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LONG: ‘Woman Eater’, Pansy/Hermione, RATED NC-17
Utterly filthy pr0n written for the Femslash Challenge. In fact, this is possibly the porniest thing I’ve ever written. Un-beta’ed as of now, but I will edit it later.

Summary: Uh. Slut!Pansy and AmbiguouslyMotivated!Hermione. This is just porn, folks. It has no redeeming value whatsoever and is my first foray into detailed, explicit femslash written as a PWP (rather than as part of a larger fic). Hence, this sucks. Metaphorically speaking. Feel free to tell me just how much, yeah?

Warnings: Explicit sexual intercourse, foul language and insufferable adolescent egos.

Notes: For the noble purpose of Kink, I have decided that the Hogwarts prefects don’t have to wear robes when they patrol after normal school hours. Just good old shirts and skirts, thank you. It might also seem that Hermione’s a tad too submissive, but remember that this story is through a Slytherin’s skewed POV. Pansy might not be the one in control after all…

Woman Eater

Pansy Parkinson likes the taste of cunt. It sounds vulgar when she thinks of it like that, but it sounds good too, like all wrong things do. Pansy’s always been clever with her mouth-or rather, as her father says, with mouthing off-so it’s only right that Pansy’s good at this too, good at licking and sucking and eating all there is to eat between a girl’s trembling thighs.

Pansy Parkinson likes being in control. That’s why she shoves Hermione Granger up against the toilet wall, sneering at Granger’s wince of pain-at the inner shudder she senses under Granger’s skin, the hatred for doing this here, doing this dirty, with the faint stench of urine around them and muddy scuff-marks on the tiles. It’s appropriate, after all-a Mudblood in the midst of all this filth-and poor widdle Gryffindors don’t like filthy things, do they, even if their cunts are already wet with greed, pulsing like little mouths? Granger’s wet too, Pansy can smell it-right up here, rising heady as the scent of earth after rain.

It’s no surprise, anyway. Granger knows what to expect-her body’s tuned to it, thrumming like a harp under that prim school skirt. And blouse. White. The Prefect’s badge glints in an angry wink of gold, so utterly, uselessly fierce on the soft rise of Granger’s breast. Pansy’s own badge shines in silver-green, a mark of her status-that they’re both here, that they’re both allowed to be here, and wouldn’t it be nice if McGonagall knew what her golden girl was doing when she was meant to be monitoring the corridors? That proper Miss Granger ten points to Gryffindor is arching her throat to a Slytherin’s hungry mouth, letting a Slytherin’s palms cradle her breasts and run rough thumbs over hard, cotton-covered nipples?

Granger doesn’t kiss-just like a whore-and Pansy doesn’t think, of course she doesn’t, about who Granger does want to kiss. But she makes sure to pay it back in thousands of little ways, by tugging just that bit too hard on the dark brown, wiry curls between Granger’s legs, drawing tears from Granger’s eyes-or letting teeth bite a little too ungently on a sore and swollen nipple. It feels good here, with her fingers down Granger’s damp panties, knuckles pressed tight against the confining fabric and forearm lifting the weight of that perfectly pleated wool skirt-it feels good to hear Granger’s breathy little whimper as Pansy sucks on her nipple, tasting the salt-sweet skin hardened and warm beneath her tongue. Granger likes to pretend that this isn’t happening-or rather, that it isn’t her fault-so she gives very little in terms of reciprocation-she doesn’t twine her fingers in Pansy’s hair and push her face down like some girls do, arching their hips hungrily. Granger likes to pretend that she’s actually pure, that this is just something being done to her-but Pansy makes sure to pull her out of this as well, to make Granger feel so good that she forgets, that she ends up writhing and twisting like the slut she really is.

Granger doesn’t kiss, turning her face aside at any approach, but Pansy feeds herself elsewhere-on Granger’s breasts that shine with spit and sweat, nipples red and swollen against the upwards rasp of Pansy’s tongue. She feeds herself on the demure collarbone where Granger’s brown hair clings damp and limp with sweat-and on Granger’s clean, fresh-tasting shoulder, skin firm and strong as a young peach so that she just has to bite. She doesn’t bother taking Granger’s shirt all the way off, and neither does Granger-it’s bunched conveniently around Granger’s elbows, so that if Pansy were to step away for a moment and look, she’d see a girl half-naked and rumpled and ravaged. But the thought is enough for now, and Pansy leaves off suckling Granger’s breasts when Granger makes that high, needy sound and jerks her hips-ah, there it is, the signal, the admission that Granger’s here, that Granger wants this, wants her, that Granger isn’t thinking of anyone or anything but Pansy’s clever tongue, and how she wants it in her cunt instead of here, on her chest, where saliva cools and raises little goosebumps on Granger’s skin.

That’s the language Pansy understands, and it’s almost as good as if Granger said, like the others: Fuck me. Please. It’s almost as good as Granger admitting she’s a whore too.

Pansy smirks and watches Granger’s face flush-but Granger doesn’t look away, because she knows from past experience that Pansy will stop if she does. And so it goes: the familiar rustle as Pansy lifts those lovely, pleated skirts out of the way and kneels-as sinuous and easeful as her House symbol, relishing the gritty bite of the floor’s dirt against her knees. Granger’s gasping already, mouth slightly open and eyes glassy-oh, Granger knows what she’s getting, and that’s why she’s here, isn’t it. To get sucked off by Pansy Parkinson, Woman Eater of Slytherin.

Pansy runs her tongue along each of Granger’s thighs in broad, warm swipes, feeling them quiver. Granger’s smell is even stronger here: thick and heavy like the ocean, sharpened with a tang of sweat. It’s so lovely, this smell, that it makes Pansy’s mouth water-and it’s so easy then to lean forward and plant a kiss on those dark blue panties, opening her mouth until she’s breathing through the fabric, pressing and pressing with her hot mouth until she feels Granger shudder and the cloth under her tongue become soaked with her own saliva and Granger’s juices. Delicious. Granger’s scent drowns everything here, everything. Pansy’s eager now, hands almost fumbling as she drags Granger’s sodden underwear down and lets it slap wetly against Granger’s knees-leaving Pansy facing a triangle of brown, as bushy as the brown above, unruly like a wild garden patch and so very perfect for snakes. The lips of Granger’s labia are already moist and hungry, closed like falsely shy, demure little things-but Pansy raises two fingers, just two, and slides them between those lips slickly, hearing Granger moan as the folds separate, red curtains parting for the stage.

The sight of Granger starts a deep hunger in Pansy’s belly, so that her own body grows wet in response. Empathy. So red, so flushed, so beautiful. Not as flushed as she will be, though. It takes a bit of self control not to just open her mouth and feast-to thrust her tongue into that wet heat and tease that little clitoris into painful arousal. No. Pansy doesn’t want to go too fast, doesn’t want to approach the sensitive little peak before preparing it properly-so she kisses around it instead, small, hungry kisses that make Granger shake like a child, like a little third-year having her cunt teased for the first time. Pansy loves this-loves feeling something like innocence in Granger’s reactions, so that she herself feels corrupt, feels powerful. She slips those two fingers, previously busy holding Granger open, down and into the vagina in one quick, slick thrust-and hears Granger cry out sharply before she cuts herself off, but the sound is enough, oh, enough, and the searing heat of Granger’s body swallows around her, liquid heat gathering and pooling around Pansy’s knuckles, slipping in warm threads down to Pansy’s palm. Rainfall. Granger’s so open, so eager, muscles moving around Pansy’s fingers as if to suck them in, as though to beg for more, but Pansy doesn’t give her that yet. Granger’s clit is starting to harden, its sheath pulling back to reveal the glistening glans-emerging like a little lion from its Gryffindor cave, brave and foolish, and the thought almost makes Pansy smile. She licks around it, stimulating the hood, teasing Granger’s inner folds, tasting her. Salt. Heat. Moss. She circles and circles it until Granger’s sobbing, saying-or trying to say-something that sounds suspiciously like please-and Pansy rewards her for it by finally kissing the clitoris itself, sucking at it softly until it swells and throbs, a little hot Snitch caught under her tongue, and Granger makes those whimpering child-noises again, noises that make Pansy want to reach down and touch herself as well, fuck herself with one hand while she fucks Granger with the other.

Still, she’s generous-she uses her spare hand to keep the skirt up and lets her mouth stay busy, sucking harder and harder as she slides another finger into Granger, thrusting with the rhythm of her sucking until Granger’s swaying back and forth, slamming down on Pansy’s fingers before rising to push her clit into Pansy’s mouth-a double movement that gains in speed and momentum so that Granger’s swollen, flushed cunt is brushing back and forth over her face, just like Pansy likes it, dribbling her juices onto Pansy’s fingers and mouth. Drink.When Pansy thrusts in viciously and curls her fingers to find that spot, Granger tenses and arches like a bow, sharp, staccato cries rising suddenly from her throat, and Pansy only thrusts harder at that, sucks harder and harder until Granger comes, a startled ‘Ah!’ piercing the air. Her vagina tightens like a hot vise around Pansy’s fingers, pulling them in, pulsing again and again and releasing a flood of rich-sweet salt that fills Pansy’s palm and mouth, until Granger’s voice goes sore and cracked with calling out and ends on a thin whine, a sharp jerk of her hips as her muscles contract and her thighs press around Pansy’s face, suddenly too close for comfort and sweaty and hot and tight. Smothering.

Granger’s knees begin to buckle, as is usual after one of her orgasms-and Pansy stands up immediately, face and hands glistening with Granger’s juices and knees sore from the floor. She shoves Granger tighter against the wall, pinning her there with her hips, and pulls Granger’s left hand down under her own skirt.

It doesn’t take long to come, humping Granger’s palm, forcing it tight against her clit and Granger’s fingers into her cunt-it doesn’t take long with her face shoved into Granger’s neck, moaning, as Granger turns her own face away and lets Pansy guide her hand. So lax. So easy. Pansy hates it for a moment, hates the glaze of sated and guilty denial in Granger’s eyes, and she thinks that she’ll bite Granger when she comes, yes, right on that glistening, lovely, sweat-slick neck-but she’s coming before she has the time to complete the thought, complete the image, and then everything goes white for an instant, burning and buzzing and eating up her vision, and she’s coming and coming and coming, making soft, embarrassing noises of her own that she muffles in Granger’s shoulder, mouth full of bushy brown hair.

Granger pulls her hand out afterwards, slow and wet and sticky, translucent strands clinging to Pansy’s underwear as Granger withdraws her fingers. It’s easy then, dizzy and hot with orgasm and still feeling her vagina ripple and contract, to pull Granger’s hand to her mouth this time, licking it dry and tasting herself, tasting her own come.

Granger’s eyes widen at that, her face still flushed red from her own orgasm-and something about that makes Pansy want to kiss her, very badly, to sink her tongue into that mouth and give the girl a taste, to lick her up here just like Pansy has down there. But Granger only turns away again when Pansy leans in-and the bitter, burning rage of it strikes so sharp that Pansy slams Granger against the wall again, only much harder than she had last time, grinding Granger’s shoulders into the stone until Granger finally snarls-oh, that sound-and shoves back, toppling Pansy away from her as she steps out of the toilet, pulling up her knickers and doing up her blouse. A quick murmur of spells-Granger’s always so clever with Charms-and Granger looks almost as she had before: skirts neat and pleated and shirt not at all rumpled. Hair no longer wild. Only her eyes are still fever-bright, her face still tinged with sweat and heat-but that will fade by the time she makes it up to Gryffindor tower, to her innocent little friends who know nothing of this, to someone among them that Granger does kiss, does want to kiss.

At least Granger does Pansy the courtesy of repeating the cleaning spells on her as well-and then she’s saying ‘Good night’, just like that, just like that, the bitch, and all the other girls ask Pansy to stay

‘Fuck off,’ Pansy replies, her voice strangely hoarse-and Granger gives her a sharp look before leaving, as though saying ten points from Slytherin for foul language, and it’s so ridiculous, so fucking ridiculous that Pansy laughs, laughs in the empty toilets after Granger has gone, leaning her head back against the hard tiles and shaking.

She stops laughing abruptly when she steps outside, though, smoothing her hair even though she doesn’t need to-and something’s burning in the pit of her stomach like bile-maybe it’s Granger’s come, Granger’s poisonous Mudblood come, roiling in there and making Pansy hungry for something she can’t have.

But that’s absurd-because Pansy’s the Woman Eater of Slytherin, and she can have anyone she wants.

Anyone at all.


Please review.

Author’s note: Um, yes, Pansy Parkinson probably has sucked off ickle third-year girls. I might want to write that one day…

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