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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.

Chapter List
- 7
- 8
- 9
Year Five: Five in Five
As the express train carries us toward the castle and our fifth year, I resolve to take five new lovers: 'Five in Five' has a nice symmetry to it. Even as I look forward, I replay the events of the summer in my mind, nestled in a corner seat, gazing out the window, lulled by the swift passage of the countryside outside. The holiday began with a month-long visit to stay with VK in the north. Though assigned to sleep in different bedrooms and required to enact a sort of platonic decorum, we are in fact screwing like crazed weasels in corners, in nooks, in water closets. My stay there finds great moments of excitement and ecstasy peppered among long stretches of boredom, watching endless practice sessions of VK and his team. I pass the time reading, daydreaming or diddling myself in the empty stands, mind drifting off into fantasies featuring a revolving cast of characters, including VK himself, his teammates, the Professor, DM and the others.
VK takes me for long rides on his broom (literally and figuratively): we soar out above the land. I am positioned before and beneath him, his strong, heavy body over mine, his crotch grinding pleasantly against my fanny. I work myself against him, slowly, as we fly, so as not to upset our balance, but he is a master flyer; indeed, one of the finest. I can feel his erection building, incredibly hot and firm against my ass. I grow bolder and slowly draw up the expanse of fabric that is my skirt until my bare bottom is exposed to him. We continue to climb and lose ourselves in the white expanses of the clouds. The cold air ripples goosebumps across my pale flesh. My nipples pucker but my core is molten hot and dripping wet. I can feel him pull away slightly as he fumbles with his trouser buttons, and then I feel his raging phallus. We are well attuned to one another by this point.
With well-practiced dexterity, he presses in until his fat wand of flesh completely impales my yearning snatch. I cry out in triumphant ecstasy, my voice lost on the bitter wind and angry clouds. I clench onto the broomstick with my hands even as my cunt grips tightly to the probing shaft of flesh. I brace my heels against his ankles and hold myself tensely: he takes control. The piston of blood, nerve and flesh pumps powerfully in and out of the furnace of my sex, slowly at first. Then both the pace of his thrust and our passage through the air build in speed. I marvel at his balance and dexterity as he fucks me, now, with long, well-practiced strokes, his flesh slapping against mine. How can we sustain this fornicatory balancing act? Will be now plunge to our deaths in a fatal, orgasmic plunge? I am weeping out of sheer pleasure as I come, wind-swept tears flowing freely from my eyes. That familiar, wonderful, warm wetness suffuses my vagina. His body crashes forward onto mine and the broom takes a sharp downward turn, plunging into the white oblivion of the cloud bank and toward the ground. I can feel his heaving chest against me and his hot, breath panting into my ear, along with my name, murmured over-and-over in that ludicrous accent of his.
But I am not afraid: he has me and the broom firmly in his grasp and control. We emerge from the clouds plunging down toward the harsh landscape that stretches out before us. The angle of our fall gradually lessens and we come to skim the treetops, our bodies still joined, his cock still hard and deeply embedded. All a memory now, as I ride toward the fifth year of school. At our parting, I am confident that my fling with V has run its course, I will miss the sex, of course. He has grown to be a strong, confident, lover with amazing stamina if limited imagination. But ours never threatened to be a meeting of the minds; I know in my heart that I am not likely to see him again.
The rumbling of the train, the familiar expectation of the upcoming year the subtext of animus and angst from the brewing threat of the return of TR, causes my passions to rise. I am anxious to resume my secret studies under the Professor, resigned to the reality that he will not dally with a student, but hopeful as always that I may coerce, tempt or dare him into breaking the rule. I grow tired of desultory conversation with my classmates as they consume sweets and prowl the corridor of the train.
I catch the eye of DM. Having coupled through most of the previous year in our own, little “Fuck Club,” we have clearly formed a bond, quite compartmentalized from the nasty politics of wizard-dom that will soon set us on a path of unwavering conflict. He understands immediately what I am after and follows me to the back of the train and the WC. That chamber of secrets empties, and we seize the opportunity to occupy it together. The cramped cabinet smells of pee, thanks to the challenged aim of schoolboys. But such things must be bourne.
He is seated on the toilet seat and I straddle him. It is a solid position. I ride up and down on his phallus in vigorous fashion, pitched slightly forward, with hands braced on my knees, driving the particularly peccant part of my vagina down onto the head of his cock, creating a magnificent friction. The movement of the coach aids enormously, doing the better part of the work for me as I ride up and down on the shaft. The rattling and rumbling of the carriage adds a delightful dimension to the penetration. The nerves of my cunt seem to scream out like the high-pitched whistle of the train and I come repeatedly. I flatter myself that under my tutelage in the previous year, DM has become a decent cocksmith. His legs grow more and more tense, outstretched comically and I know he is ready to come. He clutches at my hips with a whimper and a groan as I ride him through his climax. He withdraws quickly; he is not one to linger, buried in a quim, as his lust quickly morphs into hatred. We exchange not a word as we struggle in the tight space to restore ourselves. I wipe myself with toilet paper, finally stuffing a wad up myself so as not to leak all over the train.
A little hatred is yeast and salt.
Following the now familiar rituals of the start-of-year, the fifth year settles with all the comfort and predictability of a London fog. I am now a prefect, a role that allows me more latitude in my fornicatory comings-and-goings throughout the castle. No longer do I need to provide favors to AF in exchange for free passage about the premises. But I service him regardless, having grown accustomed to coitus with the voluble curmudgeon. I have no intention of allowing him to “plunder my bottom-hole” as he termed it, though I become accustomed to being “Filched” or allowing him to slip one of his long digits into that intimate space.
“How…was…your….summer?”
The reunion with Professor S is both a relief and a frustration. Of course, I have long fantasized in vain to consummate a physical relationship with him; these fantasies festered over the summer; but he shows no sign of taking me. I am too proud to make a proposition that may result in abject embarrassment, a notion that seems absurd given the level of intimacy at play: I have described to him, in detail, the ins-and-outs of all my fornicatory exercises in addition to the many that he has witnessed directly.
“Lovely visit with V. Then I nearly pulled a family friend into a broom closet. Oh, and I fucked DM in the WC of the bloody train like a mad monkey. How…was…yours? Been entertaining a certain fellow faculty member?” I have a quite keen sense of smell and I catch a hint of a particular scent in the air. I noted that the wizard camera had shifted its place from one corner of the room to another. He nods, gravely.
“Yes,” he says, “Much like an old, favorite shoe.”
“I can’t imagine she would appreciate being likened to an old shoe!”
“One day, you will understand…the pleasures…of an old shoe.”
“Right.”
“You…seem…agitated…”
Agitated? No, I’m fucking frustrated.
We fall back into our familiar roles as I recount in detail the liaison with VK, growing restless all the while.
“It’s hot in here.”
I find it necessary to shuffle off my clothes and confess the new mode of masturbation that I developed over the summer. Standing on tiptoe allows me to flex my calves and leg muscles. I lean forward, bracing myself on the mantle with one extended arm and use the other to frig myself, first in large circular movements encompassing my vulva and clitoral mount, and then, as the stimulation increases, honing in with rapid back-and-forth motions of three fingers across the clitoris itself. I am determined that he should see me in action – all of me. The tension in the legs and lower body somehow results in a “hard-punching” orgasm of delicious intensity.
Afterward, I collapse back into the armchair, panting.
As I recover, I confess my new fantasy of being taken simultaneously by the W twins.
"Five in five..." I muse. "Whoever shall they be?"
- 7
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- 9
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A Confession by Hermione G.