"So tell me again, Hermione. What did he say to you?"

Hermione continued scribbling on the roll of parchment beneath her nose, refusing to dignify her co-worker and close friend's question until her sentence was finished.

"I've already told you three times," she grumbled, almost stabbing a hole into the letter with her quill as she hastily dotted a full stop on the end. "How many more times do I need to repeat myself? And don't you have your own work to finish?"

"You know I never finish my work on a Friday," Mina murmured as if this was something normal. She leaned her hip into the corner of Hermione's desk while holding up her freshly blue varnished nails to blow on them. "Now stop pissing about and tell me!"

"You'd better not let Kingsley hear you say that," Hermione warned. "And will you get away from my desk? That stuff is giving me a headache."

"I'll move only if you tell me."

Hermione narrowed her eyes, and then paused to look around the office.

"Don't even try it, Hermione. You know full well that you and I are the only two idiots still here, mostly because everyone's gone off to start their weekend!" Mina whined. "Now quit your stalling and spill!"

"I hate you, do you know that?"

"Just so you know, words like that sting less and less if you repeat them all the time," Mina chortled, but she did move back to her desk, hopping up to sit on its edge. "I'm waiting."

"Fine, you annoying little...that idiot told me, and I quote 'Fuck me, you've got a gorgeous mouth. Can you suck me off like you love me and let me come in your mouth'. And he spelled come c-u-m, and used the letter 'u' for you. If you're going to talk dirty and insult me at the same time, at least have the courtesy to spell properly."

By that time, Mina had begun laughing hysterically, becoming so excited that she fell off her desk and had to flail to catch herself.

"Shit!" she swore when her wet nails accidentally touched her face, leaving behind a large bright blue smudge. "Oh my god. I'm so sorry to laugh at you, but that is too funny!"

"I wish that nail varnish were permanent," Hermione groused, watching as Mina furiously wiped at her cheek with two fingers. "Well I'm glad to have amused you, even though the entire thing was and remains your fault."

"Hermione—" Mina began, pausing to use the heel of her palm to carefully move various things strewn about her desk. Finally finding her wand, she aimed it at her face and then nails before she continued speaking. "I told you—don't post a picture of yourself. It only makes the creeps, pervs, and paedophiles come out to play. But did you listen to me? Noo."

"But you've had one up of yourself!" Hermione spluttered. "And besides, it's not like you could see my entire face; most of it was hidden!"

"Yeah, hidden and leaving those gorgeous cock sucking lips exposed for all the dirty world to see. Anyway, I know how to handle the perverts. You give them the old 'I'll show you mine if you show me yours' bit and then send them a picture of some random bloke's stiff prick. Believe me, you'll nearly be able to hear them through the computer screen, screaming and running away in abject terror."

There was another long pause before Hermione asked, "You keep pictures of random penises on your computer?"

"Yess," Mina drew out, as if there was nothing strange about it. "But if you don't want to use a stranger's, well, you've got that old ginger boyfriend, haven't you? Tell him to drop trou and whip out your camera!"

"I have no intentions of ever seeing Ron's dangly bits again. And I know there's being straightforward but, my god, that idiot was as subtle as a bludger to the head. Never mind that we had never spoken so much as two words to one another before. Don't people usually begin conversations with 'hello' before talking about their genitals becoming intimately acquainted with your mouth?"

"Some of them do. But then again, the one I'm talking to now... his first message to me was 'how big are your nipples?' And we've been seeing each other for six months. Speaking of which, I wish you'd hurry the hell up so we can get out of here. David and I made dinner plans and I'd like to get one in before our date."

Hermione suddenly looked as if she was trying to suss out the answer to a difficult riddle. "Do you ever think about anything besides your crotch?"

"Why yes, yes I do. My arse and tits. Especially my nipples; I love when David sort of bites on them. Oh, and my feet, too. He gives one hell of a foot massage."

Already fed up with their conversation and resigning herself to the fact that she was not going to get any more work done that day, Hermione flicked her wand about, causing her paperwork to began sorting and stacking itself into neat, separate piles. Upon seeing this, it took Mina no time to gather her coat and belongings. She then tossed Hermione's things onto her desk, the gesture meaning for her to hurry up.

"I could have got my own purse, Mina," Hermione told her dispassionately.

"Well I did it for you," Mina urged. "Come on! Just because you're going home to leftover casserole and one of those soppy romance novels doesn't mean I have to be tardy."

There was a long stretch of silence as Hermione took her time slipping her arms into each sleeve of her jacket.

"I did tell you that I hated you, right?"

"Yeah, now makes the fifth time today. Come along, Granger."

The two witches walked through the deserted Ministry offices and headed to the lift. Once they were at the main level, they bid each other goodbye before taking separate Floos to go home.

Lucky tart, Hermione thought with a tinge of jealously as she watched her glowing-cheeked friend practically pirouetting amongst the green flames, doing what could only be construed as a I'm-looking-forward-to-having-my-brains-shagged-out move. Hermione ended up doing some wriggling about of her own, but it had nothing to do with planned sex, and everything to do with flailing to keep upright when her heel got caught on an even patch in the hearth.

It wasn't Mina's fault that she hadn't been on a date in longer than she could remember, much less being on the receiving end of mind-blowing sex. Not that the opportunity wasn't there; as Hermione grew older she found that finding a sex partner wasn't all that hard. How many times had she gone out with girlfriend, magical and Muggle alike, and found a man giving her the eye? All she had to do was return their obvious stares, and if she was feeling bold enough, walk up on them and chat them up.

Having had only two partners before, the first being Ron, whom she had an off-on relationship for a few years, and in between, one brief fling with a man she'd met on holiday, Hermione learnt a few things about herself: one, she liked sex and had an extremely open mind towards it. Two, if she were to admit to someone about all her suppressed fantasies, she risked being called a nutter; and three, that casual sex was not her forte.

She and Ron had lost their virginities to one another. While he hadn't exactly lacked in the trouser department, the fit still felt a bit off, and his enthusiasm lasted right until he climaxed. Once he reached a high-pitched, shuddering release, which was always accompanied by droplets of sweat from his forehead falling onto her, any further efforts to please her were forgotten. Hermione remembered feeling distinctly put off by Ron's perspiration dripping onto her, not to mention remaining horny beyond belief because she rarely got off. With him, everything had been too much or not enough; too much rabid screwing and not enough foreplay. Going down on her for a long time, yet never quite hitting the spot, even after she tugged on his ginger hair and directed his mouth to her clitoris. Even then, his mouth and tongue felt hot, yet too dry, but somehow when he kissed her, it had been too wet. And his fingers... more than once Hermione had to explain that just because she felt wet did not mean that she was wet enough for him to touch her as if he was rooting through soil.

"Vaginas aren't known to be dry as a desert, Ronald," she'd told him. "Of course it's going to feel damp, but it doesn't mean that you should just shove your way in!" When he continued grousing, Hermione offered to shove her dry finger up his arsehole, just to prove her point.

Ron had immediately shut his mouth, but his silence reflected that Hermione had insulted his very manhood, all because she had been trying to steer him into touching her the way she preferred. Too bad about his hurt feelings; she'd had her fill of going home with chafed privates, all because he refused to heed her subtle, and then direct instruction.

As for the slightly older man that she'd had the fling with...the sex hadn't been that bad, but perhaps she had been so enthusiastic that she experienced denial. But when he came to completion...Merlin help her. The man had let out a roar that sounded like a pig being slaughtered, mixed with the cry of some mythical creature that dippy Luna Lovegood had continuously babbled about when they were back at school. It had been all Hermione could do to not laugh outright, since his face had been right above hers. In an effort to keep at bay what would have been screaming laughter, she'd bitten down hard on her bottom lip until the coppery tang of blood tickled her tongue. The poor sod made things even worse when he mistook her body's trembling as the result of passion rather than sordid amusement, and he continued attempting to dirty talk her into orgasm—the stirrings of which had been long gone— by speaking in that horrible elfish voice made squeaky by lust. On top of it all, he'd bragged about his trouser snake over dinner, and for all his bluster, turned out to have nothing more than a flobberworm.

Hermione knew that her face was too honest, much too expressive, and ended up ducking him whenever they passed one another at the hotel. He looked properly confused at breakfast and had stared quizzically at her from his table, most likely wondering why she looked to be on the brink of snorting and choking. In actuality, Hermione had been replaying his awkward moaning in her head, and was trying her damndest to not tip out of her chair from an uncharacteristic, uncontrollable bout of raucous laughter.

So yes, she was going to go home to a two-day-old dinner, a glass or two of wine–lies, Granger, you're going to down the entire bottle— and books. And perhaps her detachable showerhead.

Mina did mean well, Hermione had to admit. The two met had each other at the Muggle-Wizard Inter-relations Department at the Ministry of Magic, and hit it off almost instantly.

The two young women were six months apart in age, and also only the only child in their families. Mina Reynaud, on the other hand, was the daughter of a French wizard and a Muggle woman from Spain. She hadn't attended Beauxbatons; instead, her education had been received at a private institution, which focused on magical and non-magical studies. Hermione, who believed that she knew everything, never heard of such a school and had been fascinated to hear Mina talking about her experiences there.

Because most of Hermione's friends and acquaintances were people she had gone to Hogwarts with, it had been refreshing to meet someone outside of her usual circle. It also hadn't hurt to find that Mina was a bookworm like her, although she sometimes did things of a less cerebral nature, such as spending hours watching crap telly. Junk food was usually involved, and Hermione had unerringly picked up both habits from her friend, but refused to admit it.

Despite Mina being a half-blood, she was very much attuned to her Muggle side. She refused to live in a predominantly magical community, stating that she needed her Muggle amenities to survive.

Hermione definitely sympathised with that notion. While she loved magic, and preferred using it for certain tasks, it did not replace her television, the handful of times during the week that she did watch it. Or her computer, or her stereo. Lamps and overhead lights that could be turned on via switch instead of carrying around candles was another plus.

Hermione's heels clacked on the pavement as she walked briskly to her home. She went through the bog-standard routine that begun ever since moving out of her parents' house; collect the post, hang keys on the pegboard tacked up in the porch. Kick off mildly uncomfortable work shoes and replace them with slippers that she had mournfully abandoned that morning and shoved beneath the little side table pushed against the wall.

Dropping the small stack of letters onto the table while simultaneously using her toes to pinch the fluffy material of her slippers and drag them back out, Hermione shoved her feet inside and shuffled off to the kitchen. Dinner, leftovers from two nights ago, were heated up in the oven and eaten from the same dish while perching on the edge of her sofa. Purely out of habit, she had switched on the telly, just to have some sort of background noise and keep things from feeling so desolate. The evening news was on, which she watched with declining interest, but wasn't arsed enough to get up and turn over.

An hour later, freshly showered, wine in hand and dressed in pyjamas—which was a long, ratty yet soft t-shirt that had been washed nearly to the point of falling apart but miraculously remained intact—Hermione slid into her chair and switched on her computer. Checking her email first, as was another habit, Hermione found that she didn't have much to read. Only a handful of her friends owned computers, two of whom she saw on a regular basis, and they rarely had much need for email.

"Spam...spam...spam...if they're going phish at least be clever. What the... What the hell would I do with a penis enlarger?" Hermione muttered to herself while deleting emails promoting credit cards, coupons for a sandwich shop she'd never heard of, and some ridiculous advert that promised to 'Get you laid TONIGHT!' written in jazzy lettering.

There were only a few things worth paying attention to; a short email from her Dad:

Hermione, love. Ring your old dad when you get a chance, please? I don't think this mobile phone you bought is working. I was trying to find the phonebook but now it won't even turn on. Oh, and Mum wants to know if you're coming round for dinner on Sunday. Ta!

The next email was from Mr. Weasley, who had been taught to use a computer by her and Harry. There was no way The Burrow could have been electrically wired to house a computer, and even if it were possible, Mrs. Weasley would be likely to go spare. Thus Mr. Weasley kept trying to find ways to get to Harry's flat to use his. He mostly got a kick out of using the keyboard, which was usually done by the older man hunching forward until his nose was nearly touching the desk, where he then used one finger to slowly tap out messages. His other favourite bit was clicking on things with the mouse, but when he got a little click-happy and made the screen freeze, Harry gently suggested that he stop before something got broken.

Hello, Hermione! I know I sent you three messages yesterday, but Harry set me up with my own email address. So if you need another way to contact me this is my new EMAIL ADDRESS.

Harry's email was next, which was time-stamped for two minutes after Mr. Weasley's email had been sent:

Sorry about that, Hermione. You know how Mr. Weasley gets. Anyway, I'll try to keep him from flooding your inbox.


Muggle-born or pureblood wizard, Hermione found out that all fathers were nearly the same. Her own dad most likely was having issues with his phone because he refused to wear his eyeglasses at the behest of his daughter and wife, and probably forgot that phone needed charging. As for Mr. Weasley, in spite of her and Ron's breakup, he never treated her any differently. Mrs. Weasley...well, she had been another story. In the beginning, she seemed to take personal offence to her son and his then girlfriend's parting of ways. As of late, she finally began to come around. Hermione suspected that was largely due to Mr. Weasley, who was prone to dropping in her office during the work day, his reasons having little to do with work matters. Of course, he'd say hello and ask after her welfare, but most of the time he lingered near Hermione's desk in hopes of borrowing her mobile so he could play Snake during his lunch break.

Just as Hermione took a long sip of wine and moved to shut down her computer, a brand-new email popped into her inbox.

"I don't want to see anyone's cock!" she shouted at the screen. "And for your sake, you had better not be asking to see anything of mine, at least not without taking me to dinner first!"

Hermione had no idea why she'd let Mina sign her up for Magk, a Wizarding social networking website that surfaced on the internet within the past year. Well, she had an idea, one that she would only privately admit to. Magk was a way to meet other people like her, without the awkwardness of everything else. Some people didn't give a rat's arse about her being one third of the Harry Potter trio that helped to save the world; others looked upon her with something akin to reverence, which was awkward, if not creepy. That had been another spanner thrown into the works of her dating. Besides working like a maniac, casual dating proved to be difficult, or outright embarrassing. For reasons like so, Hermione mostly kept to herself, sometimes going out with Harry and Ginny or Mina. Otherwise she stayed home.

Hermione's parents lamented their twenty-six-year-old daughter staying in most weekends. Mina threatened that her lady bits were going to began developing cobwebs if she didn't use them soon. Harry...Harry had no opinion on Hermione's dating proclivities or the lack thereof. He hadn't been interested when she and Ron were dating, but his only hope was if they didn't stay together, that it wouldn't ruin their friendship. Now, Harry's advice extended to telling Hermione that she should do whatever made her happy and anyone else that had something to say about it could piss off. They had been at dinner when he'd offered that little knut of knowledge. That day, Hermione wondered if he was going to say more but Harry left it at that, most likely because he'd been more interested in his perfectly broiled steak the waiter had just set down in front of him.

Feeling silly for her outburst, even though she was alone, Hermione tentatively clicked open the message from Magk, curious as to who had written her. Her username wasn't remotely creative, compared to the more colourful ones she came across, most of which contained body parts or verbs associated with sex. The bloke that sent her a message asking if he could come in her mouth had the username Shagger69, which fitted his brash personality quite well. Hermione picked the first thing that came to mind and was easy enough to remember: BookLovr1. Her profile picture had been carefully selected and changed, and instead of her face in the little box was now an interesting looking white flower.

So she wondered what made User5482 (a generic name obviously assigned by the website) want to contact her.

User5482: "Yarrow flowers. Tell me, was that an attempt at irony, or some thinly-veiled attempt to warn others of your latent desires?"

"The cheek of some of these men..." Hermione muttered, rereading the terse message two more times while musing if she should send a reply. Deep down, she was secretly impressed with whoever this person was, as they knew from sight alone about the Yarrow flower. But the nerve of them! Yes, Yarrow was touted to be an aphrodisiac, but it was also combined with other herbs for purposes of carrying out love magick.

Deciding to reply to the message, Hermione felt rather smug as she punched in her username and password. Her first order of business was to peeked at this User5482's profile, who, for some reason she assumed to be male. Unfortunately, Mystery Message Sender had their profile completely bare. There was no profile picture, no listed interests, not even a box ticked off to indicate male, female, or undecided.

For all she knew, the person behind the message could have been a three-legged purple unicorn who went by the name of Mufty. No matter, at least Mufty was well versed in their herbs, and Hermione had always like someone with a wet brain.

--Well, I would have gone with a user picture of yohimbe, but the sight of decimated tree bark is not only off-putting, but might give someone the wrong idea.

Looking as haughty as one could while sitting in their pyjamas, drinking wine and talking to some unknown grey face as a source of amusement on a Friday night, Hermione moved her mouse to the 'send' button and replied, feeling a bit triumphant.

It seemed a bit foolish to expect an immediate response. Thinking of the old adage 'a watched pot never boils' Hermione was prepared to take her wine to bed and spend the rest of her night indulging in crap telly, when a little red asterisk hovered to the right on her inbox on the website.

"Yohimbe? I suppose you could have posted a picture of its tree and not the bark but both are equally unattractive. Anyway, it is rather clear that you're a bit, shall we say, pent up? You might as well have mentioned Spanish Fly."

"Alright now, Mister Know-It-All," said Hermione aloud. "How the hell do you know so much about—"

Pot? Meet kettle, Granger. You really can't talk because everything he...she..Mufty mentions, you already know about.

Not knowing where this conversation was headed, Hermione drained her glass and took it to the kitchen for a refill. Something told her that she would need the extra liquid courage to continue carrying on with a person that was obviously direct and most likely had no filter on their mouth.

-Perhaps I wanted to be a little more subtle, was Hermione's next message, as she didn't know what else to say.

"Your picture was the epitome of un-subtle; it practically screamed 'in need of a good, slow screw," Mufty replied.

At that, Hermione stopped reading, becoming a tad affronted. Who the hell did Mufty think they were? They didn't know her to make such assumptions, and besides, even if that was the case, what gave them the right to point it out? She told them so in her next message, while dimly hoping that they would not take offense.

Not Mufty: he, or she, didn't appear perturbed. Still huffing, Hermione resumed reading.

"I'll have you know that I am nowhere near as gormless as I look, or how others perceive me to be. Moot point, since you can't see me, but I digress. I know someone in dire need of sexual release when I happen across them; in your case, something tells me it has been a very long time since you've had a man's head buried between your legs. Or a woman's, perhaps?"

Hermione's eyebrows rose high on her forehead after reading that last message. Intriguing as it was, she needed to set the story straight.

-I suppose abandoning pretence is my better option, especially considering that you can't see me. Anyway, no women— not that I have anything against the idea, but yes, it has been some time since I've had a man do that for me.

Just as Hermione sent off the last message, her long-haired white cat, Duchess, came slinking into the bedroom. Duchess usually preferred to linger near Hermione's feet whenever she was on her computer, mostly because the spot beneath the desk was warm. Sometimes, she literally sat on top of Hermione's feet. Perhaps she knew that her human was busy with...not quite chatting up, but something else, with another human. A man, at that, because she jumped on the bed and curled up at the foot.

"Do that?" Mufty's next message read. "And what is 'that' exactly? Lick your pussy? Having a man playing with your tits, teasing your nipples into two stiff points as his warm tongue savours the deepest parts of you, tasting you in places you've never given thought to?"

Hermione turned away from the sight of her sleeping cat and had just picked up her wineglass when she saw the next message. She nearly dropped the glass and had to set it back down, not wanting to accidentally spill anything on her keyboard.

Who the hell was this nameless, faceless person? And why the hell was her clitoris throbbing from reading his few, short sentences? When she took too long to reply, another message popped into her inbox.

"Are you still there? "

-I'm still here, Hermione typed out with trembling fingers. -You sort of shocked me there for a moment. I wasn't expecting that.

"I know you weren't. That's why I did it."

"Smug little..." Hermione trailed, wondering just how to one-up this person who was brassier than a trumpet playing quartet.

-Do you always say things for the shock value? Or do you actually live up to your word? she finally replied.

"I'm going to assume that my bald manner of speaking is not putting you off, considering that you keep writing back. But rest assured; if given the opportunity, I would show you just how serious I am. Typically I hate the 'all mouth and no trousers' bit, but since talking is our only option here... Anyway, I promise that if you were here, talking and questions would be the last thing on your mind."

Taking another slug of wine, Hermione set down her glass a little too roughly, cursing when she thought that the edge had become chipped. Finding that it was still intact, she carefully placed the expensive glass back down while beginning a mental argument with herself over the question that had sprung up in her mind.

"Don't do it," she warned herself. "Hermione Jean Granger, don't do it, do not do it."

Hermione stared at the sender's last message for a long time. Running her fingers over the narrow stem of the now empty wineglass, she continued with her inner battle, weighing the pros and cons if she were to carry through with the thing burning into the edges of her mind.

Finally plucking up a bit of nerve, all the while wishing that she could type without looking (which was damn near impossible, because Magk only allowed you to type into one tiny screen and one shift of the mouse would move her to the outer edges of the homepage) Hermione clicked on the 'reply' button and rushed to type her next message. Unfortunately, she misspelt quite a few words and had to go back to retype them. Thank god for the wine, else her face would have been burning hot from going through with asking the bold question.

-And what would you do if I were there with you?

Hermione imagined the man sitting behind the other computer would smirk upon reading her message. Or would his obviously sordid mind come up with something so deliciously wicked that it might send her to the verge of climaxing as she sat right there, waiting for a response?

There was only one way to find out.

Almost forgetting to breathe in anticipation of the next message, Hermione twisted round in her computer chair, digging her toes into the hard stand and hissing in pain with the nail on her littlest toe bent in a way nature never intended. Pain radiated through her entire foot, and she was still hunched over, preoccupied with rubbing it, that she nearly missed the little red asterisk pop up over her inbox.

"Since you've asked nicely, and I do believe in answering a question when posed, I will tell you. I will also assume that you are anticipating the outlandish. In fact, I daresay you are hoping for it, and I aim to satisfy.

To answer your question, I'd strip you naked as the day you were born and I'd pull you over my lap. I wonder what your nipples look like? No matter, I'd suck on them until your sweet little cunt became slick and swollen and left spots on my trousers. Oh yes, did you know that you could get wet just from me rubbing my tongue along your tits? It is possible and I would prove it by licking your nipples until they were hard enough to cut glass.

Shall I continue?"

Breathing hastened and her mouth hanging open, Hermione managed to type back a reply that sounded more suave than the one she screamed to herself in her head.


"Have you ever been spanked before? Not one that hurts, but one that excites. Hopefully you would allow me to give you one; I think you would enjoy being draped across my lap, facedown while my hands take their time kneading your bum cheeks. I must admit, I do love the feel of a woman's soft, plush bottom beneath my bare hand, so much more enticing than other things I've been forced to handle in life.

But I digress. The secret to a proper spanking is to know where to slap; too high and it hurts. Too low, and your thighs will be screaming. But that lovely crease where buttock meets thigh, that gorgeous little curve that sometimes peeks beneath the dainty silk or lace of a woman's knickers...if I were to catch right there with the palm of my hand...it would be just enough to make your body sing. A few slaps, a bit of rubbing, I could have your cunny lips cherry-red and swollen within minutes, all without ever setting a finger there. By then I imagine that you would beg me to touch you there—there being your clitoris, which would most likely be stiff as the tip of my pinkie finger. You would probably try to hump my leg like the naughty girl that you are, but you will not come until I want you to.

Besides, I never said I was done with your spanking. I want to see your bottom turning a lovely shade of red with each strike of my hand. I want to hear you becoming wet for me. I want to see those sweet juices clinging to my hand whenever I accidentally, alright, purposely, get too close to your creamy snatch.

Maybe I'll let you come at that point—maybe. Perhaps I will allow you to move, allow you to arch your spine and push back so the heel of my hand can brush against that little nub. I can be generous, but I can be selfish. I have no trouble admitting this. Slowly, I would like to slide two fingers into you, watching as they sink into your warm, swollen depths, savouring the sight of your pretty pink pussy trying to suck me inside, clinging to me for dear life.

Did I mention that I was generous?

My thumb might make its way back down to your clit, grazing that little hood protecting it from men like me.

Right; I did tell you I was selfish.

Away comes the thumb, but you'll be too busy focusing on the sensation of my fingers twisting inside you, brushing against that spot that makes your toes curl and your breath hitch. Don't worry, my thumb is still there, just a hairsbreadth away, far enough to keep you right on the edge. Like I said, sweet girl, you come when I say so.

Terrible, isn't it? Being brought to the cusp of orgasm and being held there...knowing that all you need to toe you over the edge is literally a nudge of my thumb, another twist of the fingers still buried knuckle-deep in your pussy. Maybe I'll let you come. Or maybe I'll leave you dangling on a precarious perch, revelling in the way you continue to wring your hands, indulging in the tempting curve of your delicate back each time you try to arch further into my touch.

Do you have dimples in your lower back? If you do, I confess that it might break my resolve just a bit. I never could resist a well-shaped back with dimples. Just for a second I would have to run my tongue over each one, before paying homage to the sweep of your spine.

I know you want to come; you need that orgasm so badly that you can nearly taste it. I feel you shaking like a leaf against me. Hurts, doesn't it? It feels as if your insides are one big knot, that tension growing tighter and tighter, while all you can focus on is the throbbing sensation that has rendered you nearly senseless. I'm sure by now your cunt feels like the only thing that matters; never mind the rest of your body, not those pretty feet or soft thighs or even your wrists.

But I have something to tell you, and I know you are not going to like this: I don't want you to come. I'm not going to let you, at least, not yet. I want you to remember this feeling. I want this notion firmly planted in your mind, rooted so deeply that you will never forget:

If sex, fucking, shagging, lovemaking—whatever you want to call it—doesn't make you feel like the way you should be, and are hopefully feeling right now, then you have been doing it with the wrong person.

Alas, my bed summons me. Perhaps we will speak again in the near future."


"THAT'S IT?!" Hermione bellowed when she got to the end of the note. Her blood was racing like a car in gear with a brick left on its gas pedal, and between her legs felt unbelievably hot and heavy. And all from a fucking note! And the rude bastard had the nerve to stop there, claiming the need for sleep?

Whoever he was, Hermione vowed to make him pay.

But first...she had to rub one out.

There was no way that she would be able to sleep without having some sort of relief, even if it came by her own hand, no pun intended.

Duchess yowled dispassionately at having been shooed off Hermione's bed and out the room. Thankfully, she sought slumber in another part of the house and didn't stay to scratch at the door, demanding to be re-admitted. Hermione reckoned she could have masturbated with her cat in the room—she was that worked up, but refused to risk the chance of Duchess walking across the top of head just before she was about to come. The cat did have awful timing, it seemed with everything, and right now Hermione was not in the mood.

Rushing to yank her shirt off her body and then hastily stepping out of her knickers, Hermione lay across her bed, face down on her stomach with her right hand between her legs. Had she ever been so wet before? She couldn't remember, although the answer was mostly likely no.

After a bit of manoeuvring and finding that lying on her stomach was too difficult, she flipped over onto her back, burying two fingers within her while keeping her thumb against her highly-sensitised clitoris. The awkward angling didn't help with consistent movements, but using her other hand to pluck at erect nipples while moving the other hand to the best of her ability, Hermione imagined the nameless, faceless man drawing her over his lap, spanking her arse and rubbing her pussy until she was a writhing, shuddering mess.

Which she literally became at the moment; the fantasy was enough to send her careening over the edge after a minute or two, and Hermione climaxed hard enough that her trembling body made her headboard thump loudly against the wall. The blood was still pounding fiercely in her ears as she came down, and she drew in a few staggering breaths. Limbs heavy and her body feeling completely sated for the moment, Hermione fell into a deep sleep before she was able to pull her limp hand away from her crotch.