A Confession by Hermione G.

BY : Scarlett-Pimpernel
Category: Harry Potter > General > General
Dragon prints: 37167
Disclaimer: DISCLAIMER: This project is based on and features characters and content that I do not own, nor is the content monetized by me. I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Year Four: Time for Sex

Regarding the Magic of Pubescence

The fantasy that recurs throughout my early school years: the Professor, that enigmatic cipher, strides to the head of the cold, musty classroom, bright bars of morning light fall across his body creating a sense of incarceration. Chills run up my torso in response to the rich sonic vibrations as his voice reverberates off of the stone walls, causing my nipples to stiffen. He pronounces himself our instructor in the practice of the Sexual Arts. He asks for a volunteer. Of course, my hand pops up reflexively. He names me in a voice oozing malice. I eagerly move to the head of the class. The Professor instructs me to step onto a stool. He pulls up my skirt unceremoniously and yanks down my plain, bleached panties. I stand there before the class, gazing out at my peers whose attitudes run the gamut from ambivalence to interest to snickering mockery. He proceeds with a lecture demonstration on the peccant parts of the Female, including the insertion of an old, worn wooden dildo, fashioned in the likeness of a teen-scale penis.

The fantasy twists and turns over time, but invariably, other students are called up to experiment on me. Most frequently, these are foes or detractors, but occasionally, my friends are enlisted to humiliate me sexually or simply deflower me. In my favorite variation on this theme, the Professor himself takes me in front of the class until the bell sounds and the students file out in a desultory shuffle to the next class. It is a fantasy in which I sometimes indulge during actual class times; school robes provide a wonderful cover for secretive fingering. Hormones addled us all. I cannot claim to be unique in that regard. Even so, I became aware that my preoccupation with matters sexual tended to the extreme and obsessive. This suspicion was confirmed when, during a session of palm reading, Professor T, when addressing my ‘love line’ - a unit of geometry quite important to us budding tweens - became more than a little flustered.

“Oh, oh my, your love line, is to say the least, quite… erm, ramose.” From that time on, she held me in strange regard.

In the popular telling, I am known as a pedantic prude, a bookworm. However, in addition to that admittedly valid, though exaggerated, - stereotype, I also lived many other lives: sexual and secret. Though diverse, these ghostly personae all generated from the same well-spring: the age-old magic by which Mother Nature transforms Girl into Woman. When the power of puberty seized me, in addition to an obsession with all matters sexual, I developed a burning desire to become a proficient in the sexual arts. For me, sexuality lurked in all facets of the magical practice which, at the core, celebrates the dark impulses of nature and equips the practitioner with the power to indulge them. The sexual components of many, many, events that are now part of the popular record of the magical world have been carefully purged or purified. But nature cannot be purified, decontaminated or scrubbed.

My sexual awakening occurred in the summer before my fourth year at School and the incidents surrounding the so-called “Goblet of Fire” (which became a private code name for my quim and particularly apt following extended bouts of fucking, orgy-sport, or when suffering a touch of the clap). Home alone for long, lazy summer days while my parents toiled away at their dental practice, I became absolutely fixated upon the changes in my body, the meager sprouts of hair and breasts, but most especially with my quim. I discovered first print pornography in an expansive collection hidden in the garage, and then a bottomless pit of filth via the World Wide Web. It captivated me for hour upon hour since, thanks to the use of the Time Turner. That fantastic gift from Headmaster allowed me to effectively double my course load during the previous year. Now, it allowed me to conduct another intimate course of study: I could dial back the hours and conduct lewd studies in a parallel dimension of time while my pedantic persona studied another incantation or recipe for potion.

My dear parents, being medicos, laid things out to me in straightforward, clinical fashion and even set me on The Pill in due time. As an only child, I had no older siblings from whom I could glean an early baptism in sexuality. Nor was I an “early bloomer,” one of the handful of peers that had sprouted breasts, bragged of their menses, and their sexual exploits with upperclassmen. A steady diet of porn led to bouts of self-exploration in which I expanded upon the accidental clitoral stimulation that had occurred in random childhood settings such as riding a pony at a birthday party. Mastering the achievement of the clitoral orgasm, I graduated to penetrative exercise. In what I am convinced to be an intimate practice of witches since time immemorial, my wand was one of the first objects to breach my vagina after curious fingers. I believe that is was no mere accident that the particular pattern of ridges carved into the handle of my wand felt perfectly delightful as it slid in and out of my body. Having breached my hymen, I expanded my repertoire to objects of all shapes and sizes, from vegetables and gourds to dildoes found in my mother’s private stash. I found I could place myself on the floor at the foot of a large, standing mirror, angled downward, thus presenting me with an excellent view of her pink, ribbed dildo as I worked it in and out of my hungry, young hole. I look back quite fondly on that time, those languid hours of self-exploration as well as its essential naughtiness. At that time was born in me a sense of daring and transgression, the thrill of forbidden exercise that has haunted me even to this day.

The train ride carrying me to my fourth year was a particularly sexually charged voyage. Always the stuff of excitement and fantasy, a hefty dose of hormones and teen lust carried me to an altogether higher plane of emotion, a secondary set of phantom tracks. The vibrations of the thundering engine and rattling cars traveled directly to my aching clitoris. I sought whatever remedy I could by shifting myself about, compressing my thighs and sneaky fingering, but finally was forced to retreat to a cramped cubicle of the WC where I was able to masturbate in earnest in that piss-scented box. The classmates that gathered for beginning of fourth term were not the same ones to whom I had bade farewell to a few short months before. Puberty had transformed everyone in sound, shape and demeanor. The changes in my body were relatively slight. I retained a tomboy frame, even to this day, though I am happy to say my breasts did develop somewhat over the years. The evolution of my mindset was dramatic, however, as I have said: I was simply obsessed with sex. Coincidentally, sex stalked the halls of school like another supernatural creature, holding a pent-up set of adolescents of both sexes within its stone bosom, rife with hidden nooks, crannies, passages and alcoves of all sorts. Whole classes of students tramped down corridors while mere feet away, wizards and witches fucked like weasels. The castle was host to constant sexual dalliances. I have no gift or personality for seduction or coquetry. Rather my insatiable lust was guided by an academic desire to learn all aspects of the art or craft of love making. For me, coitus signified a vast field of research.

Obsessed though I was, it took certain fateful accidents to set me on the path. My fantasies of deflowering were not of the romantic nature. The handsome wizard or Hollywood Movie Star would not step out of the screen and take me in the darkened theatre or pull me onto the exotic set to ravish me. My fantasies tended to center around humiliation or hemi-demi-semi rape. Mostly, I fantasized about adult men. A teacher would take me as part of detention or punishment. A family friend would take me in the cramped confines of a luxury auto. So, it is probably not an accident that my first real sexual experience was shocking and assaultive in nature, perhaps conjured up by my own imaginings, my secret yearning for violation. A mere week after start of fourth year, I was passing one of the many alcoves after the last class of the day. I heard the hissing whisper of an incantation and I was hit by a magical force. My body became instantly rigid as the momentum of my walk, the weight of my bag of books propelled me forward and I fell to the stone floor like a tree felled in a forest. Stunned, perplexed, and immobile, I was helpless as my legs were seized and I was dragged into the dark recess of the alcove and around a corner. Flipped onto my back, I was confronted with three familiar and loathsome figures standing over me, their faces painted with hideous grins of satisfaction: DM and his two cronies.

“It’s payback time, Mudblood!”

They pulled open their robes and unfastened their trousers, then, each fellow withdrew his penis. The bestial shafts of flesh seemed to fix me in a myopic stare before beginning to spout streams of urine. The three little bastards pissed on my face. My eyes, frozen open, stung as the acidic, bitter urine. My mouth, frozen open in surprise was filled to overflowing. I seethed with rage - and something more: keen arousal. They emptied their bladders and snickered in satisfaction. The shame, the assaultive, acidic streams of humiliation seared into my memory and psyche - as a determined reader of this volume will come to appreciate.

But they were not finished.

They pulled my robe open, yanked up my sweater and tore open my blouse.

“Pitiful excuse for teats!”

They pulled up my skirt. I still wore panties at this time, and these were pulled down, my pussy exposed.

“‘Ere, smells like fish!”

One fellow rubbed his cock over my breasts. I gaped in fascination at my first encounter with actual male members as they transformed before my eyes from execratory to fornicatory objects. I cannot say that I was ever ambivalent about the penis. It fascinated me from my earliest recollection, as physical reality and symbol: the profound alien, squishy ugliness that magically transfigures into a jutting projection, indignant and hungry for conquest.

I expected to be raped; I am sure they would have done, but for the fact that the rigidity of my limbs precluded the spreading of legs and access to my quim. One fellow, however, my particular nemesis and the ringleader was not willing to give up so easily. He wormed his hand between my frozen legs and forced a finger into my breach. I considered this moment, this violation to be the terminus of my virginity and, I reckon I may now fairly state, an obsessive relationship with the violator. He withdrew his digit and then they began to jerk off over me. A detached part of me marveled at the way each handled his appendage. The first of them to flog his member to climax emptied himself on my chest. The second, whose aim was superior, managed my neck and chin. The third, my nemesis, did not miss. He deposited a considerable load all over my face, exulting all the while. My eyes, clouded over, I could not see, but rather heard their hushed voices and the shuffling of clothing and then they were gone.

But my ordeal was far from over.

There I lay, still paralyzed - petrified -  covered in their discharge, consumed with rage and other complex emotions, dreading discovery by a passer-by. Little by little, I felt control seeping back into my nerves as the effects of the spell wore off. Finally, I was able to move, roll over and stand, albeit stiffly. I wiped my face with my robe, but realized that something had to be done. The nearest shelter was the seldom-used second floor girls’ bathroom. Peering out of the alcove, I saw no one and so moved with dispatch and entered the WC. However, in my haste and pre-occupation, I neglected to recall the frequent inhabitant of that notorious room.

“Someone’s been quite naughty!”

I shrieked in surprise. There beside me at the sink was the apparition known as Moaning Myrtle.

“I know what that is! Quite the little slut, aren’t we?”

I protested that I was not.

“Calm down. I shan’t tell. We girls can keep a secret. I know all about such things.”

I washed my face and then related the recent happenings.

“Not to worry,” she said, quickly shifting to a comforting tone. “You simply say the old pipe burst while you were washing up!”

“Well, that’s better than saying I had been doused in piss and spunk by a trio of perverts!”

A moment passed and then we burst into a tandem peal of laughter. The emotion of the episode flooded from me along with tears of mirth. It took some time for the ghostly girl and me to regain composure.

“How do you come to know all about such things, Myrtle?” I ventured to ask.

“Come back tomorrow night and we’ll talk!” she said with a very knowing wink.

At first, I dismissed her comment and the whole incident. But as the hours of the following day wore on, my natural curiosity got the better of me and I found myself slipping into the secluded washroom that evening by way of the Time Turner to ensure time for a lengthy interview.

“The story, of course, is that I moan out of grief for my untimely demise, right here in this washroom!” said Myrtle as she launched into her tale. I had the nickname long before I died! I reckon you could say I was somewhat notorious.”

“And what was the nature of this notoriety,” I asked. I did not enjoy her teasing manner but realized the importance of playing along if I was to hear the truth.

“Why, for entertaining all the boys, you see.”

“You mean, as in snogging?”

“Oh, that and much more. Snogging, humping, shagging. Couldn’t get enough of it! I am soooo naughty!” But far from ashamed, she simply reveled in her statement. “I’m always up for it!” she added. “I like girls as well.”

Myrtle pulled up her skirt, and though only semi-corporeal, I was presented with an excellent view of her private parts. She wore no knickers and she was quite hairy. The Wizarding World in general is antiquated in terms of style and fashion. Though it has evolved somewhat in recent years, it is still quite common to find witches with impressive growths of hair under their arms and between their legs. Perched on a sink, she parted her legs and spread herself to afford me a full view of her sex.

“Now you show me yours…”

Without  a second thought, I stood and removed my undies, then sat and pulled up my skirt. Not nearly as hairy! Inspired by the many pictures and videos I had seen over the Internet, I had taken to trimming my pubes.

“Oh, that’s lovely,” she said as she began to play with herself, rubbing her nexus of pleasure in tightly controlled, well-practiced, circular motions. I followed suit.

“You…made love with…lots of boys?”

“Oh, I don’t know about love. But I certainly tumbled more than a few! Even a professor or two!” Her laugh became a moan.

“Yes, I can see now where you get the nickname.”

She continued to ooze sultry sound as she frigged herself. It infected me profoundly, heightening my own senses and sensations until we came within moments of one another.

“That was lovely,” she said. “But it was one boy that was my downfall. I was stupid and fell in love with him. I let him do anything to me even poke me in my bottom hole… And then…. And then he killed me!”

knew, of course, of whom she spoke.

“Oh yes!” she continued. “We would meet right here in this water closet!”

“So, he knows right where you would be when he unleashed that monster.”

“Yes indeed, the little bastard! The shite!” she spat, before suddenly softening to add: “But oh, he was a fabulous lover. Maybe even worth dying for.” After a pensive moment and with a highly confessional tone, she continued: “But that wasn’t quite the end of things…”

“How so, Myrtle?” Of course, I knew she was teasing me, but I could not let such a comment pass. “Whatever can you mean? You were, erm, dead, were you not - if I may be so blunt.”

“Oh, dead, indeed - but not as a door nail. There are many kinds of death, you see. Some of us hang around as ghosts because we simply cannot shake off the ties to this silly world. When a basilisk gets you, you are first paralyzed, of course and then you simply drift off, you see? It was like being in a dark, dreamy world, you see? Corridors and such. Quite similar to the castle, really, but it’s hard to explain, the world shifted about and it was full of echoey sounds… But I was disconnected, you see… It was as if I still had a body, I could look down and see it, though I expect I was really just a ghost at that point, but it seemed to me I still had a body, and yet I knew my real body was somewhere else - because I could feel it, you see! In any case, I wasn’t quite sure that I was dead. I thought that perhaps, something magical was going on.”

“Right, I reckon that makes sense.”

“Now, when someone cops it here at the castle, you see, they generally put you down in the basement where it is quite cool - along with all the vegetables and perishables, adjacent to the kitchens. If needed, those horrid little elf beasties toss in some ice for good measure. So, when they were quite sure I was dead, they trundled me down there while they took care of the sad business of notifying my parents and such. Once you’re dead, of course, you stiffen up for a number of hours, but then that goes away and you’re just a bag of bones and flesh, ready to rot away.
“And so, I was aware of my body being jostled about, and my hair being brushed a bit, and then nothing…for quite a while… And then I heard his voice.” Her demeanor had changed from playful to solemn. I felt a chill down my spine as she continued: “A corridor seemed to reveal itself to me and so I followed it along to a big wooden door and I passed right through! There he was standing over a sheet-covered lump, which was, of course, my body. And he was rubbing himself through his trousers! He seemed quite upset, actually. He pulled off the sheet - and there I was! My body, that is, as naked as he day I was born. He was sorry, he said, that I had died and that it was an accident - though a necessary one. I remembered this made me quite cross. But then he said he would miss me horribly, and our time together - the things I did to him. And he said he would always remember me and someday he would find a way that he could simply bring people back from the dead. In fact, he swore an oath that he would bring me back! And then, he took down his trousers and - oh, he was oh-so, beautiful, you understand? His willy and his perfect cods, all full of sweet stuff! How I loved to suck it down! Then he sort of fell over my body - and I could feel his touch, his kisses and even his tears leaking across my breasts. I wanted so much to enfold him in my arms… but I  couldn’t move. And in spite of his warmth, my arousal, everything was quite cold. He moved his tongue across my flesh, and he began rubbing himself on me - he had grown so, so stiff! He became quite agitated, you see, and he pushed my legs apart and, oh, my coochie, was spread wide open for him. And he buried his face there. And he worked and worked and worked his tongue in me like a madman. He became even more agitated and he prowled about the room. I wasn’t sure why until I saw him take up a pot of duck fat and he greased my thighs and my cunny with it, as well as his willy! And then, he put himself it into my dead body! There I was, watching him violate my corpse, horrified, yet horribly excited. And he became quite rough, he was thrusting into me ever-so-forcefully. I think he was quite frustrated that my body was a just an inert lump. But as he lay on top of me, he began to nibble on my nipples, and he began to moan. Then, he began to bite my flesh, gently, at first and then quite savagely, leaving horrible marks and…well…”

The ghost shuddered as she recalled the affair.

“Finally, it was over. He emptied himself inside me and then he just left my body like that - legs apart, his stuff leaking out of me. He wanted me to be discovered like that. He wanted them to see how he had desecrated my body.”

Myrtle and I continued to meet regularly after that, sharing our fantasies as we masturbated together. I confessed my perversions (which were still rather mundane at the time) while Myrtle shared her particular penchants for bondage and, not surprising for a ghost that haunted a water closet, sexual games centering around urination that presaged my own. In order to assuage her loneliness, I would, in times to come, engineer liaisons in the washroom, which, because of her haunting, was generally avoided by students, and so came to serve as a secure bower for my fornicatory experiments.

My complex emotions following the assault by that evil trio distilled, unexpectedly, into a paradoxical frame of vulnerability as well as a sense of power, that rose, phoenix-like out of the ashes of degradation. The threat of violation, the helplessness of paralysis, the looming menace of their erections thrilled me. Their hot, acidic streams of pee painted me with shame. But I recalled vividly how my exposed flesh had inspired their erections. I recalled the desperate, lust-filled expressions as they masturbated over me. Their spurts of come were abject acts of worship and surrender. I realized that it was I that wielded power over them, even as I lay prostrate. When I caught their eyes here-and-there, in the great hall at mealtime, in classrooms, or in our various comings-and-goings, I found their snickers to be arousing rather than humiliating. Had I developed a predilection for degradation? When they saw my ambivalence to their scorn, they became cowed. Over time, I perceived lust behind their insolent expressions and my sense of power swelled and swelled, a psychic erection all my own.

This sense of power was, however, to be flipped upon its head, sending me down a path of sexual exploration that would dominated my sleeping and wakign fantasies for the enxt several years.



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