Water Wings

Malavi ran a hand over her small, perfect, brown-peaked breasts and thought, what the fuck.

First of all, the client had asked for her by name...well, by description anyway...and he was notoriously someone who didn't give a toss who did him. He always just took whoever was available at the time, sat back, and watched intently while she sucked him off. Except of course for that one time a while back when she and Amanda had doubled up for him, which he seemed to enjoy quite a lot. And since the card she was looking at said, "definitely a tit man," she was at a loss to imagine why, if he was going to ask for a particular girl, he had requested her instead of Amanda, who was certainly more generously endowed in that area.

"What the fuck" number two was this business about the pool. The Wayward Wand had a modest spa area which included a small indoor swimming pool, and he had apparently requested to have his session there, instead of in one of the bedrooms. What the fuck.

And one further "what the fuck" was that Bruce wanted her to bring back some sort of souvenir. "Hair, a toenail clipping, anything," he had said, as soon as he saw the card in her hand. And then, when she raised her eyebrows and shot him a look, "No, not that. Anything else, though. Really."

"What the fuck, Bruce," she had said. "You do know that we work in a whorehouse, not a beauty salon, don't you?" She was preoccupied just now with her own inability to swim, and so had little interest in trophy-hunting for that tiresome git Bruce, especially since he steadfastly refused to say why he wanted the toenail leavings of a client he had never even met. He had offered her ten Galleons, which normally would have been enough to get her attention, but she was too busy just at the moment wondering whether a pair of water wings would be too much of a boner-killer. Besides, there was the jar with the fifty-five Galleons, which by god she meant to have, so fuck Bruce and his fucking ten-Galleon toenail.

After some thought, she pulled a long diaphanous white negligee from her closet and slipped it on. Many of her things were white, a color that showed off her dark skin to advantage. Not that it mattered, probably, since this particular client seemed immune to the charms of seductive lingerie and preferred that the girl strip off as quickly as possible. But the swimming-pool angle was new, so there was no telling, and white had the added benefit of going transparent when wet.

One other logistical problem...besides of course the insignificant little fact that she might drown...had been where to hide the lube. It wasn't as if any of her working clothes had pockets, after all, and there was no poolside table conveniently stocked with an assortment of F&B products. And even if there had been, what if he expected to fuck her out in the middle of the fucking water . . . although, come to think of it, that was hardly likely, him being the famously unfuckable potions bloke.

Zelda had come to her rescue with a little jar of time-release beads that could be inserted beforehand. "Hoist on his own petard," she said, with a little chuckle. "Not to say I think you'll succeed where so many others have failed, dear, but best of luck."

Something was definitely up. Snape seemed more impatient than usual...or perhaps it was just that he wasn't maintaining his usual façade of nonchalant indifference. He was in shirtsleeves, having apparently left his habitual frock coat in the anteroom. She walked ahead of him to show him the way to the spa, swaying deliberately and giving him a good look at her lovely, translucently-clad arse.

He removed his shoes and socks, and placed them on the low shelf just inside the door, then turned to her and began pulling open the little ribbons that fastened the negligee down the front. "Let's get this off you, shall we?" he said huskily. "I want you in the water."

"I can't swim," she said.

He seemed taken aback for a second. "Are you afraid to go in the water?"

"Not of going in the water, no, just the, you know, drowning bit at the end."

"We can stay in the shallow part. No drowning necessary." He had pushed the negligee back over her shoulders and was running his hands down her body.

Saying "we," must mean that he was planning to come in with her, so she began to unfasten the buttons of his shirt. This was not going to be the usual straightforward blowjob, apparently. He let her undress him, reaching behind her to run his fingers through her long black hair while she unbuttoned his shirt and unfastened his trousers. His hands on her were surprisingly gentle, stroking the back of her neck and lifting her hair to rub it against his face. She scraped her nails lightly down his chest and then hooked her thumbs into the waistband of his trousers, pushing them down past his hips and letting them fall to the floor. He stepped out of them and drew her to him, bending down to touch his lips to the hollow of her throat while his arms tightened around her.

She could feel the hardness of his cock against her belly. He was wearing black boxers, and she slid her hands inside them, grasping his arse and grinding her pelvis against him. So much for "no touching of the body," she thought. Zelda should just tear up that whole fucking card.

He stripped off the boxers and clasped her to him, pressing the length of his erection against her abdomen. "So soft," he murmured, his voice muffled by her hair. Malavi reached down and cupped his balls in her hand, stroking behind them gently in a come-hither motion.

He groaned softly, and she said, still stroking persuasively, "Want to fuck me in the pool, then?"

He immediately laid a finger across her lips and said, "Shhh. No talking."

Well, cross another thing off that fucking useless card, she thought, and slid her hand up around his cock.

He reached down and lifted her up so that she could wrap her legs about his waist, then carried her over to the pool and stepped down into it. He was still wearing his shirt, which was open at the front, and he stopped short of the point where his shirttail would have touched the water, lifting her gently off him and setting her down into the pool. Then he stood watching her silently while he removed his cufflinks and finished taking off his shirt. She lowered herself into the water, leaning back and shaking her hair loose so that it flowed out around her in an inky cloud.

Snape stepped back out of the pool and picked his boxers and trousers up from the tiled floor. He folded them, and his shirt, and laid all three garments on a chaise longue, setting the cufflinks carefully on top of the folded shirt. These activities afforded Malavi a generous look at his naked arse...which was, she noted, exceptionally fine. In fact, Snape was a man who looked altogether better with his clothes off than with them on. His attenuated body, its pallor in stark contrast to his black hair, would not have looked out of place in an El Greco painting. The corded muscles of his back and legs shifted as he bent forward to place the clothes on the chair, and Malavi was suddenly aware of the cool water touching her all over. She reached between her legs and parted her lips to admit it further, fingering herself gently and realizing that if things continued in this vein, the little time-release beads might prove quite redundant.

He stepped into the pool again, leaning back against the side at a point where the water came just to the tops of his thighs, and waited for her to come to him. She took her time, gliding slowly through the pool, her hair trailing out behind her and her eyes never leaving his, feeling the coolness slip between her legs as she moved.

"Suck me," he said without preamble, and reached for her.

She took the head of his cock in her mouth and ran her tongue around it, pushing the foreskin down, flicking back and forth against the underside where the head met the shaft.

"Oh, yes," he said, cupping the back of her head in one hand and pushing her gently forward. "Oh, god yes."

The water lifted her up, leaving her hands free to explore, to tease through the black curls around the base of his cock, to slide up into the cleft between his buttocks . . . and to return to her own body, slipping in between her legs even as she worked her mouth down his cock, taking it deeper and deeper and making him groan out loud.

The cool water had made his balls draw up tight against him, and she stroked them with her left hand, pinching the skin lightly over and over again between thumb and forefinger, feeling his cock pulse in her mouth and her clit swell and harden under the fingers of her right hand. Jesus Christ, she wanted to fuck him.

"Oh, fuck," he said, closing his eyes. "Oh, fucking Christ, fucking shit fuck."

She pressed her crotch up against his knee and ground shamelessly against him, opening her throat and taking his cock as far as it would go, breathing in the sharp smoky odor of him mixed with the chlorine of the pool. She was close, so close, and she could taste that he was, too, and she was conscious only of her desperation to have him inside her when she released him from her mouth and scrambled upward, determined to impale herself on him, to feel that cock inside of her, to bear down on him and find her release.

But it was too late. Even as he left her mouth he was starting to come, and with a hoarse cry he threw his head back and grasped his cock in his fist and pumped out one jet of semen after another, hot and sticky between her belly and his.

She turned her face up to his. "Please," she said. "Please."

He looked silently at her, breathing heavily.

"Make me come," she said. "Please."

He turned her around and held her in front of him, one arm under her breasts, then lowered himself into the water until she was floating between his spread knees, her head leaned back against his shoulder. He reached one long finger between her legs and began circling it over her clit, gently at first, and then harder as she bucked and writhed under his hand. "Oh god," she said, "there, right there, oh please, more, harder, yes, oh god oh god oh god YES!"

And then she clutched his wrist abruptly in a gesture that said, no more.

She didn't remember the jar with the fifty-five Galleons in it until she was dressed and dry and lying exhausted on her bed. Foiled again, she thought with a little laugh . . . and then realized that there were ten Galleons at least that she by the gods could have, and took a pair of scissors and snipped a small lock off her still-damp hair and tied it with a piece of thread.

Because what Bruce didn't know wouldn't hurt him.