The stone of the bench felt colder than it had the previous week. Draconia sat with her spine straight, her robes pooled around her feet in a dark, expensive heap. She watched the way the light from the single candle caught the edge of the cauldron, making the liquid inside shimmer with a dull, metallic sheen. Harry was standing in front of her, his breathing heavy and uneven. He did not look like a man who was there to discuss the properties of moonstone. He looked like a man who was starving.
"You are late," Draconia said, her voice smooth and devoid of the jagged edges that had defined their last encounter in the store cupboard.
Harry let out a short, huffed laugh that contained no mirth. "I was not late. I was waiting for the corridor to clear."
"A poor excuse for a man who claims to be so efficient," she replied. She reached out and traced the rim of the copper-coloured cauldron with a pale finger. "The potion requires constant attention. You cannot simply arrive when the whim strikes you."
"I am here, am I not?" he asked. He stepped closer, the heat from his body reaching her before he actually touched her.
"You are here," she agreed. "But you are not present. Your mind is clearly elsewhere."
"It is always elsewhere when I am in this room," he said. He looked down at her, his eyes dark and searching. "Is that what we are doing tonight? Are we practicing the art of being nowhere?"
"We are practicing what is necessary," she said, her tone sharpening. She wanted him to feel the edge of her irritation. She wanted to see if he would bend or if he would break under the weight of her redirected anger. "This is a favour, Harry. You are helping me master the subtle nuances of the Draught of Living Death. Do not make it about your lack of discipline."
He moved then, dropping to his knees between her thighs. He did not ask for permission, because they had long since abandoned the need for such trivialities. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh just beneath the hem of her skirt.
"Is it a favour?" he asked. His voice was low, a gravelly sound that vibrated in her chest. "Tell me again. Tell me exactly what this is."
"It is a transaction," she said, though her breath hitched as he pressed his face against the silk of her knickers. "A temporary arrangement to ensure my grades remain impeccable."
"You are lying," he murmured against her skin. "You are a terrible liar when you are being this mean."
He pulled the fabric down, baring her to the cool air of the dungeon. Draconia watched him with a detached, cruel sort of fascination. She wanted to see him struggle. She wanted to see him lose his composure entirely. She reached down and unbuttoned his robes, pushing the heavy fabric aside so she could reach his trousers. She worked the fastenings with practiced, efficient movements, her eyes never leaving his.
"A favour," she repeated, her voice a command. "A purely functional exchange of services."
He groaned as she freed his cock from his trousers. It was thick and turgid, pulsing with his heartbeat. She wrapped her hand around the base of his cock, feeling the heat of him. He was already leaking, a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip. She squeezed him, her grip firm and unapologetic.
"Tell me the truth," he challenged, his head tilting back as she began to stroke him. "Tell me you don't pretend to be bored when you are actually burning up."
"I am bored of your incompetence," she said, even as she leaned forward to take the head of his cock into her mouth.
She sucked him deeply, her tongue swirling around the sensitive rim. The taste of him was salty and heavy. She used her hand to pump the length of his cock, the skin sliding smoothly against her palm. He let out a choked sound, his hands moving up to grip the edge of the stone bench. He was hard and ready, his cock twitching in her mouth. She pulled back, the saliva stringing between her lips and his glans.
"Is this part of the lesson?" he gasped, his eyes closed tight. "The part where you pretend to be a scholar?"
"The part where you learn to endure," she replied. She moved her hand down to her own centre, sliding two fingers into her soaking wet cunt. She felt the slickness of her own juices coating her skin. She began to rub herself, the friction of her fingers sending jolts of pleasure through her hips.
She moved back to him, her hand working his cock in a fast, rhythmic motion. She felt the tension in his thighs, the way his muscles bunched under the skin. She reached down and grabbed his arse, pulling him closer to her. She wanted to feel the weight of him.
"Fuck me," he whispered. It was not a request; it was a plea. "Stop talking about the draught and just fuck me, Draconia."
She smiled, a sharp, dangerous expression. She pushed him back onto the bench, her movements fluid and commanding. She positioned herself over him, her knees on either side of his hips. She guided his cock to her entrance, the tip of him probing at the entrance of her pussy. She was dripping, her cunt swollen and aching for the intrusion.
"You are so impatient," she scolded. She lowered herself slowly, the head of his cock stretching her open. She felt the intense pressure as he slid inside her, filling her to the brim. "A master waits for the moment of perfection. You just want the satisfaction."
She began to move, her hips rolling in wide, heavy circles. She sat on his cock, the length of him bruising her insides with every downward thrust. She watched his face, watching the way his eyes rolled back as he took her. She was not gentle. She drove herself down onto him, her cunt gripping him tight.
"Harder," he gruted, his hands flying to her waist to guide her descent. "Don't be so polite. Be meaner."
"You want me to be mean?" she asked, her voice a ragged edge. She leaned forward, her breasts swinging with the movement. She began to bounce on him, her pussy slapping against his pubic bone with a wet, rhythmic sound. "You want to be punished for being late?"
She increased the pace, her thrusts becoming violent and jagged. She was no longer the composed student; she was a woman driving a man to the brink of madness. She felt the ache in her hips, the way her cunt clutched at him with every stroke. She watched him lose himself, his head tossing from side to side as he took her deep, deep inside.
"You're not a favour," he choked out, his hands sliding up to her thighs, pulling her down even harder. "You're not a fucking favour."
"Don't say it," she commanded, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. She felt the build of a climax, the pressure in her womb reaching a breaking point. She drove her cock-filled cunt against him, her movements frantic and hungry. "Keep the lie alive, Harry. Tell yourself this is just a favour."
She leaned down, her lips brushing his ear, her voice a low, serrated whisper. She narrated it as a favour and descended into truth by the middle.