(something different for anon)
Ginny backs against the wall of Mytle’s, distancing herself from Tom, who is glaring furiously at her. “You dare defy me?” he hisses as her naked back hits a mirror – she recoils slightly at the cool touch – and she cringes. Her attempt to move away from him fails as he crosses the small bathroom; Tom’s long fingers wrap around her throat as his lips claim hers in bruising anger.
“I- I’m sorry,” Ginny chokes out between kisses, if they can be called that: kisses are tender, and Tom is anything but as his tongue ravages her mouth unrelentingly.
His fingers tighten slightly around her neck, and Ginny knows she’s going to need heavy concealing magic tomorrow to cover the bruises. “Master,” he prompts, and bites down on her bottom lip.
“I’m sorry, master,” she breathes obediently, grappling helplessly at the sink next to her. She doesn’t touch Tom; she knows the rules. He can touch her, every curve and flaming lock, but Ginny does what she’s told, and she doesn’t dare go against that when he’s angry.
The kiss softens slightly, but not so much so that she can’t feel every inch of his body pressed against hers – the cloth of his old uniform is itchy against her skin, but she doesn’t complain. “Good girl.”
Tom releases her throat and backs away from her, his movements anything but awkward. “You can leave,” he says as Ginny pants against the mirror, “but I expect you tomorrow.” She nods in understanding, and reaches for her blouse, grimacing at the missing buttons. When she raises her head, he’s gone.
