
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3149186.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/F
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Bellatrix_Black_Lestrange/Ginny_Weasley
  Character:
      Bellatrix_Black_Lestrange, Ginny_Weasley
  Additional Tags:
      Mind_Control, Corsetry, Masturbation, Oral_Sex, Vaginal_Fisting
  Stats:
      Published: 2004-08-27 Words: 1099
****** With Honey ******
by mayhap
Summary
     Bellatrix knows what she wants and how to get it. Ginny thinks she
     can't be trapped, until it's too late.
Notes
     Written for the first wave of the pornish_pixies Fantasy fest for
     prix_etoile, who requested "Bellatrix/Ginny mind control and corsets.
     ;)"
She pieced it together of silk and dragonhide, stitching the long columns of
tiny runes late into the night instead of sleeping, pricking her bony fingers
with the needle as she grew tired and clumsy, making little sounds, not of pain
or frustration, but of satisfaction as her blood bound up and reinforced the
magic. No one asked her what she was doing—not Rodolphus, not the Dark Lord
himself as she sat in council with him, needle flashing in and out the whole
time. They were too afraid to ask, she thought, and that thought pleased her
too.
                                       ❦
She had believed with her whole heart what she had told Harry, or she wouldn’t
have said it. She thought she would know if someone was in her mind; she would
know by the great, filthy gaps in her memory, like the ones that Tom left when
he had overmastered her and made her fetch his basilisk.
There are things, though, that she has forgotten to remember that she has
forgotten them. Stolen afternoons and smothered nights when, taking her cue
from words flowing across the pages, she learnt that sexual pleasure was not
just something for other girls, older girls, given to them behind closed doors
by boys; it was something she could take for herself, right there, right then,
right hand slipping into her cunt, left hand seeking out her nipples, groping
for the right touch. She doesn’t remember who taught her that; no shame, so
self-loathing, just self-knowledge when she gets herself off in a quiet moment
in whatever solitude she can claw out for herself.
                                       ❦
Not even her Rodolphus knew; she scarcely even allowed herself to remember that
during her third year at Hogwarts, she masturbated almost every night to the
thought of Guinevere Weasley, a seventh year girl in Gryffindor House of all
the things in the world. There were other people, boys and girls, that she
looked at, but it was Gwen, all soft curves and flaming hair and laughing eyes,
who made her wet, bypassing her reason and the dictates of society and going
straight to her cunt.
One person had known, of course. He had looked right into her and divined all
her secrets while she met his cold, cold eyes with her own, and he had informed
her that she would kill the red-haired Gryffindor to prove her loyalty. And she
had, without so much as a second thought. She had been certain, when they
dragged her screaming from the courtroom, that Azkaban could hold no terrors
for her, but she had not quite been correct; the glory days of her youth had
been tarnished by the Dementors’ filthy claws and here she was, pale and drawn
and dry and longing again to burn.
                                       ❦
“Where are you off to in such a tearing hurry?” an elderly wizard demanded as
he steadied her with one hand and brushed off his robes with the other.
“Off to meet somebody,” she answered, vaguely, but telling him all she knew.
The answer would not have been good enough at home, of course, but she had
managed to evade the notice of her family. Her hand on the clock lingered
momentarily on “mortal peril”, but then flitted innocuously over to “on a
date”. She didn’t know where she was going, yet she found her way.
                                       ❦
The room was bare save for an old-fashioned four-poster bed, the corset lying
on top of the heavy quilt, the mirrors on the wall, and Bellatrix Lestrange
herself. Naked. Waiting.
Ginevra Weasley manipulated the lock on the door with her hands and entered
like one in a dream. If Gwen had lived, she would have seen herself reflected
in her niece, Bellatrix noted again, and then she shook off the memories as
Ginny shucked off her robes, artless and unashamed. She stepped over to the bed
and took a post in her hands, bracing herself. Following wordless orders.
Bellatrix came up behind her, cupping a small, soft breast lightly in each
hand. Ginny moaned, soft and low, exactly as Bella had always dreamed of. She
clasped the girl tightly, pressing herself against her and kneading her
breasts, roughly, violently.
“Ohh,” Ginny begged, “Oh, stop teasing. Put it on, now, now.”
Bellatrix allowed one hand to linger, clasped around Ginny’s left nipple before
she acquiesced. It was ready, laces loosened, hooks undone, impregnated with
Dark Magic created to mould women, to bend them to one’s will. Bellatrix
fastened each hook herself, slowly, teasing Ginny’s right ear with her tongue
as she worked. Ginny sucked air and Bellatrix watched her face intently in the
mirror as she pulled hard and even on the laces.
“Tighter,” Ginny whimpered, softly, as the unyielding plates in their silken
confines lent her a new shape of someone’s ideal, waist compressed, breasts
formed into cleavage. Bellatrix felt her arousal gathering as she spanned her
long, slender fingers about the girl’s waist, measuring her progress. Tighter
and tighter she pulled until she was satisfied, and then she spread herself out
on the bed.
Ginny came to her immediately and bent her pretty red head, brushing her lips
against the opening of Bellatrix’s labia. Like a perfect dream-lover Ginny
suckled and licked and felt with her fingers, and Bellatrix came for the first
time wish a shudder and a sigh. Then Ginny sat, the unnatural stiffness of her
spine forcing on her a strange grace, and began to tease more slowly with those
fingers, pressing them together, forcing them deeper. Her little, shallow
breaths with each thrust sparked Bellatrix’s clit as surely as her fingers, and
as she worked her fist in, slowly, millimeter by millimeter, she began to moan.
Orgasm rocked her as Ginny drew her fist out again, long and loud and fantasy
pitch-perfect, just as Bellatrix demanded.
Now she wrapped her hands around Ginny’s waist and threw her down on the bed
like a rag doll. She had never expected to be so aroused by the unmistakable
smell of another woman, but Ginny was tantalizing and slightly sweet on her
tongue. She made her come, again and again until it was painful, with her
tongue and her fingers and her mind. As Ginny sobbed, she got herself off again
with the touches of her fingers.
When she was finished, she cleaned herself of every whorish trace and put on
her robes and found the portkey she had prepared in her pocket. She stood, with
one arm supporting Ginny, before the Dark Lord and his inner circle.
“Is this,” she asked, “the girl that you lot couldn’t get?”
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