InsaneJournal

Justice and the Cat Lady

                She flicked her wand at the door. "Defending Harry Potter were you? Nasty Squib."

                Mrs. Figg raised an eyebrow. "Justice should always be first in the goals of the Wizengamot, wouldn't you think?"

                "I would think, Arabella," she said softly, menacingly, "that little boys could control themselves from casting spells in Muggle neighborhoods. And with the charges from three years ago—"

                "Also justified."

                She pursed her lips. "It is not your duty to say so."

                "Yes, but I will if no one else is going to. Now, if you'd be so kind as to unlock the door, I'll be on my way."

                "Knickers down, against the sink," said Umbridge plainly.

                Arabella considered fighting it out, or yelling for someone to come to her rescue, but both would stir up trouble, and she wasn't fond of trouble. "If you're expecting a fight, you're out of luck," said Mrs. Figg, dropping her knickers and leaning back against the sink.

                "I expect justice to be served. Is that cat food in your purse, madam?"

                "Yes, it is," said Arabella, bristling. She had no idea what was meant by the wayward comment.

                "Marvelous." Casting a Scourgify and then a Cushioning Charm on the ground, she knelt, parting the Squib's legs, casting a cleansing charm up at her as well before licking a thigh. "Tell me about your cat."

                Arabella's eyes widened. Boy was this woman an odd one. "Well . . . there's . . . there's Tibbles."

                "Yes?" encouraged Umbridge, swiping her tongue across labia gently with little licks.

                "Oh . . . well, he's . . . orange . . . with stripes . . . kind of fights to assert his dominance over the house."

                There was a gentle nibbling then and she leaned backward in case her knees gave out—Lord knew her knees were bad enough already. "There's . . . Snowball. Pretty Persian sort of thing, all white. Great eyes that . . . stare into your soul . . . you know? You must have cats." The tongue became even more enthusiastic, and she moaned softly. "Well anyway . . . Snowball is stupid, but oh he's loving. Loves his catnip, goes crazy for it . . . more so than the others do."

                "There are more?" breathed Umbridge against her and the sensation sent a flutter down her spine.

                "Suppose you want to . . . hear about them too," she panted. The tongue pressed into her and her mind went blank for a moment, but it seemed to pause after a few strokes until she started talking again. "Mr. Paws is black and white. He's the youngest of the lot. Got his name . . . because . . . he presses his paws up against you . . . like little hands. Remarkably crafty with . . . those little paws. He also makes . . . noises . . . that sound almost like . . . human speech."

                Here she had to break off, because Umbridge moved a hand up to pull back the hood of her clitoris and lick it gently, but without relenting, until she was bucking and braying and certain she could take no more, no, no more, and the woman stopped, returning to pushing her tongue inside of her and lapping at anything she gave.

                "Oh, oh," she said softly as she felt her orgasm hit. It was her first in years, maybe decades and it left her quaking, weak, vulnerable in the presence of Delores Umbridge, the pink-clad devil incarnate.

                Umbridge reached for a paper towel and dabbed at her lips, standing. "Is that all? Do you have more kitties?"

                "One more," said Mrs. Figg, moving slowly after what the wicked woman had done with her tongue. "Have a look for yourself," she said digging in her purse. "His name is Tufty." She handed a picture to the woman. "He was a stray I picked up. Isn't his coloring lovely? Even if he is a bit, well, tufty. Little tufts of fur. He's cranky as all-git-out as well. If you'll let me out, you can have the picture," said Mrs. Figg hopefully.

                Umbridge flicked her wand at the door to let the woman out, then locked it behind her again, reaching into her own knickers as she looked at the moving image of the snarling, hissing cat.