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A Confession by Hermione G.	By : Scarlett_Pimpernal Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 45315 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
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.

Chapter List
- 10
- 11
- 12
Year Five: The Hogsmeade Madam - part 1
Whoredom hiding in plain sight. Adventures in sexual commerce.
The year progresses nicely. I am now deep enmeshed in my sexual studies and practices, juggling my little salon with the Slytherins, a menage with other house prefects, and my servicing of AF. I have been careful to limit my activity within my own house, where my reputation as a fussy, annoying pedant remains intact – so much so, that any sluttish rumors that arise are quickly discounted amid the constant litany of anti-Muggle smears. I finish my meal and run through the customary after-dinner studies, social banter and preparation for bed, before ensconcing myself with the bed curtains. Already wet with anticipation.
I use the Time Turner and move with dispatch to the door of the Professor. This evening, he is perusing a note. He announces that Madam R of the Three Broomsticks has requested a favor: one of her girls is out sick, leaving her in a lurch, given the boom in business that began following the Tri-Wizard Tourney. Would I perhaps be willing to help her out? I am puzzled. Waiting tables at Three Broomsticks was not the way I envisioned spending my evening. As always, I was hopeful that this would be the night that the Professor would place me squarely in his sexual crosshairs and put me out of my mounting erotic misery.
However, being dutiful, of course I assented.
He scribbles a quick note, seals it and hands it to me. He remarks that there is no need to change from my school uniform and sends me on my way to Hogsmead via the secret tunnel under the Castle.
The tap room of the Three Broomsticks is about half-full; a slow, lazy, mid-week night. I climb the stairs to an upstairs lounge. Nestled at the back in a dim corner of the room was another, narrow staircase. I realize that I had never noticed it before. A major domo elf in elegant dress greets me and escorts me to a salon in which resides a handful of young women, dressed in their Hogwarts uniforms and robes. I wonder what a gaggle of students are doing here, away from school and after curfew. Then I realize that I do not recognize any of them. And they seem a bit old for students. And they seem overly friendly with their gentleman companions. Madam R appears, anxious and fussy. She bids me follow her back into her boudoir where she orders me to strip. I try to hide my surprise as I remove my clothes. She looks me up and down.
“My, but you’re a fresh young thing,” she remarks. “Count on the Professor every time. Know your way around a cock, young missy?”
In what must be a classic case of ‘hiding in plain sight’; it had never dawned on me that Madam R. was indeed Madam R and that a mere floor above the room where students innocently sipped their butter beer and pumpkin juice, lurked a bevy of doxies screwing for coin.
I had harbored many fantasies of whoredom, of course, from the high-class variety to low rent humiliation. But to be suddenly confronted with prospect of actually doing it is another matter. The Madam had assured me that her clientele was couth and clean, but I had not expected to wield such power as a whore. My first “client,” is quite meek and deferential. Things move along much better once I take charge. Would he like to peek at my fanny? Very much. Would he like to touch it? Yes, indeed. Would he mind if I sucked on his fine cock? Not at all, welcome to it. Once I have his dick in my mouth and I suck him to a pleasing state of rigidity as I gently ply the skin of his ball sack and massage the hard muscle at its root in what I come to fashion a “Hermia special.” Thus far, I find the whole affair quite enjoyable. I arrange him on his back and mount, facing him. I encourage him to play with my titties as I ride him and then, per his preference, suck him some more until he comes in my mouth.
After he leaves, purged of his tension and sporting a satisfied smile, I quickly look to my toilette before the Madam shuffles me into the company of another man. The whole process is repeated thrice more before the “shop” is closed up for the night. I lounge drowsily on the sofas with the other girls. We share a pipe of acrid weed. One by one, they are summoned into the Madam’s inner sanctum, presumably to receive their compensation, before departing. I am the last to be taken. The Madam states that she is pleased with my performance.
“I am impressed. You have a talented mouth, my dear. The Professor has taught you well. I can use someone like you.” It is obvious from her words that she spied on the encounters, either by means magical or old fashioned. She hands me a neatly wrapped roll of coins. The fancy paper and bow bring to mind a piece of candy. The matter of money had slipped my mind, so concerned had I been with doing a good job with the tasks at hand. And so, it was that I came to be a part-time prostitute. The Time Turner allowed me to lead yet another life and the extra coin came in quite handy. I had some trepidation about appearing in my own skin and so typically used the p-potion to service clients in the likeness of a particularly lovely and well-developed member of the coterie who had moved out of town, leaving a book of horny clients and a gap in the finances.
We had no sooner resolved the first night’s business than my second client – far more memorable – presented himself. The Madam, it seemed, having retired, nevertheless still entertained a constant flow of requests. One particular fellow was driving her to distraction with his persistence. A filthy rich fellow, his offer for a single night of company now verged on a small fortune, causing the Madam a certain degree of distress. A scheme came to mind. I debate with myself for a moment over the wisdom of opening can of worms. My better judgement falls victim to my lustful instincts and I rip it open and my plot comes squirming out.
“I think I may be able to help you.”
Madam R was interested in hearing more.
I propose that she doubles his latest offer, and then share the points of my plot.
On the appointed night, one week later following another restless night, early morning and several twists of the Time Turner, I present myself to the elegant Major Domo in the upper suite of the Three Broomsticks, a large dose of “Pussy Juice” in my purse. He ushers me into the sitting room where three lovely young ladies entertain their customers before escorting them to a private room to resolve their “conversations.”
The fellow I assume to be our client is seated in the large, throne-like armchair. It barely contains his bulk. His apparel proclaims him a fellow of considerable means. The dark pin-stripe suit is modern by wizard standards, though in mundane terms he looks to have stepped out of a gangster film of the 1940s. A heavy rope of a watch chain is draped across his vast belly, several bejeweled fobs hang from it, reminding me of the garland on a Christmas tree. Large gold cuff links. Almost every finger of his huge, chubby hands bears some sort of ring. He would be handsome if he dropped 100 pounds. But, as he is, I cannot say he is unattractive. Many in the magical persuasion seem to lack basic hygiene. This fellow is immaculately groomed, which I appreciate, knowing what lies in store. His head is smooth-shaved and gleams in the gas-light. I imagine it nestled between my legs.
Daddy Warbucks or Al Cabone, is entirely ambivalent to my presence. He is here for one lady only; he has no interest in adolescent whores playing at magic-school-students. He sips at a cocktail: a large highball glass that looks like a thimble when taken up in his large paw. After some time, the Major Domo appears, holding the door for the Madam of the House. The object of his obviously keen desire glides into the room. She is turned out in fabulous fashion: a symphony in pink lace lingerie beneath a flimsy, filmy flowing robe: a sexual confection. He rises to his feet; she extends her hand to receive his kiss. She flashes him a smile and I overhear her brief, flirtatious remarks, promising to engage in their “interview” shortly.
Her performance, though brief, is masterful. I try to commit as many aspects to memory as possible; I must replay them in short order. I study her: her rhythms are much slower than mine. I am quick impatient, curious, feral; she is an elegant swan. She withdraws and Daddy Warbucks sinks into the chair like a deflated souffle, tugging at the fabric of his crotch.
After a few moments, Major Domo re-appears and summons me. I follow him into the inner-sanctum and the boudoir of the Madam. We get down to business straightaway. I prepare the potion with several ginger hairs taken directly from her head (I don’t mess around with this procedure). It crosses my mind to disrobe in the WC, but Madam has already seen me naked (and in action); there seems little value in beating-around-the-bush.
I strip.
I position myself in front of the tall mirror and drain the dose of potion. Taste and texture improving with every batch; hints of vanilla and cardamom.
To those that have never witnessed it, the transformation via the potion is jarring. Madam and Maid watch in semi-horror as I change from tomboy to MILF in less than a minute. It takes me a few moments to adjust. I feel as if I am wearing a second skin. Madam’s body is full and womanly. I run my hands over the new curves. I feel the large, luxuriant breasts. I think I will like experimenting with this body.
I am already aroused.
Madam and Maid are staring at me, wide eyed. Madam circles me, studying her own body, wearing an odd expression as if appreciating her own beauty for the first time.
“How strange to see oneself in this fashion!”
I move about the room, getting used to the new perspective and sensations, trying to glide like a swan.
The maid helps peel away the layers of Madam’s lingerie.
As I have said, I have neither the taste nor the patience for such get-ups, but it entirely suits the moment and my borrowed role. I put on the pink stockings and the Madam helps me into a stiff corset; it includes garters that she fastens to the top of the stockings. My large, borrowed breasts fit nicely into the cups of the pink bra, overflowing slightly, threatening to burst the lace. The G-string is tied at each hip, temporarily sheltering the luxuriant crop of auburn hair. I expect to be shedding the fussy garment soon enough. Madam adorns my ears with dangling jewels, rings, gold bracelets, gold necklace and locket that nestles into the deep soft, crevice of cleavage. Finally, I step into her high, bedroom heels embellished with little feathers that make it appear as if I have trod upon a pair of parakeets. The effect on my legs is alluring, however: lengthened, calves flexed seductively.
My transformation is complete and the Madam wraps her nudity in a silken kimono.
“Any advice on being you?”
Madam R. considers the question for a moment.
“From your last visit, I reckon you will have no trouble providing services,” she replies. “As for being me…I kind of float along, you know?”
There is a pregnant pause before she wishes me luck.
“And don’t forget you’re the lady of the house. Don’t be afraid to put him in his place.”
The door opens and Major Domo enters, halts momentarily at the spectacle of the mirror-image Madams, but immediately regains his composure and continues on his mission. He hands over a fat, weighty pouch that jingles pleasantly. Madam receives it and inspects the contents. She is pleased.
It is time.
“Um, Madam,” says Major Domo, directing the comment to both models. “The gentleman is ready for you. In the Sapphire suite.” It seems to me that he does not entirely approve of this subterfuge.
“Lead on.”
“Oh, one more thing,” says Madam. She beautiful cut crystal bottle of perfume. She removes the wand and runs a small line of perfume behind my ears, at my cleavage, wrists and inner thigh for good measure.
Daddy Warbucks is large and leering. He jerks upright like a living jack-in-the-box as I enter the room. Major Domo closes the door behind me and I am on, though I expect the watchful gaze of the Madam to be upon us.
Oh well, nothing to be done about that. Best put it out of mind.
“My dear friend,” I say, repeating the formality of the greeting I witnessed earlier. I extend my hand. He kisses it, leering up at me. I believe something more is required, and I lean in and kiss him gently on each cheek, pressing Madam’s boobs against him, letting him smell her.
“Champagne?”
“You are too kind.”
He pours me a glass; we toast and I sip. The bubbles tickle my nose.
“Let me make you more comfortable.” I help him remove his jacket, taking advantage of the opportunity to run my hands across his broad shoulders and biceps. I cross away from him. Let him get a good look at Madam’s bottom as I hang the jacket on the coat tree. As I turn back, I pull at the long end of the bow beneath my breasts that holds my robe together. I falls open and flows around me as I return to me.
I am a swan…
I return to him, retrieve the champagne flute and sip again.
“How I have longed for this moment!”
“Then let us savor it, Signore,” I say as I set a hand, gently upon his knee.
“By all means, dear lady.”
As I remove my hand, I trail my fingers gently up his thigh toward his crotch.
The silky fabric of my robe slides from a shoulder, decolletage revealed.
We make light, desultory conversation. A gentle buzz comes over me. His desire is almost palpable. The air seems thick with pheromone. I sink onto the carpet before him. I remove his shoes, leaning forward so as to give him another good long gander of cleavage. I peek up at him to ensure that he has been enjoying the view. He grins stupidly. The seductive power of this woman is a spell in its own right.
I run my hands up his legs. The geometry of desire is visible as the swelling presence in his trousers causes the pinstripes to bulge outward. I shrug the robe off and leave it in a pool at my feet as I stand and offer him my hand. I pull him up to his feet. With bedroom heels, we are conveniently, the same height. I pull him toward me, my lips parted.
We kiss.
He is hungry, tongue immediately barging into mine.
His large hands squeeze Madam’s bottom.
The presence in his trousers continues to grow as if a creature in its own right.
I push him back down into the chair.
I smile and unfasten the brassiere where it joins itself, between my breasts. I pull it from me, feeling the air caress me. I extend my arm ever so slowly and drop the bra onto the floor; I want him to get a nice long view of boobs, large and creamy-skinned, smooth and so rotund. I caress Madam’s boobs lovingly. Madam’s nipples, hard and jutting, are much longer than those of Hermione, and more sensitive. I pinch them. There is an electric jolt straight down Madam’s body, right to her center: a sexual circuit being established. I relish the sensations, familiar yet entirely foreign.
I love this body.
I sink down, push his knees apart and place myself between them. I rub him through the fine wool of the trousers; he squirms,
“My goodness… I feel so naughty… I want to suck it.” The words flow from me.
It is long, thick and uncut. I have known some large fellows with comparatively dainty, smallish pricks, but this fellow’s phallic girth matches the rest of him.
Take your time.
Not all men enjoy eye contact while being fellated. But there are those that relish looking one in the eye as one sucks them off; Daddy Warbucks is one of these. Pinkie finger curled back as if I am handling delicate bone china rather than a raging boner, I begin to place dainty kisses along the sides of the shaft, working my way up to toward the head, which was partially sheathed in thick skin. Then I change things up; daintiness be damned: I take hold of him with both hands, solid grip. I give the shaft a good stroke as I take the head into my mouth, lips and tongue deployed against his foreskin; I want to feel the whole of his glans in my mouth, feel its particular shape. The plum-like knob does not disappoint. His legs flex out and his hips thrust up toward me as he releases a large groan. I establish a slow but steady tempo. I have dedicated considerable time and effort over the prior year to develop my skill at fellatio. Tonight, it pays off. I work him slowly, steadily and with great variation, coaxing him to grow harder and harder. I can tell that Daddy W is pleased.
I feel a flush of pride, alongside the warm buzz of the champagne.
Neglect not the bollocks, Miss G!
I shift my focus to his balls. The orbs are large and heavy in the hairy, salty sack. I take one at a time into my mouth and gently caress with my tongue, moaning the while, driving sonic vibration into his flesh. Finally, I rise up and deliver a long, forceful French kiss.
I attack the many buttons of his vest and shirt until I excavate the rotund, hairy surface of his torso. I run my hands all over him: plump man-boobs and belly swollen with a massive hunger for life. I want him to feast upon me tonight. I want to sate him with Madam’s sex. I want to serve the connoisseur with an unforgettable fuck.
I lean in, presenting boobs. He responds to the cue, taking Madam’s large breasts in his even larger hands. He squeezes them. He mashes his mouth onto Madam’s right breast. Her nipple blasts another telegraphic message of lust down to Madam’s crotch. He feasts on Madam’s boobs, tongue lolling over the creamy skin. I release a long, throaty moan. I pull away and stand. His slobber drips down into Madam’s cleavage. I love Madam’s boobs. I play with them. I rub his spittle across the smooth, creamy flesh. I squeeze them. I pinch and pull her nipples. But I feel the need to keep things moving, to stay one step ahead of my lover.
I demurely cover Madam’s wet boobs.
I turn and walk away from him slowly.
I go to the bed, pull down the cover.
He is hunched down in the chair, massive hard-on clenched in his fat fist. The skin is entirely retracted, now. The swollen purple head is oozing pre-come all over. His eyes are glued to me.
“I love your cock.”
Time to undress; I want to be free of these silly garments. I want to feel my skin against his hairy, flabby flesh. I want to fuck.
I position myself where he has a good view of Madam’s entire body.
I pull the loose ends of the knots that hold the G-string together and toss it away. Daddy W’s gaze sinks to the rich growth of auburn hair adorning madam’s pubis. I remove the parakeet shoe and place Madam’s leg up on a chair, I caress and stroke the silky sheath of stocking and firm flesh beneath. I unfasten the garters and remove the stocking. Rinse and repeat.
I unfasten the fancy gold clasps that hold the corset together and toss it away.
The air of the room cools my heated skin, offering a much-needed respite.
I slowly climb onto the bed, ass facing my partner. I want him to have a good long look at Madam’s twat.
I roll over onto my back and recline propped up against the pillows in what I intend to be a regal fashion.
I spread my legs wide. I feel regal, beautiful and entirely feminine.
I rub my fingers up and down Madam’s creamy thighs as Daddy W. gapes, stares and strokes his mighty cock. I want it inside of Madam’s cunt and to experience the exquisite stretching as her vagina swallows the powerful plug of meat. I want to come all over that fat fuck-pole. My fingers, spiderlike, creep about the petals of Madam’s labia, prying them apart like the segments of an over-ripe fruit. I hold Madam’s quim open for inspection. I slip a long middle finger into Madam’s cunt. I pull it off and lick the moisture from Madam’s finger. She tastes delicious.
“I’m so wet, so wet for you, lover. Want to see me come?”
I slip two fingers past the slippery vulvic gateway to Madam’s cunt and begin to frig Madam’s clit with my other hand. Her genitals are more responsive than my own: I usually masturbate with small circular motions around my clitoris; seldom bothering with actual penetration unless playing with sex toys. But the nerve endings near the mouth of her vagina are quite wonderfully sensitive and I jam my fingertips against this peccant part in concert with a quick back-and-forth frigging of her clit. The thrills begin to pulse through Madam’s body like tiny bolts of lightning, I know if will not be long before I achieve a most delicious masturbatory climax. Daddy W and I are both fixated on the fingers that play across Madam’s flesh with mounting ferocity and lewd liquid sounds. I gasp for air and strange foreign sounds gurgle in my throat. I’m not sure who is enjoying Madam’s body more: my partner or myself. I can’t take my eyes off her cunt as I feel the erotic pressure building. Fingers move faster and faster as muscles clench and heart pounds, pressure mounts. The spasm takes me by surprise and a violent burst of intimate fluid erupts from Madam’s pussy: I am squirting all over the satin sheets.
“Ooh!”
That was unexpected.
Now a fantastic, weightless moment of release, a feeling of falling, a dizzy giddiness. I sink back into the pillows, panting for breath. Finally composing myself and looking up at my lover. My heart pounds, I feel the blood rushing through me. Madam’s cunt yearns to swallow the fat slab of meat that rises from his fist like the shaft of a club.
“Come to me!” I pant.
He pops out of his chair - Jack-in-the-Box encore, and quickly tears the clothes from his body. Then, naked, fat hard cock flapping comically, he advances to the bed. I expect him to stab me with his rampant cock straightaway, but instead he buries his smooth head in Madam’s meaty cunt. Of course, a man does not achieve his girth without a penchant for gluttony; his vast appetite applies to quim as well. I clasp onto the smooth head as his tongue slurps grinds and ploughs through the large, swollen cunt lips of the Madam. I close my eyes and titter with pleasure. I am soaking wet.
“Fuck me, fuck me….”
The voice seems disconnected from me.
His face rises from Madam’s crotch, dripping with cunt-juice, lust blazing in his eyes.
As far as fornicatory exercise was concerned, I had no idea what to expect, my catalog of experience as a pseudo-whore being limited to that first, albeit busy night. Following my first lover-client, was a fellow more dominant who took me powerfully from behind like a beast and finishing by mashing me down flat onto the bed and thrusting powerfully down into me. Another partner had been quite passive: I rode him until he came, all whimpers and curled toes. The last had somewhat split the difference: taking me from the front, then continuing as we lay on our sides, but quite particular in his desire to come all over my face.
I push myself farther down on the bed (having no wish to have my head banging into the headboard) and toward the rampant monster that protrudes upward toward me, yearning to impale. We come together and I guide him into Madam’s body without any fanfare. The slick fleshy sleeve of muscle welcomes the conquering phallus deep within itself until fat balls mash up against damp ass-cheeks. A velvet glove on an iron fist. Our fleshy, sweaty curves merge. We moan and groan as we grind. His fat-padded pubis grinds against Madam’s swollen clit, teasing me with the promise of another climax. I clutch at his massive hairy back, I thrust and grind against him, striving for relief and release. This orgasm hits me, driving tears of relief from my tightly clenched eyes. And explosion of colored motes pop from the darkness of ecstasy.
We flop together awkwardly, clutching at one another’s bodies, trying to find the right points of purchase as I struggle to regain my breath and senses. I manage to position myself beneath his massive frame so as to allow the piston of his phallus to begin pumping. I prop myself up: I want to see Madam’s juicy cunt as it is pummeled, plundered, violated without mercy. I become aware of the profound strength lurking beneath the heavy cloak of fat as he thrusts into me, grinding teeth, hot alcohol-tobacco breath spilling over me and great drops of sweat falling onto my borrowed face, breasts, belly. Daddy Warbucks is no novice at fucking. His stamina is noteworthy as he establishes a steady rhythm driving that fat cock in and out, relentlessly.
“I’m coming again,” I moan. The body of the Madam is like an orgasmic machine. The wave hits me hard. Body trembling, I must squirm to remove myself from his cock. I wobble to the table and drain the glass of champagne, and then another.
“Don’t go anywhere, lover,” I admonish. “Back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
I fill his glass and deliver it to him, hoping it will buy me a few moments to recover.
“My but you’re quite the cock-of-the-walk.”
He basks in the praise.
I should be paying you.
He is still hard.
And I am hungry for more.
Spooning up next to him, I nuzzle and steer Madam’s cunny his way and stuff him inside once more.
“Nice and slow, darling.”
But before long, he has clamped his paws on Madam’s curvy hips and is ramming it home good and hard. I have a death grip on the sheets to try to hold myself in place. As if I am a rag doll, he seizes me up and plants me on all fours without bothering to unsheathe himself. He delivers a hard smack on Madam’s ass cheek. The sharp, unexpected sting makes me squeal with pleasure.
He drills me mercilessly.
I come over and over and over again, weeping tears of ecstasy, voice nearly gone.
I am on my back again.
He sticks it in again: still hard and hungry.
Sweat streams off him now. Unimpeded by a growth of hair, it pours from his bald head like rain. I am covered with it.
His strokes are long and labored, now. He huffs and puffs but chugs forward relentlessly like an old oil derrick. But I can tell he is nearing the end. There is none of the conflicted calculation of the man plotting his ejaculation: he is going to finish inside of me. And so, it is that he begins to tremble, wracked by a series of mighty heaving spasms. I am afraid that he will pass out on top of me, trapping me until the effects of the potion wear off and he finds himself resting on a bony adolescent tomboy rather than a luxurious MILF. But I am ready for him: as he sinks down with a mighty groan, I manage to slither out of his way. He gasps great lungfuls of air, semi-conscious.
I drag myself from the bed, retrieve the skimpy robe and retreat from the room that is filled with the intertwined aromas of champagne, sweat and sex. I return to Madam’s boudoir on wobbly legs, come oozing down my inner thighs, dripping onto the red carpet like sexual breadcrumbs memorializing the path to the scene of the fraud. Madam is hard to read and then pronounces, “We undercharged him.” I laugh and mumble something silly to the effect that I ‘tried to provide good customer service.’ But in truth, I am gloriously spent and comically off-kilter. Madam embraces me warmly, proclaiming “a brilliant success” and that she even “learned a trick or two.”
I confess that the squirting took me quite by surprise.
“Indeed,” adds Madam. “I didn’t know I could do that!”
I request a glass of water. I could try to conjure one, but I fear I would summon up a deluge in my current state. Madam laughs and gladly provides first water, and then, a lovely dram of Absinthe. I divert into the WC to restore myself. Madam gladly offers up her bathtub and I climb into the tub carefully, muscles trembling. I plan to soak until the effects of the potion wear off and I can shed the role of Whore Queen and resume my modest mantle of Prim Schoolgirl. As I soak, I cannot help but fondle the luxurious flesh of the Madam. I revel in the weight and texture of the incredible mammaries. I torture the sore nipples. I stroke the creamy expanses of belly, leg, shoulder and thigh, slick with soap. I tease and tug the swollen lips of cunt. As I frig that sensitive vaginal transom and the fat, swollen clit to eke out one more delicious orgasm, I realize that I have fallen in love with this body. Returning to the castle, I smile: safely couched in my purse is a luxuriant lock of hair. I am hardly done with this lush, womanly, orgasmic, spurting frame.
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A Confession by Hermione G.