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Homework Time by Nymphadora [Reviews - 3]

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After a short while this new man lifts me up and takes me to his office, where once again he leaves me. It is dark and rather cold; my nervousness only increases here. It is tempered by something else now. Anticipation.

After an eternity of waiting he comes back, but I am at the edge of the desk. He has to deal with all the others first. I must wait my turn. I am not sure how I can stand it though. I know he is right there; I do not know what he will do to me once this agonising wait is over.

Slowly he works through the others, sometimes he says something, but am to far away to make out what it is. All that comes through is a velvet whisper. Once I am certain I hear a liquid growl, but then I tell myself it was only imagination. Yet I still hear it in my mind, repeated.

Slowly, slowly, I get closer to being the one he picks. He could choose me next, I think with fear, or hope, or resignation, or a million other things. He doesn’t though. All the others are chosen before me. I feel embarrassed and angry and upset and glad. Whatever it is I feel he doesn’t chose me.

Suddenly, yet after an eternity, I am the last. I feel naked and alone, ready to be fully opened up for his inspection. More ready then I ever could have imagined before today. How can just a few murmurs and glances do this to me?

But the man stands up and walks away. He has obviously forgotten me and I will stay here forever, waiting. Somehow this is far worse then the destruction I initially expected.

Before I can even fully sink into my depression he is back again, holding a glass in his hand, I can smell the whiskey from here. An enticing, intoxicating smell. He pulls me towards him and growls and whispers at the same time, ‘Potter.’

That word is imprinted onto me, I can feel myself branded with it, in a low down place I hardly knew existed before. His silk voice has started it’s caresses again though, ‘Every lesson I receive something new from you, nothing original and intelligent is ever contain therein. Will today be any different, I wonder.’

I feel such shame. Surely I will not be good enough. I could never be good enough for this amazing man. How could anyone? He uncurls my willing body and just watches me. He scowls down at me and I remember why I’m so scared. He has complete control over me. Why does that thought not scare me as much as it should?

I feel his first, sudden stroke. It is harsh and rough and brief but I long for more. A moment later there is another, with a third in quick succession. Then there comes a slow, long touch across my side, slightly sharp, but still amazing.

He continues his torture of me, his face amazingly concentrated. He speaks, sometimes, harshly, ‘Read the book,’ ‘imbecile,’ other things, never a nice word, but I feed off it. I have heard a few snorts of disdain as well. Yet as the stroking and touches continues I can no longer feel embarrassed or sad or anything except him.

His finger traces me from top to bottom and he smirks. Dear god, that smirk could set me alight! Then, after he is finished with the rest of me, he turns his attention to that lower place, where I still feel the brand. Harsh and fast, then slow he strokes me there, tracing patterns I do not understand all over me. It has never felt like this before, any time.

He pauses. I want to weep. How can he stop now? He looks thoughtful but then he starts again, faster then any time before. I feel dizzy with it all, the feel of it building up on my skin.

He continues to do this, the look on his face more intensely concentrating then I could imagine, even more then before. For a brief moment he stops, then does one final, long stroke and I explode.

When I am functional again I see he is looking at me in the strangest way. I am even more naked to him then I was before. I curl up again and wait. The next morning the boy comes back.

The man picks me up, with the others and lets them return to their original people. I, once again, am last. He goes up to the boy, like a hawk to its prey. ‘Potter, as I finished writing my comment at the end of the abysmal piece of work I suddenly found all the writing on this piece of parchment popped away. I expect you to re-write it, preferably containing an ounce of fact this time.’

He handed me over. ‘And you obviously already have parchment.’ I am so relieved.

I am going to see him again.

Homework Time by Nymphadora [Reviews - 3]

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