Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Quartet	By : OracleObscured Category: Harry Potter > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 128263 -:- Recommendations : 5 -:- Currently Reading : 11
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any other characters/things/places created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money from my fan-fiction.

Chapter List
- 18
- 19
- 20
A/N: DS: “Loved how they ended on a squelchy high.”—Hahahaha! I love that wrap up of the chapter; and I’m glad you liked Lucius’s continuing saga. :) (And if you’re reading this, then you’ve gotten through the Snape chapter too, so I hope you got your Snape fix from earlier. :)
LissaDream: "But, but, but. Where's the SMUT?!”—Bhahahahaha! That would probably be my reaction if I was reading too. Don’t worry things will get intense the next time they meet up. You’ll get some Snapely satisfaction soon. :) Hope you hold out. (Don’t worry Draco and Lucius will keep you entertained till then.) :)
19—Etude
“Oh I wonder wonder who, whooooo, who wrote the book of love.”—The Monotones
(Hermione)
Hermione perched herself on the edge of the kitchen chair, her body wired with new-book agitation. This was one of her greatest pleasures: setting off on a voyage of knowledge and swimming through an ocean of ideas. Muffy was already creaming in anticipation, soaking her knickers with scholarly enthusiasm.
Touching her ledger and quill to ensure they were standing by and ready for action, Hermione made a mental note to never EVER mention to anyone that her swottiness had reached such epidemic proportions. Surely normal people didn’t take notes while reading a sex book. And they most definitely didn’t wet themselves imagining the pages of outlines and citations that might ensue.
She had issues.
But most people had more real world experience than she did. When other girls her age had been out partying and dating, Hermione had been studying. And when everyone else was settling down and getting married, Hermione was hard at work, her nose to the grindstone. It wasn’t that she was uninterested, it was just that she didn't have the time. She hadn’t been celibate by any stretch of the imagination, but all the men she’d been with in the past had been very . . . vanilla. And when a girl wanted some devil’s food, vanilla had all the appeal of a soggy tissue crusted with green bogeys—you didn’t really want to touch it, but you made do.
To fill in the gaps, she’d retreated into a sexual universe of her own creation, a world where there were no rules, no prohibition. She could be as sweet or as sick as she wanted to be, virginal as well as kinky. No one made her feel guilty or ashamed; the men in her fantasies didn’t judge. Unfortunately, imagination and experience were two different things. Now she had three wizards who were so far from vanilla that she felt frightfully unprepared. It was as if life had thrown her a vulgar pop quiz, and while she knew enough to stumble through it with some style, she secretly wanted to blow them all away with her sexpertise and get the extra credit at the end.
Thank Merlin for books—the eradicators of all ignorance. She’d get a handle on the subject and really wow them the next time they met. What a relief.
Running her hand lovingly over the worn cover, Hermione noticed that there had once been lettering there, but the gilded title had worn away, leaving behind minuscule flakes of gold that might have been mistaken for soil in the wrong lighting. That was odd. The book wasn’t old; she’d checked the year of publication when he gave it to her. Either it was used, which would explain the missing dust jacket, or Snape, wanting to keep the contents a mystery to any onlooker, had purposefully obscured the title.
Hermione grinned and checked the spine. Nothing there either. That sneaky bastard. He probably had a whole library full of erotic manuals sitting out in plain view—and no one had any clue. That was rather brilliant. If she’d done the same thing, she might have saved herself several embarrassing book reveals over the years.
She could only imagine what had prompted Snape to go to such lengths; it couldn’t have been worse than George knocking over one of her many book boxes during her last move and finding her stash of erotica. She thought he was never going to stop laughing, and she didn’t know if she should find that insulting or not. Did everyone honestly think she was a sexless prude? It had taken some creative threats involving George’s bits and a well placed Reducto to ensure his silence, but she could see the beauty of a more Slytherin approach. Severus probably would have just Obliviated him and been done with it.
Snickering to herself, Hermione flipped open the cover and took a cleansing breath; the scent of the printed word shifted her brain into a state of rapturous arousal, drugging her with the promise of knowledge most naughty. With a sleepy smile of pleasure, she stroked each page as she turned to the first section. Part One: Pleasure and Passion.
That would be the subject of her inaugural note-taking. A shiver of exhilaration trickled down her spine—this was just like being back in school. Gods she missed homework!
Telling herself not to be so weird, she found the first chapter and copied down its title as well. Kissing.
She read quickly, scanning the paragraphs and absorbing the words like a human computer. Their descriptions of various kisses were both artistic and exciting. And the visuals were provocative to say the least. Mouths pressed together, tongues meeting with a mixture of ardor and tentative desire. The sharp nip of teeth grazing a lover’s lip. Slick shine glossing the path of oral exploration. Bloody hell, she was already breathing hard, and she hadn’t even gotten to anything explicit yet.
Turning the book sideways, the studied a photograph and its corresponding caption. Upside down snogging. Interesting. She made an extra note to give it a try when the moment arose. Both parties receive the full benefit of the luscious lower lip. Hmmm. Draco might like that.
They might all like it, but she wouldn’t know since she’d only kissed Draco so far. She wasn’t so sure Mr. Malfoy or Snape even had snogging in their sights. Maybe they only kissed each other. Maybe Mr. Malfoy thought it was wrong to kiss anyone except his wife. Maybe Snape didn’t kiss casual lovers. With her limited exposure to such matters, she didn’t know what to expect, and she’d feel absolutely ridiculous asking them to clarify. Pardon me, my good sirs, but could you give me a list of which body parts I might expect to find in my mouth in the near future? A yes on the cocks, but a no on the tongues?
Yeah, that wasn’t happening. There was already enough awkwardness as it was. She would like to snog them all if the opportunity presented itself, but she wouldn’t push it. Draco did an excellent job meeting her kissing needs, and expecting them all to rise to that same level of affection seemed greedy. Who was she to demand fabulous sex and snogging from three different men? That sounded totally insane. She should be thankful any of them wanted to kiss her at all, because there had been many notable years where she’d experienced a complete snogging drought.
Not wanting to wander down that lonely memory lane, Hermione quickly turned to the next chapter to distract herself.
Fondling. Oo! A distracting topic indeed. She tore through the overview, her imagination hitting warp speed as she pictured herself as the subject of each description. Her nipples tightened behind her bra, and she absently brushed one as she began the next subsection, which was fortuitously captioned: Breasts.
Her eyes widened as she watched the ebony witch in the picture run a feather over her body, teasing her nipples until they stood out like chocolate nibs. Damn. Maybe she should start stashing a quill in her nightstand. For some reason the thought of teasing herself with writing utensils caused an unexpected deluge down below, plastering her knickers to her labia.
Although always exciting, reading wasn't usually such a visceral experience. Thank Merlin the chair seats were vinyl.
Poring through the selection, she couldn’t help reaching under her shirt to test out their suggestions. The info was excellent. They weren’t sparing any detail. Draco would really get off on this. The pictures alone were spellbinding.
The next chapter was on hand jobs. Male and female. There was some brilliant advice and lots of techniques she intended to test drive when given the chance. She couldn’t help giggling when she imagined each of them standing in as her practice penis. Draco would probably lose his mind and jump her before she could finish. Mr. Malfoy would play it cool, stretching out like a king and luxuriating in her vast manual expertise. Snape would . . . . Bloody hell, Snape would give her damn good upper body workout. The book didn’t mention how to avoid tendinitis or forearm fatigue. Maybe they’d never had to wrestle a python in bed before; there was no snake wrangling subsection. And if she was with all three of them, she’d be wanking till the break of dawn. Perhaps she should invest in a wrist brace.
Or an arm sling.
She made a note of that as well.
Oral sex was the next chapter, and Hermione couldn’t devour the passages fast enough. If anyone didn’t love fellatio before reading that chapter, they would by the time they were done. And Merlin’s balls, she’d never seen pussy described so invitingly before. Was this how Snape saw her? Was her sex a musky morsel of tasty titillation? How many times had he read this book? She closed her eyes for a moment to picture him perusing the passages, his trousers tight around his burgeoning erection, his hand gripping the bulge as he adjusted himself through his clothes.
Dammit, Hermione. Stop that! You’re supposed to be reading. If you want to mentally spy on Snape, at least wait until you’ve got the showerhead for backup. You know how stiff your fingers got the last time.
Snorting, she agreed to postpone the daydreaming until she was properly armed with her aquatic arsenal. Besides, she couldn’t take notes and masturbate at the same time—the quill would get too slippery.
Scratching out a flurry of abbreviated directions, she wrote down a list of tricks to try the next time she had one of them stuffed in her mouth.
Turning the page, she found herself staring at a huge layout of pubic hair trimmed into different shapes and decorated with glittery gems, illustrating the supplementary section on hair removal. She didn't know how she felt about that now. For a few years she’d bowed to convention and kept her lips bare, leaving a neat triangle on her mound. It was a hassle to keep up, and the initial sensitivity had faded over time, so she’d let it grow back out to its natural state. Now she was rather attached to her bush—no pun intended. She massaged a few drops of oil into it every night so it was soft to the touch. She liked the animal element it represented. It was her wild side, the part that wasn’t all prim and proper. Her kitty was a tigress even if her daily persona was more domesticated house cat.
None of them had indicated they didn’t like her pubic hair, and they all still had theirs. Although . . . Lucius and Draco’s hair was so light she could barely see it. But Snape had dark hair like her, and he didn’t seem to do anything about his. She rather enjoyed petting his furry balls, so maybe they all felt the same way about her pussy.
If they don't like it, they can just go find another witch. She wasn’t about to give up her fluffy Muffy for a bunch of demanding perverts . . . sex gods . . . no, perverts. Perverted sex gods? Well, whatever they were they weren’t scalping her mound.
When she turned to the next chapter, she froze for a second and then burst into an embarrassed grin. All Aboard for Anal, might have been the most apropos subtitle ever. And why the hell was she blushing? Except for Crookshanks, no one knew about her fondness for backdoor fun, and it wasn’t as if he was going to spill the beans. She’d never actually had anal sex with another person, but she’d had her fingers up there plenty of times. And the book heartily encouraged easing the way with fingers and toys.
So far none of them had tried to go for the gold round back, and she was beginning to wonder—okay, worry—that they weren’t into it. That seemed highly unlikely given their rich sexual history. At least one of them must be an arse man. But which one? And how the hell would she suss him out? I guess I’ll have to find a way to hint at it next time. Is it too forward to impale your bum on a man’s finger? Hopefully, if the opportunity arose, her brain would be functional enough to implement her piking plan.
The book was delightfully thorough, giving an overview of anal plugs, anal beads, and anal massage. Yes, yes and yes. She paused for several minutes when she got to the part on analingus. No one had ever licked her arse, and she’d never volunteered her tongue for such pursuits. It sounded fun to receive—and the accompanying picture was delicious—but she didn’t know if she could ever stick her tongue up anyone’s bum. Gryffindor courage only went so far. The book said it was safe as long as both partners were clean and healthy. It even listed an incantation for a waterless enema. Hermione copied it down then pointed her wand at herself and tried it out.
Holy Hufflepuffs! Her knuckles went white as she clutched the edge of the table in a shuddery convulsion of shock. Well . . . now I know what a peppermint feather colonoscopy feels like. Bloody fucking hell. She blinked several times and exhaled shakily. Might have to have another go of that later.
Reaching down, she pried her panties from the line of her labia and then made a note to try the boob quill thing with the enema charm at the same time . . . possibly while sitting on the shower head and imagining them all wanking in her face.
If you’re gonna do something, do it right. She put a star next to the entry so she wouldn’t forget.
The next subsection was about real enemas. Shit. Literally. She’d read some stories about enemas before, and the idea of it did turn her on; but being turned on by a story wasn’t the same as doing it in real life. And who would she ask to perform the honors? Lucius seemed too pristine to be an enema enthusiast. Draco would be the easiest to talk to, and therefore the least embarrassing, but Snape would be the one most likely to do it the way she wanted. She knew that was a recipe for disaster though. How would she even broach the subject? Pardon me, but if you're done with your brewing, Professor Snape, could you please stick a hose up my arse and fill me with water?
No way. She’d die of humiliation before she could even get the words started. Maybe if there was some other way to tell him . . . like NOT telling him. Maybe she could anonymously owl him an enema bulb or something. Even that sounded too risky. Who else would be sending him something like that? He wasn't an idiot; he'd know she was the one behind it.
Behind it.
She snorted but immediately slapped her hand over her mouth. Stop being juvenile. This is serious business. You want to get an O at the next Slytherin Sex Symposium, don’t you?
Did she ever.
Crooks didn't seem to find that nearly as funny as she did. She waved off his imploring stare, and he went back to his half-nap.
Part II of the book was dedicated to submission and domination. Hermione didn’t think it was possible for her knickers to get any wetter, but just seeing those words somehow did it.
Spanking. Punishments. Restraints. She was drooling. Riding crops, canes, paddles. Blindfolds, cuffs, gags. Even the girl in the black studded collar made her heart go pitter pat. Should she be concerned? Hermione didn’t think she really wanted to be anybody’s slave, but she did want one of them—or all of them—to take over her body and set her free. She stopped short, realizing how paradoxical that sounded, but immediately knew why she’d thought it.
She lived in a fucked up world where women were told to be sexy and desirable, while at the same time they were told shagging was something to be ashamed of. Puritan or whore, a woman’s sexual identity was defined by strangers, relegating her to either breeding stock or a piece of meat. Or invisible. They were all equally offensive, and none of them could do justice to the complexity of her own preferences. Sex meant a lot of things to her, and it wasn’t all pure love and white doves. She had needs that went against everything she stood for, needs that scared her, needs that she didn’t even understand. But denying they existed would be like cutting off an appendage—they were a part of her, and she preferred to embrace all her aspects rather than hobble about on rickety legs of self-denial.
While she thought it was strange that any sex was being labelled immoral as long as all parties consented, she couldn’t escape the standards that society set. That sexist tripe was ingrained in her brain no matter how much she hated it. Her rebellious nature wasn’t as well formed as her studious side, and it was hard to override years of good girl conditioning. Being sexy by herself wasn’t hard, but being that open with others was a bit scary. She just needed a nudge to get her rolling, someone to assure her that her predilections were acceptable. If someone else was in charge, she was off the hook, free to be a bad girl. But she didn’t want to be toyed with for some sick wizard’s amusement. She wanted someone to take care of her so she could let go safely.
Lucius and Severus were both dominant in ways that turned her on, but so far Draco was the only one who treated her with the kind of care she craved. But Draco was the least dominant of the three. He wanted to be taken care of as much as she did. Could Mr. Malfoy or Snape ever be the kind of man she really wanted? Snape didn’t seem like the nurturing type, but Mr. Malfoy had spent all those years devotedly adoring his wife. Maybe he could take on the demanding role of courteous—but debauched—disciplinarian.
All her experiences with him so far had been on the sensual side. He liked stroking. Hair, skin, sex—he stroked it all. And he did like it dirty. Not as dirty as Snape, but pretty kinky.
And what was up with that “dinner?” She never knew what that man was going to say next. He seemed to be torn between a love for life and mourning his wife. She could understand that. It had only been three years. He must miss being with a woman an awful lot to go from Narcissa to me. If Narcissa was a swan, Hermione was a molting mallard. She felt woefully inadequate when in his presence. But if he needed her company to find some peace and acceptance about his loss, then she wanted to help. She just wished she knew what it was Lucius really needed.
Draco wanted care. Snape seemed to want companionship—or just conversation. But then again he was the one who'd given her the book. He must want more than words. She set down her quill so she could rub her head and think.
At first she’d thought the affair with Mr. Malfoy and Snape was just a fluke, a bit of fun. Draco was the one who seemed to be attached to her on some deeper level, but every time she asked him what was really going on between them, he said something incredibly touching without giving her a clear answer. If she read between the lines, then she had to assume he was seriously interested in her, but if she took his enigmatic replies at face value, he probably just considered her a very good friend. Or maybe that was how he treated all the women he slept with. For all she knew, he was still dating other witches. She hadn’t seen him with anyone since that first night in the library, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t just hiding his dalliances to keep from hurting her feelings . . . or to keep her dancing between friend and lover.
She wouldn’t mind dating Draco; he was sweet and charming, and she cared about him a great deal. But then she thought about how Mr. Malfoy licked and fucked her, and she started having delusional fantasies about dating him. That was extremely unlikely. He was considerably older than her and probably just thought she was a entertaining shag.
Snape was even more confusing. He was the only one who hadn’t tried to sleep with her that week. He had talked to her—like another adult. That conversation had been satisfying on so many levels. Severus was easily the smartest person she knew, and that turned her on like nothing else. At one point the urge to knock him to the ground and hump his cranium had been so overpowering she’d had to hold onto the chair to keep from tackling him. Mmmmm, brain bang. She had actually been physically aroused by their discussion, which she hadn’t realized until he rose to leave. Her pussy had reached out for him like a child begging to stay up and play a bit longer; she was afraid it was going to detach itself from her body and run after him, clutching at his robes and dragging him back for more.
And that was just because of what he’d said. When she thought about how he’d said it, her insides began to liquify. That voice left her wetter than a log flume, and she did not want to give that up.
She thought the phrase “stealing a woman’s heart” should have some kind intellectual equivalent to apply to men like Snape. He’d stolen her brain. Or her mind? If she debated it much longer, the answer would be her sanity.
But she knew Snape would never hug and kiss her the way Draco did, so ultimately, she was right back where she’d started. Growling loudly, she knocked her knuckles against her forehead to trip up her racing thoughts. Stop, Hermione! You're getting way too ahead of yourself. You’re debating who’s more suited to you, and you're not even sure if Draco—the one you know best—is even interested in taking this further. There is no answer right now. All this obsessing isn’t getting you anywhere. Let it go.
That damn logical voice in her head was right. No matter how much she wanted an easy happily-ever-after answer, she wasn’t going to get it. Everything would just have to continue on its confusing course until one of them started making sense. Nodding resolutely, she forced her mind to focus on something rational—like fake sex homework.
Books were usually the correct answer to all of life’s problems.
Part III was titled Sadism and Masochism, which definitely distracted her from her confusion. There was a mixture of things throughout the pages that both interested her and scared the bejeezus out of her. Electricity. No. Sharp objects. No. Bull whips. No. She didn’t want to bleed. Even the parts that turned her on worried her a bit. She’d have to run some tests before she made any formal requests.
After S&M was a chapter on threesomes, which had her giggling at the end of each paragraph. Been there. Plus one.
The rest of the book seemed to be an abbreviated assortment of kinks, small sections to inspire the bored and push the envelope for the more adventurous.
Scat. No.
Urine. Probably not. It didn’t turn her on, but she wouldn’t freak out if wee was involved.
Plushies. What the hell was this? It didn’t get her wet, but she was fascinated by the idea that people enjoyed it. Whatever floats your boat.
FemDom. Hmmm. That one made her slow down and take stock. She wouldn’t mind having a man at her mercy. No way would Snape or Lucius ever go for that, but Draco might. She learned about cock cages and pegging. And queening thrones. Now that she would like to try. Did guys really enjoying being smothered with pussy? Didn’t they enjoy breathing the way she did? She’d ask Draco the next time he came over.
Adult babies. Weird. She could understand the submission aspect, but she didn’t know how she could be turned on by bibs and blankies. Okay, maybe pacifiers and bottles weren’t too much; oral fixation was something she could identify with. But what was sexy about babies? That was just creepy. Although . . . some of the pictures were incredibly sweet—very huggy and cuddly. Maybe these people just got off on being taken care of. Maybe they wanted to let go like she did.
Or maybe they just got off on humiliation. She could see the draw there too. Submission in the extreme. Maybe these people were more like her than she’d first realized. Unwilling to let herself go down that road just yet, she quickly moved on to the next section.
Gender bending. Despite the world’s misogyny problems, she’d never really wanted to be a boy. But there were potions listed that would temporarily turn a person into their opposite sex self. Her mind wandered, postulating a reality where she’d been born male. What would she have been like as a boy? Probably just the same except nobody would have called her bossy.
That was followed by a section on cross-dressing, which didn’t really do anything for her, but then she wondered what the three of them would look like in drag and couldn’t stop laughing. Snape and Lucius would be ridiculous. But Draco . . . Draco had his mother’s delicate features. He’d make an excellent girl. Prettier than herself.
Crookshanks looked up from his paw-licking when her snorting got out of control; his huffy sigh indicated he didn’t appreciate the interruption.
“Sorry,” she muttered. “Go back to your bath. I’ll be okay.”
Crooks must have decided her sanity was in question, because he left the kitchen, watching her warily until he was in the safety of the sitting room.
Hermione set down her quill and wiped her eyes. Maybe she was losing it. She’d been sitting there for hours and was past due for her study break. It was best to relax and let the new information she’d acquired sink in. Speaking of sinking in, it was time to take a bath. Which meant it was time for her date with Señor Shower Massage.
Snape’s book had been inspirational to say the least. She’d have to find a way to thank him for the reading material.
Before hopping in the tub, she did a few pushups on the bathroom floor—proper thanks might require some upper body endurance.
Her arms were wobbly from disuse, but she flexed her non-existent muscles in the mirror to see how buff she’d gotten in thirty seconds. Not bad. Just a billion more to go.
Python wrangling here I come.
Etude--a short musical composition, typically for one instrument, designed as an exercise to improve the technique or demonstrate the skill of the player.
The Book of Love by The Monotones. Released in 1958. Written by Warren Davis, George Malone, and Charles Patrick (all members of the group). "Lead singer Charles Patrick heard a Pepsodent toothpaste commercial with the line "wonder where the yellow went". From there he got the idea for the line, "I wonder, wonder, wonder who, who wrote the book of love", working it up into a song with Davis and Malone. The "boom" part of the song was a result of a kid kicking a ball against the garage while they were rehearsing. It sounded good, so they added it to the song.
In September 1957, the Monotones recorded "The Book of Love", which was released on the Mascot label in December that year. The small record company could not cope with its popularity, and it was reissued on Chess Records' subsidiary Argo label in February 1958. It attained a Billboard ranking of No. 5 for pop songs and No. 3 for R&B in 1958. It also reached No. 5 in Australia. In the UK, the hit version was a cover by The Mudlarks."--Wikipedia
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=OS1LFGGGazc
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