Pairing: Pomona Sprout/Severus Snape
Content: Submission, orgasm denial (ultimately satisfied), mild pain play and restraints.
Word Count: About 2000
Summary/Description: Pomona had admitted it properly to herself for the first time this year: she was lonely, and sick and tired of not having any sex. This is the tale of what happens when a clever lady takes steps to ensure her own pleasure.
Author's Notes: This was written for venturous in daily_deviant's 2013 Kinky Kristmas fest, with the prompt, ‘Pomona finds an unlikely playmate who takes her where she needs to go; someone who helps her celebrate her lush, mature body, and releases her inner goddess.’ It was also somewhat inspired by the memoir, 'A Round-Heeled Woman,' by Jane Juska.
Pomona's heart jumped into her throat as she opened the envelope:
Rest assured, mystery correspondent, that the various factors you describe as apparent 'warnings of unattractiveness' are of no consequence to me. Indeed, an older woman of substance is of considerably more interest than a pneumatic but brainless chit. From your letters, I can see that you are intelligent, and have fascinatingly unrequited carnal desires.
I want to make you quiver.
She sat down in her favourite armchair, and poured a good few fingers of mead into a glass. The heat was already rising within her - as it had every time in these last few weeks when that strange grey owl had clawed on her window and brought a new missive.
The summer was just beginning, but there were already few people left at the school. Most of her colleagues had gone to families and spouses for the long, dry months, leaving Pomona to her plants and her darning - and rather too much time with a lifetime's supply of periodicals and a quickly-depleting supply of home-brew.
During term time, it wasn't so bad. The castle was a hubbub of children and teachers and animals, and she doted on her own charges with all the love of a mother who never was. For her, though, empty-nest syndrome came each year like clockwork. The long summer nights drew-out - and with them came the downturn of mood and ache for the touch of another that she perennially tried to ignore.
Pomona had admitted it properly to herself for the first time this year: she was lonely, and sick and tired of not having any sex.
So, she had done exactly what any sensible, educated witch might have done at two in the morning in a fit of there’s-nothing-to-lose: place a discreet personal advert on the inner-back page of Herbologists’ Fortnightly.
'Mature witch seeking sexual exploration with a new friend,' it had read. 'Cuddly but clever. Would like to meet a wizard who knows the difference between Mimbulus and mistletoe.'
The following morning she had wondered what on earth she had gotten herself into, but there was no recalling a post owl. Thus, Pomona had spent the next week alternately fretting about whether it would be worse to have to field horde of replies to said late-night madness, or to not receive any replies in the first place.
Of course, the outcome of that conundrum was decided for her. Replies did come, and they came in spades. Some were obviously unsuitable: comedians and perverts. They went straight in the fire. Others were perfectly well-meaning, but sounded utterly dull - and those received a polite, 'no, thank you.' Three had germinated into a correspondence; she knew these men only by their handwriting.
Florid seemed a nice enough chap. He was bright, and kind, and Pomona felt that they could be pretty good friends. That was probably the extent of it, though.
Slanted put her slightly on edge; he professed to be interested in her as a woman, but all of the cues seemed to suggest that he was really looking for a sort of mother.
So, that just left Spiky.
His turn of phrase was terse but intense. He revealed little, but hinted at much - and, with each flap of those great grey wings at the window, Pomona felt her pulse race and her yearning to meet this man increase.
Pomona stood in the lobby of a discreet London hotel, in the appointed place at the appointed time. She could still not believe that she had booked a room; the little golden key seemed to burn through her tweed pocket in danger and anticipation.
Nervously, she scanned the passers-by for a man wearing a sprig of hellebore in his lapel. What would he look like? Would he be willing to give her a second-glance?
On sighting the flower, however, Pomona’s jaw dropped in shock. She swallowed hard, but rushed over before she caused a scene. "Oh, Merlin! Severus. It's you?!"
He quirked an eyebrow. "I do apologise for the inevitable disappointment."
Severus wore his customary black, but his jacket was of a subtle damask weave. His hair was washed, and glinted almost as much as his beetle-black eyes as they fixed upon her. Undeniably, he was magnetic. Some other woman would have been very lucky.
But now, Pomona reflected, it was likely all over; there was just the embarrassment to minimise. The cowardly part of her mind breathed a sigh of relief, but the crushing sadness of returning to being dowdy and all alone was creeping-in fast. "Ah. I suppose that's it, then,” she managed. “You won't want to... you know..."
"Won't I?" He seemed almost amused. Pomona watched the twist of his lips. "It's touching that you think I would agree to meet a stranger under such circumstances, without having first traced the identity of said person."
She gasped. "You knew?" Severus did not seem to deem that worthy of an answer, just levelling his gaze. Her mind reeled. "-And all of those things that you wrote?..." Snippets from his letters rushed through her mind - I will make you writhe and beg. Your pleasure will come in gasps and whimpers, and only when you can no longer stand it will you have release - "...You actually meant those, in the context of...?"
Severus regarded her, as a cat may regard a particularly tasty mouse. He leaned very close; the heat of his breath caressed her neck, and Pomona shivered. In a voice so low it could be mistaken for a rush of air from the hotel doorway, he whispered, "Every. Word."
Pomona froze as Severus closed the door of the hotel room behind them, and bade her undress. Her fingers trembled on the clasp of her travelling cloak, and that voice in her mind telling her that she was old and foolish and just about to embarrass herself very badly was gathering pace.
As if sensing her fear, Severus came closer. "Allow me." He took away her tweed, and, standing behind her, stroked the back of Pomona's neck with one set of precise fingers while unbuttoning her robes with the other.
His touch was exquisite. Pomona heard herself whimper at the simple contact; gods, it had been years…
Her robe was cast away, and Severus set to work on her undershirt, only flimsy cotton now separating her skin from his hands. The doubts crept up in force as he progressed - about to expose her round tummy and ample thighs to full view - but Severus silenced them by replacing his caress with his lips, kissing and biting at her neck until Pomona's eyes rolled closed and moans came unbidden from her throat as he suckled there.
Now naked, Pomona let Severus manoeuvre her backward onto the bed. She laid still, breath coming in hitched gasps as his fingers and tongue traced a path from her collarbone to her nipple, admiring the weight of her breast and the lush curves of her body with his palms.
"Now, you must relax," Severus instructed, "And to make sure that is the case..." He conjured a pair of soft ties, and charmed them first to encircle Pomona's wrists, then to bind her to the bedstead.
She shuddered, but gave in to the charm, on-show and under his thrall.
Severus began his next path at her feet; he lit a candle, and dripped molten wax onto her arches. Pomona jumped in surprise, and then gave a soft gasp as Severus replaced the burn of the wax with his mouth, soothing the area and making it yet more sensitive with every swipe of his tongue. He repeated this along her calves… the back of her knees as they were splayed so… and then finally, with tantalising precision and slowness, up and along her inner thighs.
Pomona’s groin was throbbing badly, but she could no more touch herself there than she could will Severus to do so. “Please… I need…” she whimpered.
“Not yet,” came his curt reply, and she sobbed a little, the powerlessness only adding to her arousal.
Severus’ progress with the candle continued, but this time the wax splattered haphazardly over her front: breasts and belly piquing from the sudden heat, and the soft undersides of her arms twitching and pulling against the restraints as she writhed and squealed. By this point, Pomona was beside herself, drowning in sensation, shocked by the pain of pleasure and the pleasure of pain…
-But she just had to feel his touch where she needed it most.
Pomona spread her legs wider, her posture begging desperately even though her mouth was silent.
“Oh, very well,” breathed Severus, and his voice smacked of amusement and indulgence and raggedness. He vanished the remnants of wax, and brushed her mound with the lightest of caresses, tracing the outside of her lips with artisanal touch. Pomona trembled and pressed upward into his hand, but Severus pushed her hip back down to the bed, tutting. “Patience.”
Gradually, his fingertips moved inward. It was ecstasy and agony all at once; electric but nowhere near enough. He slowly circled her nerve endings, so slick and easy there, now - and Pomona lifted her legs right from the bed, panting and whining as his fingers let off sparks in her blood, but never quite gave her relief.
Yearning, terrible need mounted inside her. She knew would go mad if she weren’t touched there; touched inside.
"Oh, please, Severus! Please come and..."
"Yes?" He flicked at her clitoris, nonchalantly, and Pomona whimpered with each tiny stroke.
"-Come and make love to me!" The words had slipped out in the way that seemed natural, but - in a moment of strange and sudden clarity - Pomona reflected that Severus may well hate them.
He paused. For the first time, his eyes lost their glint, and something else - something softer and even a little needy - was reflected within. "Very well," Severus breathed.
From her supine position, Pomona could not see every detail as he shed his clothes, but it was clearly meticulous - the jacket and robes being folded carefully over the back of a chair.
Severus was as spiky as his handwriting when naked; pale and somewhere between wiry and breakable. Though utterly untouched, he was fully erect. Compared to the scrawniness of his thighs, his cock was large, and it throbbed red and wept in need; it was immensely appealing.
Severus climbed atop the bed, and covered Pomona with his warmth. He nudged at her entrance and smiled as she twitched and mewled, wanting him badly.
She was so wet, he slid inside in one easy stroke - and that felt to Pomona like delight and provocation all at once. Her muscles ached and grabbed him tight, and Severus let out a little, "Ah," as she gripped him.
Then, he began to move. It was slow and controlled at first, but soon changed to generous thrusts, gasping and wild. Pomona took every stroke and wanted ever more. Her body was singing with lust and requital; she was fairly sure than nothing had ever felt as wonderful as this brilliant young man in her body, and wanted it never to end.
Pomona lost count of how many times she came, being fucked like that. Her orgasms built, each on the last, until she could barely move but for quivering, and barely speak but for crying-out. Every nerve in her body was burning hot and singing loud, and every movement seemed to bring another wave of shuddering, incandescent bliss.
Eventually, Severus pushed home hard, and stilled as release swept over him. Pomona’s chest heaved and her vision swam. Both of their brows were bespangled with sweat, and it took a good few moments before either moved to collapse side-by-side, or Severus incanted a discreet cleaning charm.
Rosy red with passion from the apples of her cheeks to the tips of her toes, Pomona beamed at her unlikely partner. “Thank you,” she breathed, not quite believing that what had just happened had really just happened.
Severus regarded her, and gave a small smile – not a wry and twisted one, but a genuine little quirk of the lips, with unguarded eyes. He scooped Pomona’s hand from the bed, and kissed the back of it in courtly gesture. “The pleasure was mine.”