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The Languishing Libido	By : Goldspoon Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 8862 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: My story is a work of fan fiction. It is not affiliated with JK Rowling or WB. I do not own the characters, settings or world of Harry Potter. I do not make, nor intend to make in future, any money from my story.

Chapter List
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1. The beginning of the end
Seamus had fallen asleep across her chest with his finger still on her clit. She should have known it was too good to be true. Parvarti had said it was like he had a Blarney stone for sex, which in a way, yes, true. They'd begun at 7 o'clock and it was only now at 10.30 that he started snoring but there is nothing good about large quantities of the same thing, and generally Seamus only cared for variations on missionary. Hermione revisted those positions now, weighing up whether she'd slip out while he was sleeping or be nice and stay til morning.
Seamus on top, resting on his elbows - sometimes snogging but mostly gasping.
Seamus tugging her body to the edge of the bed to have essentially stand up missionary.
Stand up missionary with her left leg touching his ear.
Stand up missionary, right leg, right ear.
Heavens to Betsy, both legs up against both ears.
Back on the bed again fully, but with legs pressed up.
"Rub me out one," she begged, hopefully a little sexy, into his ear. So he did that on and off, never concentrating to actually bring her close. And then he fell asleep with his finger on the button.
No, she decided, it was not worth staying and would only encourage him to drop hints of when they might see each other again. Leaving without so much as a note should give the right message. Plus, her back was rather itchy having sweated and rubbed against his definitely-under-500-threadcount sheets for the past few hours without reprieve.
"Damn Seamus better not have caused me bacne,"she muttered to herself as she gathered her clothes.
This was the tenth one night stand this year. She was glad to have fallen into the try-before-you-buy mentality. More than one friend had moaned about being stuck with a sad root but having spent too long with their partner to split up now. It so easily could have been her.
"Loyal to a fault no more,"she grinned as she snicked Seamus's front door closed behind herself. Another one bites the dust. She had some honest feedback to give Parvy tomorrow.
2. If you want it done right, do it yourself
Hermione had rather loved the way her imagination worked. After overcoming the initial hiccup of feeling silly and embarrassed over reading dirty fiction, she really got right into it. Once upon a time she believed only very sad people of low to middling intelligence could spend any time reading smut. She got the visual kind of porn, but honestly, how would it be possible to get all worked up over reading about a dick probing a pussy? And then, what if she were discovered? She couldn't bear to be thought of as a dim-witted spinster.
But you know what? The written word turned out far more effective for someone like her than any magazine or video could; her overclocked mind filled every gap in the narrative with highly personalised, deeply satisfying lurid detail, and as someone who maximised the potential of her blessed grammage of grey matter, said grey matter operated as a well oiled, pro-performance vehicle - all pistons firing, every word translated into fantasy surging as hot erotic energy from neurons to nerve endings, and oh, so so so much concentrated in her engorged ruddy clit and her puffy throbbing labia. And her nipples, it drew to mind the time lapse videos of mushrooms, how they broke forcefully from the ground, puffed and swelled and finally exploded violently. That's how she felt, like her nipples were about to explode, sending a cloud of spores across the ceiling.
She got so worked up reading she had to silence the room, because it felt even better to groan aloud, to let herself gasp and whine, to kick and roll about when her fanny got so slick that it went shick shick shick as she rubbed.
When she got over herself, when she was able to stop saying "What will they think?"and instead say "What will I feel" things improved by 100%. She tried out essentials, like her nice thick latex cock. It was the right length, the right girth. It felt solid but skin-like. It was covered in veins, fully monstrous. That's how she wanted it. Then she applied charms so it would vary in temperature and could even be filled with salt and jelly (agar agar, it's vegan thank you!) so that it could ooze precum. Oh gawd, she couldn't explain why licking precum made her so randy when getting a whole mouthful of spunk didn't get her half as excited. There was the pull-ring anal bead stick, not so much an essential but it got regular use whenever a finger was insufficient. She liked to press her third finger against her rosette during slowburn stories, graduating to drawing up her knees to crush against her breasts, the stretching out of her sphincter and labia sparking a tantalising dance across the back of her thighs, over her loins and up her ribs.
How she desired someone with big hot hands to prise open those lips, that hole, in preparation for an invasion by tongue and hot, hot breath. That was the only thing she couldn't get satisfied at this point. Not with her mind alone, tools or charms. If you want it done right, do it yourself... but as they say also: no man is an island.
3. It's no surprise that a tonguelashing comes from Severus Snape
Among friends of a similar mindset it was no shame at all to query, "Who gives good head?" There followed a robust discussion over technique, preferences and the consistency of spit over many a bottle of pinot grigio. By the end of the night, Hermione was quite certain her best bet was Severus Snape. The regular haunts and perpetual unattached status only raised the likelihood of success. But the certified first-hand confirmation of oscular-aided-orgasm by two of the sozzled sisters-in-arms was the clincher.
In the dark of her bedroom, she giggled to herself as a hand idly caressed her fattened and slicked pussy lips as she thought of how different the tonguelashings he gave to her as a youth would be to the one she would be encouraging him to give her when she found him. The duality of him was scintillating. For one, his name "SS"... Sex and Sin. Salvation and Scorn. Severe, Snappy... Sulky, Seductive... His wicked tongue brought her to tears in class - he was a bully, had no filter, didn't hesitate to make anyone feel small. So funny that now it was his wicked tongue she freely sought.
4. A date with destiny, or destiny for her date
Because this is a story, and because Hermione is goddamn Hermione - she never held her tongue as a child, why the hell would she now - we follow our heroine straight into a bar on a Thursday night, because why wait until Friday, are there rules that sexy times only happen during the weekend? No. So our Hermione who cares far less of what people think of her, and knows she quite capable of being hot stuff (witness Yule Ball) has not prepared a speech but she has prepared a beaver and a bag of tricks. She spots her quarry quaffing vino with his younger employees, people she knew in passing only, but it is no matter for everyone knows her. Their loose grouping around a barrel doubling as a rustic tabletop simply cries for her to insert herself and conversation is easy, though she ensures that flirtation with Snape is a touch headier than with the lads and soon enough the natural time for them to make excuses, see you in the morning boss, so cool to actually talk to you Ms Granger, see you around maybe, comes and they depart leaving a determined, aroused, saucy libertine with an experienced sorcerer of the sensual arts who, judging by a lifted brow, has actually got a clue.
"Hermione Granger - so little I see of you despite our many intersections. You must be up to something," he ventures, teasingly.
"Oh you are right, I am, I am up to something. In fact, I am right up against it." Hermione pauses to run fingertip over the oaken furrows and joins until it encounters a fingertip of his splayed hand, continues pushing lightly against his skin and burrows an inch into his cuff.
"I have reached the limits of my abilities."
It doesn't matter if he refuses, she'll talk him into it. Involuntarily she presses her groin against the barrel.
"I want you," she says, looking straight at him, "I need you."
"For?" he prompts, though it's clear he suspects the answer as he turns his hand to grasp her wrist and pull her close.
"I need someone to address my poor neglected pussy, to sup at my altar. I heard you are a connoisseur of cunts."
Smirking widely, Severus darts his eyes down her form and says, "You'll do," earning him a playful arm slap from our horny heroine.
"What a prince!" she snaps with little bite. Galleons are exchanged with the bar-keep, a cloaked arm sweeps across her back.
"Come, you hussy. I shall address your wanton needs!"
Barely had our two clattered down the street some, when Severus drew Miss Hermoanie into a narrow lane.
"I don't think it is wise to wait," he says and manouveurs her into a doorway. Undoing a clasp he threw his cloak over her shoulders. "Be a dear and hide us, and hike your leg up on this stoop."
Dutifully and urgently she did so, bracketting her arms in the curvature of the arch, gleefully aniticipating what her paramour will find.
"You dirty Gertie," comes a voice from down below. "Crotchless knickers, what a slut!"
"Suck me, Severus. My clit is aching!"
"Oh god yes, yor hot flesh will be addressed with relish," and so saying he threw her skirts completely over his head to get them out of the way and free up his hands to pinch and squeeze the ever living shit out of her soft, yielding buns while his tongue speared, his teeth grazed and his mouth encased around the whole area of her mons, sucking deeply and noisily. Hermione got half her wish when he spared one hand its arse-kneading task to turn to thumbing her hood aside to commence roughing up her clit by that slippery muscle of her dreams. Furiously he ground the flat of his tongue up and down and around and around, building her urgent heat.
Wailing like a whore, heightened by the slutty feel of slick trailing down her inner leg she stiffened and cried, "Fuck, Severus, Severus! Oh, fuck!!" which our oral opportunist took as a signal to give his luscious libertine a hard two finger bang, so deserving was in his opinion now the terribly desirable, completely fuckable Miss Hermione. He was rewarded by a gush of heat that sluiced down his arm and into his sleeve. In time with her throbs of pink muscle, he firmly thruust his digits, earning him additional sweet groans.
"Do you need more, witch?" he hissed as he drew to height, patting down her skirts for her.
"Oh yes, I think so, Sir," she replied faux-meekly, sneaking her arms around his waist.
"Your place or mine?"
"Surprise me," she said. So he apparated them away.
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The Languishing Libido