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A Confession by Hermione G.	By : Scarlett_Pimpernal Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 45323 -:- 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.

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Year Five: The Hogsmeade Madam - part 2
The Third Broomstick, Phallus Magicus, and I submit to another lover
         Monday nights are slow at a whorehouse. So, I was surprised when on a Monday shortly following my memorable dabble into whoredom at the Three Broomsticks, substituting for one of the girls and then incognito as the Madam herself, I received a message during dinner: an unexpected summons to tavern-cum-whorehouse via cryptic, coded language care of Professor S. I assumed another last-minute gap in the lineup resulted in the immediate need for a willing pussy. Of course, mine was most willing and the summons propelled my imagination into immediate overdrive. I found myself clenching my thighs and even teasing my peccant parts surreptitiously under the table as I scarfed down the evening’s bill-of-fare, chicken pie in anticipation, perhaps, of a cream pie desert.
         Having finished the meal, I hurried off on the pretext of prefect business. My excitement built as I navigated the long, dark tunnel toward the cellar of the Three Broomsticks, climbed up to the kitchen and up the winding, hidden servant’s stair to the third floor. When I arrived at the suite of chambers devoted to sportive pursuits and the Madam’s private affairs, all appeared to be relatively quiet. In fact, two of the girls idly passed the time in a game of dominoes against the possibility of the drop-in customer. The major domo, lounging in a chaise and smoking a long, thin cigar, simply waived me through. In the corridor that serviced the “colored” rooms dedicated to servicing clients as well as the chamber of the Mistress, I perceived the thumps, bumps, whimpers and moans escaping through the walls. Natalia, the alpha whore – especially musical in the throes of mock-ecstasy – was clearly operating full throttle, delivering the goods.
         Upon entering her private rooms, Madam R greeted me warmly, pressing my hand and touching her lips to my cheek. Having dispensed with the evening’s business, she had presumably shrugged off her dress in favor of a slinky dressing gown, an expensive affair embellished with cranes that lovingly hugged her impressive contours.
         What’s up?
         “In the recent excitement, it occurred to me that I had neglected to compensate your superlative efforts,” she said. “The gentleman keeps calling round, in fact, hungry for more.” Though gratified to hear of the pleased client, I was entirely ambivalent about taking money. I had viewed the experience as a favor on behalf of the Professor, an experience of great value in its own right for me as a student of sexuality. I shared those feelings with the Madam as she produced a rather full bag of coins and handed it to me.
         “Are you quite sure? A windfall may come in handy for a student.
         “Squirrel it away, my dear,” she said, taking me by the arm in a rather intimate manner. “In fact, I insist that all my girls put away at least half of their gains for the future. Take it, please, truly. I don’t need it.
         “Anyway,” she said, her musical voice filling the room and changing the tone of the meeting, “Enough of business. Please make yourself comfortable. Let us celebrate your triumph!”
         She poured us each a measure of absinthe in beautiful cut crystal glasses and before long we settled into comfortable conversation. I admit, in spite of the windfall of coin, I felt a certain disappointment: I had ratcheted up my expectation for dramatic coital sport. On the other hand, however, I was glad to share intimate conversation with the Madam. I found her absolutely ravishing and I expect, harbored a certain degree of a “crush” for her. Moreover, I found myself quite curious to learn more about her. How, for example, had a mild-mannered innkeeper become a notorious Madam? In any case, I would not be disappointed by the evening’s encounter.
         “Your skills are quite impressive for one so young.”
         ‘Professors S and M have been very good teachers.”
         “Modesty suits you, my dear – to a point. You clearly have a talent for bed sport.”
         “I’m terribly curious, I suppose,” I confessed. “Professor M once remarked that a woman with certain skills may ‘command a price above rubies.’ I suppose I desire to be valued in such a way. Perhaps I feel inadequate and am trying to compensate. I’m not sure I care, really. Maybe I just love sex!”
         She laughed, rising to her feet and took me by the hand.
         “Come,” she said. “I may not be able to offer you rubies, but I have a little gift for you. A belated welcome gift to our little coven up here in the rafters!”
         She led me through the double doors and into her expansive boudoir, the familiar space in which I had prepared for my memorable conquest. Her personal scent permeated the air, flowery yet complex with a hint of musk and smoke. The opulent decoration flirted with chintz. The lighting was low: the flames of several gaslights flickered. A full-length mirror, quite similar to that of my mother gave me pause. Such a piece played an instrumental role in my early experiments in self-exploration. I forced myself to turn away and take in the other elements of the room. On a table next to the chaise lounge sat the large crystal ball in which, as I suspected, she could monitor the affairs on the colored rooms. I knew she had, for example, observed as I serviced the wealthy Daddy Warbucks in her likeness. And in its depths, I could see the shadowy image of the aforementioned Natalia sucking off her customer.
         In the room, Madam R presented me with a large bag emblazoned with a well-known serpentine logo: Poison (as in the French version of the word). The brand of swank lingerie and female niceties, including a signature perfume, is not only very popular with a certain coterie of wizards obsessed with snakes, but also widely coveted by witches in gereral, not-to-mention more-than-a-few trans-types. The goods from this exclusive witchy boutique, far exceeding the budget of a mere student, were rumored to be charmed. No one, it is said, can resist a woman wrapped in or anointed with Poison; savvy marketing, no doubt, but still tantalizing. I made perfunctory remarks that gifts were not necessary and that I was more than well compensated for my efforts. But I admit, I rather relished the gift.
         “Nonsense,” she remarked. “Last week’s business brought in a year’s revenue! In any case, my dear, don’t you know that it is impolite to look a gift horse in the mouth?”
         Illustrating the old adage that it is ‘better-to-give-than-receive,’ Madam R excitedly pulled the first package from the bag and handed it to me. Beneath the elegant wrapping and snake-themed tissue paper lay a set of breathtaking lingerie. Breaking with the serpent branding, the ensemble in black and grey was fashioned in the theme of spider webs. The brassiere, more decorative than structural, promised a peek-a-boo display of nipple. The various fasteners, clips were cunningly fashioned in the shape of spiders.
         “It’s exquisite,” I said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
         “It is rather nice, isn’t it?”
         She handed me another package that yielded up a pair of black boudoir heels - neither too tall nor too flat. Intended to lengthen the leg just so.
         “You have excellent taste, Madame.”
         “I do, don’t I?”
         We laughed and sipped.
         Yet another bag yielded up a vial of the signature scent.
         “Come, let’s have a fashion show!”
         I was eager to try on the lingerie and having fallen into an easy rapport with the Madam began to doff my clothes. I had, of course stripped in her presence before, and, as I mentioned, she had observed me in fragrante. She helped pull the jumper over my head and remove my shirt and unfastened my bra. She arranged the lingerie as I removed my shoes, stockings and then my skirt and panties. And so, quite naked, I stood and caught my reflection in that tall mirror. Madam appeared behind me, and our eyes met for a moment in the reflective surface. I felt her hand on my shoulder, warm, comforting, and something more. I was suddenly quite aware, not only of my nudity, but the sexual charge between us. Her gaze drifted down my frame. Her hand lingered on my shoulder and she squeezed my flesh gently before picking up the brassiere and placing it around my boobs. It was just a fleeting moment, but in that blink of an eye, I grew quite aroused. My heartbeat quickened and my breath caught in my throat.
         I do believe I am being seduced.
         As the cups of the bra and the delicate lace kissed across my breasts, I was aware of a distinct hardening of my nipples, impossible to hide.
         “Come and sit,” she said guiding me to the chaise. “And we’ll get these stockings on you.”
         As she knelt before me to help me pull on first one stocking and then the other, I was quite aware of my bare sex, which fell directly in her line of sight. I fantasized, oh-so-briefly that she would lean in closer and then stick her tongue in me. My inhibitions having been eroded by the absinthe and arousal, I made bold to ask if she had “ever been with Professor S.”
         “Oh yes, many times over the years,” she confessed freely. She stood and retrieved the heels. I slipped them on and stood, allowing the Madam to fasten the garters to the stockings.
         The G-string panties were next. As she placed them up between my thighs, I was forced to stifle a gasp. My belly, I’m sure, twitched in a most perceptible gesture of excitement and I felt my knees go weak. I was forced to brace myself by grasping her shoulder.
         “Oh my, sorry,” I said, reflexively.
         She laughed it off warmly and tied the garment at my hips.
         “There - now walk up and down for us - ,” she said.
         I strode across the room, and back, feeling quite girly and a bit embarrassed, albeit in a fun and frivolous way. The sheer garments felt lovely and the G-string quite snug in my crotch.
         “Turn around…”
         “Lovely, delicious enough to eat,” she said.
         And we both laughed.
We drained the absinthe and she refilled the glasses.
         As she settled back on the chaise, her robe loosening a bit to reveal a lush swathe of bosom - delicious enough to eat, I made bold to inquire as to the winding road that brought her to overseeing a whorehouse. She chuckled for a moment over the quirks of fate, presumably, and then her gaze fixed itself someplace far away as she parsed the events in her memory. One leg drawn up, her dressing gown parted even more unbeknownst to her. The sight caused a sort of stir in the put of my gut and I seated myself at the foot of the chaise, with the added benefit to allow me to mash my thighs together.
         After a long moment of reflection, she began:
         “I grew up a mere stone’s throw from here, she said. My father was a maker of robes and my mother a maker of folk remedies. She spent most of her days tending an exotic garden with all sorts of things used by the locals to brew potions and the like. My three brothers and I had a pleasant enough upbringing. They were older than I and we shared one room. I think my parents were ill prepared for a daughter. In my formative years, I think they just viewed me as a girl-shaped boy, or a boy without a willy, since I was quite active and sportive. The barn was our particular playpen and we had a rather large swath of property over which our games took place. Then everything changed.
         “I bloomed quite late, you see. But when things did finally develop, the change was quite dramatic - and disruptive. And by the time I was fourteen, I had developed curves and bosom.” As she spoke, my attention naturally drifted to the dressing gown that had loosened even more, exposing deep cleavage, steep curve of breast, and the beautifully sculped point of an exposed nipple. She seemed oblivious, however to the exposure, lost in the story.
         “My body seemed to explode overnight, much to my fascination and, I confess, a bit of horror - though perhaps that is not the right word. I enjoyed what was happening to my body. Alas, however, it seemed to draw unwarranted attention from my brothers, not to mention my mother and father. As a child, we children had all bathed together and we had several farm animals, so I was aware of the sexual apparatus to a certain degree, and even fascinated by my brothers’ genitalia.
         “As I came into the barn one day to order my little collection of shells, there was my brother, masturbating - ‘nurking his throbber’ he said - and I thought it was the funniest expression I had ever heard! But I marveled at the wonder of his organ grown long, fat and angry. I told him to continue. And he did. Then he achieved is climax and I marveled even more. My parents moved me to a bed of my own, but that did not keep the four of us from dallying in the darkness. Their members grew incredibly hard, it was like magic, and they rubbed up against me. I nurked their throbbers and they put their fingers inside me. In the daylight, in the barn, they watched in fascination as I exposed and touched myself. But I would not let them put their throbbers inside me. I pleasured them with my hands and mouth and even sometimes with my feet. My breasts had grown quite large and I would lie down and sandwich their throbbers in the valley of my breasts and let them thrust and rub themselves against me until they spilled themselves all over me.
         “When my mother discovered our sportive activities, I was forbidden the barn, sequestered in the home and relegated to chores under her watchful eye. Naturally, I grew resentful. I was moved into bed with my mother and my father demoted to share the room with three brothers. This made him quite unhappy. And it was not long before he, too, became fascinated by my blooming body, often gawking and peeking at my bodice and décolleté. I began to glory in the attention, I confess. And then, one day when my mother was tending her garden, he came to me with his throbber, larger and angrier than that of my brothers.”
         She paused, sipped and toyed idly with a lock of hair, lost in time and then continued. And I noticed she had slipped a hand into her gown, down to her center.
         “And so it was that my father came to me as a lover. He deflowered me with that angry organ. I should have been horrified, of course. I should be horrified now. But… I enjoyed his attentions. And I thrilled at the sensations of his member plundering me, conquering me… [Author’s Note: The mores of the magical world are, of course, radically different from those of the mundane world. While incest was not necessarily promoted in the magical circles, it was nevertheless quietly tolerated and quite widely practiced.]
         “I found myself terribly conflicted. On one hand, I felt an incredible weight of guilt at disrupting our little family. And on the other hand, I reveled in the power my body seemed to exert over the family and I grew more and more fond of the sexual games.
         “My mother suspected what was going on and she became suddenly very interested in my marital prospects. An eligible, but much older man was found nearby in this village: the tavern keeper, William Rose. The whole thing was arranged in little more than a week following a handful of chaperoned dates. And so, just like that, I became a wife! I was scarcely older than yourself. He brought me up here and took me for the first time just in the next room. I affected a certain innocence that must have been convincing. My little act was aided by my sincere wonder at the size of his manhood. He had an enormous, schlänger!”
         We both giggled like school children.
         “In fact,” she continued, “the name of the tavern, the Three Broomsticks was an inside joke regarding his manhood!”
         The intimate tone of the conversation combined with the potent liquor and the lingering eroticism of the impromptu fashion show. An undeniable electric charge of attraction between us. I shifted in my chair and did my best to surreptitiously adjust the lingerie so as to tug at my sex, providing a momentary pang of stimulation that hardly satisfied my mounting lust.
         “He became convinced that I had natural talents. And for awhile, we shared a sublime connubial felicity. I expect I became something of a virago,” she laughed before growing somewhat morose. “I had little to do with my family after the wedding. My mother no longer welcomed me and my new husband grew jealous and controlling…”
         The thought, incomplete, seemed to hang in the air, requiring a prompt.
         “And then…?” I interjected, gently.
         “I suppose it was my voraciousness that first inspired him to begin, well, renting me out. I suppose that would be the way to describe it. I worked behind the bar back then. My husband believed that a comely bartendress added to the bottom line. And I’m sure this was true. I tallied all the money every night and we poured twice as much spirit when I was behind the bar. But my husband increasingly drank up our profits or poured freely in empty gestures of bonhomie. Late one night after closing, one of the barflies, a particularly odious crony, lingered. He was always leering at me and offering lewd remarks. I had gotten used to it. At first, I found it flattering - I was much naiver, back then, you must understand. Then I just ignored him.
         “In any case, my husband had grown more and more jealous over the looks and gestures aimed at me and on this one, fateful evening something seems to have just snapped. ‘Enough of your yacking,’ he says to his friend. ‘Put down a coin and you can have a gander at her bubbies.’ Just like that. At first, both the fellow and I thought he must be joking, but after a moment, the fellow smacked a coin on the bar top and my husband turned to me and ordered me to show him my breasts. Which I did. And so, late at night, after closing, for a select few old codgers and cronies, my husband took to charging for a peek show. I flashed my breasts and showed my legs, and then, well, you can imagine. And the audience grew!
         “Then one night, one of the fellows took my husband aside for a few hushed words, and then he pulled me over. ‘You are to go upstairs with so-and-so, said he. And you are to make him happy.’
         “And that’s how it started!
         “A wink and a nudge and then I was just expected to pleasure whoever came up the stairs. To offer myself in whatever manner they desired. They were standing in line. We had to bring on a new barmaid and help and then, well, more beds and more ladies.
         “The coin was flowing in and flowing out. But my husband’s temper, already not the best became foul…”
         “It’s rumored that you killed him,” I offered, feeling a certain candor to have been established.
         “Yes, oh yes, quite right,” she said plainly. “He took to beating me, the deranged fellow. Resenting the fact that I offered myself for money when the whole thing was his idea in the first place! He was, you know, by this time, much in his cups and not good for much at all. I had taken over all the operations, you see, above and beyond my…other duties. And, well, one night, as he lifted a hand against me, I took up - well, the very same knife you see on the dresser there, and… And I’ve been as happy as a clam ever since!”
         The absinthe had disappeared once more down our gullets and as she rose from the chaise in order to refill the glasses, her gown fell loose and I had a rather full view of her.
         “Oh my!” she laughed. “Oh well, nothing you’ve not seen before!”
         “It’s quite alright,” I confessed without thinking. Elaborating on the tangent that had just been broached, she remarked: “I was quite amazed by your little turn in my …er, skin. What was it like, exactly? What was it like for you to make love in my body?
         “Oh, my goodness,” I replied as the question broad-sided my cognitive self. A flood of sensual memory rushed over me and I am sure that I flushed deep scarlet.
         “I’m sorry, perhaps it is not a fair question.”
         “Oh, not at all,” I replied quickly. “It’s difficult to put into words, but I will try!” She deserved as much, didn’t she? After all, it is a sort of violation, skin-walking as I liked to think of it. “It was quite thrilling,” I started. “Your body felt so different than my own. Your breasts, so much larger, lusher…Well, I’m quite a little bony thing am I not? Quite the tomboy? When I made love to him in your body, I felt, well, I guess I finally felt like a woman.” Growing embarrassed, I tried to resolve the conversation with a quip: “it was like I was having a fabulous holiday!” I stole a glance at the Madam: her gaze was far away, a hand slipped beneath the silky robe grasping one of her large breasts. The other had slid below to her sex, sadly hidden from my view. At this point, the absinthe and the confessions had reduced whatever barriers stood between us.
         “You’re a very beautiful woman,” she said, eyes locked on mine. “Have you ever lain with another?”
         I’m sure I flushed an even deeper shade as my mind instantly fled to Rani, the immaculate smooth, brown flesh, the pinkness of her center, her pungent, exotic scent.
         “Yes, Madam.”
         “She’s a lucky girl.”
         “She’s gone, now,” I said. “Not dead, just gone, back to India.”
         “Leaving a void in your heart?”
         I swallowed hard before confessing: “Yes.”
         Her sense of timing was impeccable. It was, of course, at this juncture that we joined in our first kiss: a delicious, extended play of lips, tongue and even eyes. I will say for the erotical record, here and now, that Madam R was the most exquisite kisser with whom I ever crossed swords - at least as the human race is concerned. With the opening of my mouth, so my body opened up to her. Our bodies came together straightaway. Her hands found my ass cheeks and squeezed the flesh in the most pleasing manner as the robe parted and my thigh slid between hers, a pleasing dampness was there. My hand slid inside the robe around her waist. She worked her tongue against mine, her flesh against mine and I clutched desperately, wantonly at her fabulous curves. I was quite lost, I believe, so that when she pulled away, saying, “Come, I have one more treat for you!”, I followed along in a bit of a haze. At this point the absinthe had quite addled my wits - though by no means occluded them: I had fully fallen for this woman.
         She led me into her bedchamber, a magical bower if there ever was one. Gently flickering light from two gas lamps painted the space. A magnificent, gilded four-poster dominated the space, hung with semi-transparent bed curtains, Nude and erotic art, and yes, etchings, decorated the walls. The smell, her smell enfolded me: a rich ambrosia of rose, cedar, and spices. She led me by the hand to the bed and pulled the curtains aside. Here lay the bower where I knew I would consummate with a new lover. Then, something peculiar caught my eye: Next to the bed, under a glass cover lay a most bizarre and erotic object, a sculpted penis and scrotal sack. Of considerable size in its state of flaccidity, I reckoned that if ever the object were to achieve full erection, the monstrous thing would exceed my forearm in length and girth. So lifelike, it seemed, lying in lazy repose, so real was this set of genitalia, ample and potent with promise, that it appeared have been plucked or severed from a living man.
         “Beautiful, is it not,” asked Madam R. “A most precious object. My little phallus magicus.”
         “Yes,” I replied, though there was nothing small about the monstrous thing. I found myself unable to take my eyes off it, suddenly yearning for a man, a good stiff cock to alleviate the erotical tension that had been building deep in the core of my body.
         “Take it up,” she said, carefully lifting up the glass cover.
         Realizing her to be in earnest, I gently took hold of the genitalia, hot to the touch, leathery and pliable as any living cock-and-balls. It pulsed every-so-gently and even gave a slight twitch, an erectile pulse.
         “Oh my…”
         “Yes indeed.”
         “Is it... alive?”
         “I suppose it is,” she replied. “The remains of my husband: the third broomstick!””
         She continued to narrate how, as her husband lay dying, a witch compatriot, drawn by the noise of the confrontation, had helped her to salvage her husband’s most outstanding feature! Then, taking the object gently from my hands, she placed it against the lush, golden crop of pubes at her mons and uttered the fateful query: “Can little Willy come out and play?”
         I felt the familiar rush of magic through the air, and then, I witnessed the most stupendous sight as the undead genitals began to fuse with her body! Her pubic hair seemed to enfold the skin of the scrotum and the thing began to assume the turgidity of erection. A prominent vein naked up its length of the shaft pointing to the circumcised head, beautifully sculpted. I could not help but bring my own hands to it, timidly cupping the ball sack.
         “Yes…take hold,” encouraged my new lover.
         “Madam, ’tis wonderful!”
         “Is it not?”
         “Though quite….”
         “Large?”
         “Just so.”
         “Fret not, my dear.”
         Now I made so bold as to take hold of the stiffening shaft, and from the way her body responded and from the endearing gasp of pleasure that escaped her lips, I understood the magical appendage to be thoroughly meshed with her female bod. The impressive erection curved slightly upward with a fulsome, beautifully sculpted head, lending the magical organ an air of pride.
         “Magnificent!” I exclaimed, fascinated yet a bit horrified as well. My erotical craving to be fucked by the monstrous member meshing with a sort of deep primal fear of the thing.
         “Indeed,” replied the Hogsmeade Madam with a smile. “And it’s all for you, my little tease.”
         “Is that what I am?”
         “Of course, you are!” she quipped. “And much more,” she added as she brought her mouth to mine aggressively thrusting her tongue once more, as my hands encircled the great girth of the magical-undead cock.
         “And I am going to fuck you. Fuck you with my bastard-of-a-husband’s cock,” she promised.
         Bring it on!
         “But first…”
         She lay me back on the bed and released my pussy from the confines of the luxurious G-string.
         I spread myself for her.
         For the longest time, she gazed at my intimate parts, then she brought her face to my pussy, licking and kissing me down there. After that first clitoral orgasm, she stood, my intimate moisture glistening on her lips and chin. She stroked my soaking, intimate folds of vulvic flesh, and then inserted first one and then two fingers. And as she finger fucked me, she grasped that angry, proud magical shaft in the other hand. She frigged me mercilessly until I came again. And then, as I struggled to regain my breath, she brought those fingers to my mouth. I tasted myself, tart and piquant as the seaside on a stormy day, as I felt the solid fleshy head of that magical cock probing at the opening of my sex.
         Yes!
         And so, I embarked on my second lesbianic affair, so different in every manner from the innocent fumblings and explorations of my time with Rani. As the mouth of my cunt opened wider and wider still to accommodate the massive, magical fuck-pole, the realization bloomed that I had turned a new page in ma vie sexuelle. Up to that point, hungry, lustful, ever curious, I had always assumed the principal role of instigator. Now, I experienced the joy of submitting to the sexual will of another.
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A Confession by Hermione G.