing his mind back to the reason she was stretched taut before him. A curl of agitation rippled across his chest, heating him from within. Hermione had been doing so well; he thought her actions the night before were a sign that she was learning to yield to him in truth. Antonin should have anticipated a resultant.

But violence? To attack him with a fork was beyond what he should have expected. Antonin was kind enough that he'd allowed her everything but a knife for meal service, but she threw it in his face. That would need to be remedied. Perhaps he'd feed her oats and broth until she had finally learned her place. She could lap it out of a bowl like the dirty, disobedient pet she was. The idea was not at all disagreeable.

Shushing noises drew him back to her current predicament; she was shifting the weight on her feet, stretching and trying vainly for comfort. Antonin worked his hand, let the pain from the small wound he hadn't healed fuel the coil of anger-tinged sadism at his root.

She deserved pain; she needed correction. Only through pain could he mold her to fit in her place.

Antonin paced and considered how he would start. She needed to be... more available to him. He flicked his wand and her legs were chained apart, splayed too wide, so he had access to every little part of her. A thought spun through him and his lips curved into a pitiless smile. She rose, her head now above his own, all of her soft parts easy to reach.

His hands explored her cool, cashmere skin, his flesh pale against the deeper gold of her. Such soft, pretty skin, so tempting. He scraped nails over the inside of her thighs, her hips failing to jut away as red lines rose to the surface. He patted her in amusement, soothing her back to her nervous apprehension then backed into the instinctual form before swinging a fist at the meat of her thigh.

A strangled cry fell onto his ears and his cock twitched. Yes, that would bruise beautifully. He slid his wand into his sheath and punched with that fist. The stronger side rippled through her and enhanced the blooming scarlet on her thigh. Her cry was strangled this time; he wondered if she could hyperventilate from him transforming her into his personal punching bag.

Antonin decided to try, raining blows across her soft thighs and her firm ass. He scratched at her sides, squeezed until she was wheezing through the hood. When he slammed his fist into her gut her body seized to double over, but she was locked firmly in her bonds. He could not help but suck in one of her velvet nipples as guttural moans sang to him.

Antonin groaned, tugging her sweet peak between his teeth as he pulled away until it popped out, darkened by his bite.

She was a garden just opening to the sun and he would plant his seed and paint her with the most striking blossoms.

"Are you enjoying your punishment, katyonok ?" The bag rotated in the motion for denial and he chuckled. "I am enjoying it very much. But I realize I overlooked one of my favorite torments. Shall I do so now?" Her head shook again. "No? But you know it will be cast during this session." He could hear incomprehensible begging from beneath the bag on her head. Poor creature. His smile curved more deeply at the weak sobs as she tried to bargain. Of course, she didn't know he'd made sure her words were incoherent to him.