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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
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Year Four: Virgo Intacta
Early lessons. Mind over Matter. Giving it up and getting it on with an unlikely partner.
I have appeared for my first tutorial with the Professor. We are settled in the chairs by the fire, formalities have been exchanged, cordial has been poured, the fire has been lit. And now, a pregnant pause set in as the Professor sits, hands steepled, deep in thought.
“The realms of magic and sexuality are deeply entwined. They are the twin forces of nature.”
He paused.
“It is many years since I have taken an apprentice, so to speak. Where to begin? Tell me: what in your opinion would be the primary organ of sexuality?”
I consider the question for a moment and then venture: the imagination.
“Very good,” he says, and I feel the familiar rush of pleasure.
“Obviously genitals play their important part in the scheme. The skin, the largest organ is indispensable in the exercises of lust as well, but the imagination trumps all. It is the gateway through which our passions flow. What would you say if I were to tell you that you may experience orgasm by the workings of your mind alone?”
I puzzle over the question. Far be it for me to disagree with the statement.
“You are skeptical?” he smirks. “I will demonstrate! First, the subject must be willing. Hypnotism is not mind control. You must be open and desirous of the outcome. I take it you have no objection to experiencing an orgasm here and now?”
“No, Professor,” I reply, aware of my pounding heart.
“Very well. Lean back, make yourself comfortable.”
Even as my pulse quickens with sexual anticipation, he instructs me to calm myself, lean back, relax. His velvety voice lulls and strokes me into calm complacency, penetrating to my core. Bathed in the fundamental warmth of his voice and the radiated heat of the fire, the tenor of his speech shifts to the sensations of my body. Gradually, that familiar tickle of stimulation begins to crawl up my spine, advance and radiate out of me from deep in my belly. I can feel the flow of blood to my genitalia.
How can this be?
My breath catches in that oh-so-familiar manner.
I am thrilled. Part of me remains incredulous even as the first wave of pleasure takes me: I come without having been touched in any way!
“How, how on earth did you do that?!” I ask as I regain my senses.
“I have cultivated certain skills of hypnotism, but that alone cannot bend an unwilling mind. No, my dear, we were both complicit in the climax that you just experienced. But your role was the more vital one. And you have just proved your own thesis: the mind, the imagination is indeed the primary agent of sexual action and pleasure.”
“Masturbation,” says the Professor at our next session. The lovely word just hovers in the air like a playful sprite, causing an instant quickening in my loins. “Freud tells us that the only shame in masturbation is the shame of not doing it well. We have reason to believe that man first walked upright to free his hands for masturbation. It is the primary sexual activity of mankind. In the nineteenth century it was a disease; in the twentieth, a cure. You masturbate, I presume?”
“Yes,” I confess freely.
“Frequently?”
“Every day, it seems! Can’t get enough of it.”
“Let us touch upon it, so to speak. Please make yourself comfortable. You may wish to shift your clothing if you desire. Feel free to touch yourself as you will,” he says, directing his wand to the fireplace to increase the volume of fame and hence the radiating warmth. The gesture strikes me immediately as profoundly phallic and deliciously sexual: his hemi-penis amplifying the flames of my desire. He must know that I am hopelessly smitten. I unbutton my blouse; having gone sans brassiere, my tits peek out, nipples hard from the eroticism of the moment and the crisp fall air of the chamber. I slide out of my skirt and panties. I feel a familiar ache in my sex.
      I begin my relating my fascination with the female body that began with my dolls, particularly the curvy form of my favorite female doll, with the proportionally large breasts. I recall stripping the doll down to the hard, flesh colored plastic and running my curious fingers over the contours. Then, for whatever instinctual reasons, I had the inclination to begin rubbing the object against the sensitive point that nestled in the little fold of flesh at the apex of my sex. The clitoral exercises with this doll thus constituted my first formal regimen of masturbation. As I describe this to the Professor, I become aware that I have been rubbing my left nipple idly. It is some time, I explain, before I graduate to penetrative exercise, first with the limbs of the same doll (too hard and sharp), then other household objects, vegetables and then the marital aid of my mother, that unforgettable, large purple dildo, and, of course, later, my wand.
He inquires as to my typical mode of masturbation.
I demonstrate the particular tight circular motions of the tips of my index and middle finger against my clitoris that are usually all that is required to bring about an orgasm. He invites me to deploy my wand and I slide the handle into my body, where the carvings provide stimulation to the nerve endings in the sensitive “top” part of my vagina near the mouth of my sex. I move it rapidly in and out until I come. He has remained fixed in his chair, staring at the fire. His nonchalance drives me crazy.
      In my private fantasies that night, behind the bed curtains of my four poster, I must embellish the incident. In my imagination, the ghostly figure of the Professor places himself before me as I masturbate. Time seems to slow as he extends a long finger. It moves toward my sex. I watch as if bound by a spell as the finger slides past my slick labia, penetrating me. He withdraws the finger and raise it to his nostrils which flare as he sniffs, smiling all the while like a sommelier savoring the fragrance of a rare vintage.
“Do you often taste yourself?” he asks.
“From time to time, I reckon,” I confess as I try to regain my breath.
He takes his finger into his mouth, tasting me.
“You should… You are quite delicious,” he says.
He replaces the finger inside of me.
He takes it out and raises the finger in my mouth. I begin to suck it rubbing the pad of his finger with my tongue, tasting myself.
“You are virgo intacta?” asks the Professor at our next meeting.
I relate the pseudo rape I had enjoyed at the hands of the trio of Slytherins. This he seemed to find quite amusing, though I appreciate that he suppresses the need to comment, merely raising an eyebrow in surprise before nodding gravely and hiding behind steepled fingers.
“I hope you are not forestalling out of some misguided notion of love.”
“Goodness, no. I’m not interested in some sort of grand romance. I’d just assume get to it, you know.” I was, of course, hopeful that he would volunteer for the service, but that was not his way and I was too proud to ask.
“That simplifies things somewhat, he says. “Emotion – love – can make for a soggy dough. A little hatred provides delicious seasoning.”
A fancy strikes me and I blurt out a name.
He semi chokes on a sip of Absinthe.
“I beg your pardon?”
I repeat the name.
“I understood that you found him loathsome.”
“Indeed, I do,” I confess. “But not unattractive. And, as you say, a little seasoning of hatred might just prove delicious.” I am warming to the idea.
“Just so. He wounded your pride and you wish to pay him back.”
“That’s one way of framing it. I think it might be amusing. To have power over him, you know? Imagine his face all screwed up as he ejaculates.”
“Quite so.”
He nods gravely behind steepled fingers.
“You are confident in your powers of seduction?”
“Hardly,” I reply. “But I’m willing to have a go!”
“You may prove a more interesting pupil than I expected.”
We sip.
“Very well, I will help things along for you,” he offers.
“Oh?”
“Pay attention in class, tomorrow. You can’t expect me to give it away.”
At Potions Class the following day, I was, of course, both pre-occupied and extremely attentive. I could not restrain myself from stealing glances at the horrid young man, unknowingly marked as the claimant of my ‘official’ virginity. I felt myself flush deeply as I was forced to acknowledge that yes, a certain part of me was thrilled by the prospect of – not only making love for the first time – but of coupling with my veritable nemesis. I recalled lying helpless in the thrall of the paralysis spell as he knelt over me, his eyes full of fury and lust, as he pummeled his penis – long, slim and beautiful – to a climax, spuming all over my face, stinging my eyes. Unpacking my complex emotions, I found that beneath the humiliation and fear, a profound sexual hunger and fascination also lurked. And, of course a powerful desire to hold primal power over him.
As the class drew to a conclusion, the opportunity presented itself as the Professor appointed his pet pupil to remain behind to clean test tubes and ampules. When he requested another student to help, I raised my hand.
“Very well,” he said, eyeing me with that particular disdain that he reserved for ass-kissing Griffindors.
Everyone departed and I was alone in the room – suddenly quite large and ominous – with DM. I removed robe, rolled up my sleeves, trying to show as much skin as possible.
To the best of my memory, the dialogue unfolded something like this:
DM (Sneering): Just my luck to be stuck here with you!
HG: The feeling is mutual. (Pause.) By-the-by, nice little trick you and your friends pulled.
DM: You liked that, didn’t you, mudblood? Reckon we taught you a lesson you’ll not forget.
HG: What lesson would that be? That you fancy me?
DM: In your dreams!
HG: Wash or dry?
DM: How’s that?
HG: Would you rather wash or dry?
DM: Oh, right. Erm. Dry.
HG: Actually, I rather enjoyed it.
DM: How’s that?
HG: Your little assault. Not the peeing part. But I did rather enjoy making you all hard and watching you come. Expect you were out for rape, but I reckon you lost the nerve.
DM: Shut up.
HG: You’re all talk, Malfoy. It’s one thing to jerk off on a paralyzed girl. But clearly, you’re not man enough for a fuck.
DM: Oh yeah? Why don’t you ask Pansy? I give it to her all the time.
HG: All talk. Show me. Prove it.
DM: You must be joking! Not about to waste my time on mudblood quim.
HG: What are you afraid of Malfoy? It’s just a little mudblood quim. Just a little Griffindor quim – hardly a match for your Slytherin snake.
DM: Shut up!
HG: C’mon…
It seemed to me that the point of no return had been reached; I needed to venture all. I hiked up my skirt, giving him the full view.
And something snapped. In a moment, he was on me. He grabbed me and mashed his mouth against mine, jamming his tongue in. I was, of course, hungry for it. I grabbed the sides of his head. It was all snorting, wet hunger. A pent-up dam had burst; months and years of sexual frustration flooded forth. I was nothing but a cunt and mouth and a high voltage electric connection between the two; all else was void.
We grinded against one another, his leg pressing against my crotch. I could feel his erection filling his trousers.
I unbuttoned him hastily, releasing him.
He was quite hard.
And then he was inside me, pushing himself deeper until his pubes grinded against mine and his sack snuggled up against my bottom.
We both gasped. Gaping at one another.
Can we really be doing this?
To a fly on the wall (or a flea couched in a thicket of pubes) it must have been quite comical: young man buried up to the balls wide eyed in wonder, expression mirrored by female. A pair of gawking mimes trapped in invisible box of lust.
It suddenly struck me: I am well and truly deflowered.
I see the ghostly shape of Myrtle peak out from behind the chandelier. I forgot that I had shared my stratagem with her in the water closet that morning. She gives me a ‘thumbs up.’ I give one back. And Myrtle was right: the coupling was delicious and dare I say, downright magical. I was entirely thrilled.
Our groins mashed together for several moments, neither of us quite knowing how to proceed. Then, we began to work together toward a common goal. Placing a hand on his belly, I began to guide him in and out of me at a slow and steady rhythm, shifting my hips so as to direct the friction of the probing member at the point where it provoked the most stimulation.
“Merlin’s tits,” he muttered.
“Yes, that’s it,” I said, as he carried on and then began to pick up the pace of his thrusts, forcing me to use both hands to stabilize myself on the desk. When he shifted his body and gripped on the edge of the desk and began to thrust in earnest with nice long strokes, I made an important discovery: my body naturally melts, conforms and releases itself under phallic assault; if a cock breaches me, I will come.
And so, I did. And it was sublime.
“Well done, you bastard” I panted, offering credit where it was due. “You made me come. Maybe you’re not such a worthless prat after all.”
He smiled, pleased with himself and the gift of a compliment so important in the life of a young fellow. Then his brow knitted up in profound concentration and beads of perspiration began to pop out as he struggled toward his own climax. I could not feel his climax per se, but apprehended a certain increase in lubrication. When it had passed, he collapsed forward onto me, gasping for breath. Drunkenly, I clutched at his back, grasped hold of his buttocks; I wish to keep him embedded as long as possible, my cunny a hungry mouth reluctant to regurgitate its first prize. But eventually, he pulled away.
“Let me go, you mudblood!”
I gasped as the plug of meat withdrew.
Wetness seeped out of me and onto the desk.
Befuddled, he seemed lost, stumbling away from me, cock still semi-rigid.
He buttoned himself, bumping into the nearby desk, mumbling words that sound like “fuck” and “mudblood.”
By the time I raised myself up onto my elbows to see him darting out of the heavy classroom door.
I looked down: for a little shit, he had produced a great deal of spunk! It leaked out of me and onto the desk and I could not resist tasting it. I placed the stuff on my tongue: salty, acidic. Rather horrible, actually. But still I wanted more: it is a taste that I acquired instantly.
“Ooh, well done!” said Myrtle appearing suddenly at my shoulder; I had once again forgotten that there was an audience to this great accompt. “Quite hot! I had to diddle myself!” She flew around the rafters giggling and then vanished.
I wiped up the mess, finished the cleaning of the glassware and then made my way back to the house common room, dormitory and thence to bed.
I was still quite aroused, cunt incredibly moist.
I could not quite believe what I had done and with whom I had done it.
I fingered myself to another climax before, exhausted, falling into a deep sleep.
Rousing in the morning, I made my way to the WC with my Time Turner. After rubbing myself to a quick clitoral orgasm, I gave the magical device a series of turns, finding myself in the great hall following the previous evening’s dinner. Then, carrying myself to the Professor’s chamber, I settled myself until he appeared. And so, while in one dimension of time I lost my virginity, I narrated the affair to my sexual mentor in another, fingering myself all the while.
And so, having dealt with the pesky state of virginity quite satisfactorily to my mind, I was ready to plot a course toward more sophisticated and tangled sexual adventures.
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A Confession by Hermione G.