Hermione Granger - Beyond Academics

The days that followed seemed to disappear beneath a mountain of parchment. With exams looming, Hermione surrendered herself almost entirely to revision, moving from one subject to the next with relentless determination. But she couldn’t deny, after her encounter with Pansy, her head was clearer than she could ever remember it being.

Part of her was glad she didn’t share classes with Pansy, but part of her secretly wished for an excuse to meet once more. Because as clear as her mind had been, with more revision, lessons, and everything else that came with Hogwarts life, it had soon begun to cloud once more. And that was the annoying thing. She’d coped with it in this state before. But now she’d had a taste of true, clear, placid thought, she was all-the-more conscious when her mind, once more, became crowded.

It’s not like she’d not tried to deal it on her own. But it was never quite the same. There wasn’t a lot of privacy at Hogwarts, and thoughts of interruption nagged her alone time in the dormitory. The feeling of being reassured, of leaning on Pansy’s confidence, of being taken by the reins in the manner she had was an ordeal she couldn’t conjure alone.

But that didn’t stop her wondering.

Every time she saw Pansy, whether it be in the Great Hall, or around the grounds, she’d be caught up in a whirlwind of doubt. One the one hand, she felt like she’d survived an ordeal, and come through for the better. On the other, she felt their encounter had opened up an insatiable well of pleasure that would forever pull on her will. And it was during one of her lapses that he spotted Pansy in the corridor. For a moment she stopped, trapped between thoughts of a simple, normal life, and the anxious excitement that late-night liaisons brought. Taking a deep breath, she strode over.

“Granger,” she said shortly.

“My revision has been fraught with distractions as of late,” she said after a deep breath.

Pansy’s lips curled. “How unfortunate. Tonight I will be admiring the view from the astronomy tower.” She leant in closer. “I wouldn’t bother bringing knickers.”

The stone steps of the Astronomy Tower were freezing. The wind whistled through the open arches as Hermione climbed with caution. It was nearly midnight. The wound upwards, seemingly endlessly, until finally moonlight pervaded the stairwell. Once, twice more round the turret and she came out beneath the sky.

The top of the Astronomy Tower stood open to the night, its ancient stone walls rising around a broad, circular platform. Instruments of stargazing and planet-mapping lined the parapet, brass, bronze and silver. And beside one, gazing over the battlement, was a girl in green robes.

“You’re out late for a Gryffindor,” she said, looking around.

“It’s late for anyone,” she countered, weakly.

“Then why are you here?”

“I thought… I thought we were going to… do it again,” she said stiffly, glancing back to the staircase she’d just walked up and wondering if there was still time to disappear back down it. But she knew she couldn’t. She wouldn’t forgive herself.

“Granger, stop being so delicate with words. Now, I’m here to fuck you. I’ll ask you again. Why are you here?”

Her jaw tightened. She bit her lip, steeling herself. “I’m here because I want you to fuck me,” she said in little more than a whisper.

“Good. Now,” she pointed to Hermione’s robes, “I trust you have little on under there?”

When Hermione shook her head, she beckoned her to the battlements.

“You’re going to stand here. It’s a lovely view.”

Moving with a slow, deliberate heaviness, Hermione allowed herself to be led toward the cold stone battlements. The breeze tangle her hair in the moonlight. She leant her forearms against the rough masonry, peering out into the darkness of the grounds, feeling the vast, empty space behind her. With shaking hands, she reaches for the hem of her school robes.

 I couldn’t tell you the times I’ve fucked myself on this tower top. It’s going to be nice to do it to somebody else.”

The image of Pansy up here alone, indulging herself in the same spot where Hermione now stood exposed sent a jolt straight to her core. But even so, she continued to pull up her robes, the thick fabric bunching around her waist until the cool night air hit her bare thighs.

“Then don’t waste any time talking about it,” Hermione said, assuming the position she knew from last time, closing her eyes and waiting to feel the touch of the Slytherin against her behind.

“I’m going to do something different with you tonight, Granger. I’m going to put my tongue to good use. And you’re going to thank me for it.”

“Your mouth? I must admit, just the thought of your tongue on me is both intimidating and exciting.”

“Then relax, and give yourself to me.”

With that, Pansy took Hermione by the hips, then sank to the ground so her buttocks were in line with her face. For a moment she appraised the Gryffindor’s behind, then she moved her head forward between the girl’s thighs, and began to lick.

The sensation was a shock to the system. The first contact of Pansy’s warm, wet tongue against her sensitive folds made her entire body jerk, a sharp gasp escaping her lips as she instinctively tried to press back against you. It was a different kind of invasion. Softer, yet somehow more overwhelming than the blunt force of the strap-on. The contrast between the freezing night air on her skin and the searing heat of Pansy’s mouth was maddening. Hermione wanted more.

Her head fell forward as she gripped the stone battlements. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she let out a long, broken moan. Every lap of Pansy’s tongue melted her resolve, left her panting, her hips beginning to move in a desperate, grinding motion against the girl’s busy head.

“How’s that?” Pansy asked.

Hermione made a non-verbal grunt of affirmation as Pansy carried on. The steady, relentless rhythm overrode any doubt she still had. Her knees buckled slightly, a collection of nerves and raw, pulsing need. This was a world better than revision.

Her hips began to grind back with a feverish, uncontrolled urgency. There was no semblance of grace anymore, just the innate reactions to every swirl and flick of your tongue. A low, continuous whimper built in her throat, a sound of pure, helpless surrender. But just as she began to feel a fresh wave of pleasure grow, Pansy withdrew.

So disappointed was Hermione by this, that she tried to reach around, and force Pansy’s head back between her legs. But the girl forced her back around.

“I’m going to do something else to you now, Granger,” and Hermione could hear the relish in her voice. “Can you guess what it might be?”

“Have you got the strapon?” she panted.

Pansy reached up and spread her buttocks so both holes were stretched open. “Can you guess now?”

Hermione swallowed hard. She refused to let Pansy see how much power she hold over her, even as her body begged for the answer. She drew herself up as much as she can while leaning against the battlements, trying to reclaim some shred of her dignity.

“Are you going to…” she asked through words accusatory yet hopeful. The prospect made her clench her thighs. “You’re going to put something up my arse, aren’t you?”

“That’s right, Granger. We’ll start off slowly, but by the end of the night I’m going to be buried in your arse like I was in your pussy. Now, tell me, have you ever put anything up there, or will I be the first?”

She spoke with such confidence, such certainty, that Hermione knew in that moment what was coming for her, and that, despite her doubts, she’d enjoy it.

“You’ll be the first,” she admitted.

“Really? Not even a cheeky night-time poke up there? My wand found its way up my bumhole before I could cast Incendio.”

Hermione let out an incredulous puff of air that was halfway between a laugh and a scoff.

“I can assure you I never did anything like that!”

Pansy did not reply, but moved her head upwards. Hermione, realising what was happening, braced herself for another sensation she’d never felt before. She felt the tongue trace from her clit, down her slit and over her opening. Then upwards still, before it finally came to rest. The texture of her slimy tongue, the precision of the contact, the utter violation of her most guarded sanctuary. It feels dangerously intimate. Her hips begin to buck, her body acting on instinct to push her backside deeper into your mouth, seeking more of that devastating, rhythmic heat.

.Her moans turned into incoherent whimpers as she begs for more without knowing how to ask. Her body is no longer hers to control, it belongs to the rhythm of your mouth, arching and twisting in a desperate attempt to maximize the contact. Then finally, as Hermione knew deep down it would, Pansy’s tongue stopped circling, and began to prod. It was startling, intrusive, as though the tongue was trying to pry her open. Her hips tilted back, offering herself up to whatever invasive pleasure you decide to bestow upon her.

“How does a finger sound?” came Pansy’s voice from below. “Think you could manage that?”

 Hermione took a deep breath, then nodded.

“Though I think it’s only fair, for the first time, that you claim your own arsehole.”

Her eyes widened at the proposal. The logical part of her brain screamed that this was ridiculous, unnecessary, and deeply embarrassing. But the primal part, the part that has been neglected and lonely for months, was screaming something else entirely. The idea of being forced to touch herself in such a way under someone else’s watch, was terrifyingly erotic.

She trembled, her legs feeling weak and unstable. Slowly, with a sense of profound humiliation and mounting arousal, she reached one hand down. With a shuddering breath, she begins to guide her longest finger toward her tight, puckered anus.

“Like this?” she whispered, without looking back.

“Just like that.”

She pushed her finger inward. It felt fundamentally wrong, yet inexplicably right. Her muscles tensed instinctively, fighting the intrusion. Her breath came in ragged, shallow gasps, her forehead resting against the rough stone of the battlements as she worked her way in, accommodating herself. Each millimetre of progress felt like a monumental victory over her own inhibitions. She can feel her heart hammering against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the throbbing between her legs.

“It’s… I’m so tight there,” she spluttered.

“I’ll look forward to that shortly.”

The promise hung in the air as she forced the final knuckle up her back passage, grunting uncomfortably as the girth opened her wider.

“You’re… you’re going to use it?”

“I wish to claim it properly,” Pansy said, standing and placing herself at Hermione’s back so she could whisper in her ear. “I wish to bend you over the battlements and use my strapon to fuck you up the arse.”

The sheer, graphic description made her breath catch. She knew what was being asked of her. To surrender all control. To give her body over and allow Pansy to do with it as she wished. To take whatever hole took her fancy.

“Yes,” she whispered finally. “I’m ready.”

The idea of the strap-on sliding into her primed and lubricated hole filled her vision. She could almost feel it, the unforgiving girth prepared to conquer her. She readied herself for the transition from the soft, wet caress of your tongue to the hard, unrelenting invasion of the toy. The thought of being stretched, truly stretched, until she can think of nothing but the sensation of being filled, makes her stomach drop in a way that is purely, deliciously visceral. Pansy put the tip to her anus, letting Hermione feel the bulk of what was about to be pushed inside her.

“Take a deep breath, Granger. You won’t be able to sit straight for days.”

Clenching the stonework, she drew a huge, shuddering breath. She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself against the crushing pressure of the tip beginning to force its way past her sphincter. The bulk of the strap-on made its journey inside her. The pain interlaced with a sharp, overwhelming pleasure.

“It’s… so heavy…” Hermione managed, hardly daring to draw breath.

Pansy reached forward, clamping a hand over her clothed breast. Then she placed her head alongside her ear as though she was going to whisper something… something secret, something she needed to hear. But instead, one hand pulling back on her breast, one hand still on her hip, controlling her, manoeuvring her, Pansy eased her back over her silicone shaft.

“It’s alright, Granger,” she said. “No need to be so shy. I like it when you grunt.”

Hermione appeased her, letting out a pained, filled moan. But even as she invited the noises to come forth, the allure of something so clandestine and forbidden came to the fore. She allowed herself to rock backwards, taut as a statue, a servant to the Slytherin’s wants and prompts. Giving herself over to such movement, she pushed her behind gently back, gratefully welcoming the thing that gave her such discomfort, such exhilaration.

And suddenly, Hermione felt herself no longer just receiving. She was participating. The friction of the thrusts towards her rectum radiated through her. She grinded her rear against the device, feeling it, rubbing it, taking it, muscles clenching in agony and ecstasy.

Pansy’s gentleness had disappeared, and she now thrust as taut as Hermione. She pulled the girl into her, whilst bucking with her hips, striving to bury as much into the Gryffindor’s anus as she could with every pound. And now Hermione did cry out, a pain and discomfort undercut by raucous euphoria as, without instruction, she reached back to strum herself between her own legs.

And as she bucked, thrusting her rear over the silicone time and time again, Pansy began to pant also. Struggling to keep up with Hermione’s newfound need, she pressed the two of them closer to the stonework, trapping her, pinning her to the battlement as she grinded her midriff back and forth. And with her pinned up against the crenulations, there was no buffer for the rod. Pansy’s own hips pressed up against Hermione’s, and the strap-on found its depth, squeezed deep and far between her buttocks. And there she rammed determinedly until Hermine moaned lowly into the midnight air.

Hermione bore the full brunt of Pansy’s relentless pummelling, absorbing every ounce of force. But now her moans were anything but tentative, for she grunted loudly over the battlements as her rear end was smothered again, and again, and again, until at long, long last there was nothing else to give. For a final time Pansy buried the hilt into her frame, and kept it there, pulling Hermione back to make sure she engulfed every millimetre of the length in her butt. And Hermione moaned, then panted, then rolled her head back over the Slytherin’s shoulder.

“You enjoy that, Granger?” Pansy whispered.

“Yes…” she panted. “Keep it up me.”

“You know what? I might just do that. You could be my new home.”

“Yes…” Hermione muttered again.

“Then I think I have a proposal for you.”

She slid herself out, finally relieving Hermione of the load, who gasped in relief… in exertion… in dissatisfaction… she did not know, and in that moment did not have the mental capability to care.

“A proposal?”

“Tell me,” Hermione turned to see the wicked grin back upon Pansy’s face. “Have you ever seen one of these?”