Hermione glanced at the device on her kitchen counter with uncertainty. There were many peculiar devices in the magic world – time-travelling hourglasses, haunted diaries, flying broomsticks, messenger owls, invisible cars, living portraits, moving staircases – but none resembled the device in her hands. In truth, she bought it on a whim – on a stupid, thoughtless, desperate whim – under the constant reminder that all her friends were either married or on the road to being married.
Even her tosser of an ex-boyfriend.
The nerve of him to get engaged after breaking up with her because he couldn't see himself being 'tied down' was enough to push her over the edge. It wasn't that she had feelings for him – because she didn't. It was the fact that even Ron managed to find someone to spend his life with, whereas she had barely been kissed in three sodding years.
This was more than a dry spell. This was a drought. This was the drought of all droughts.
She needed a shag.
She needed one bad – maybe twelve.
Hermione breathed in – resigned to the fact that she might never find the Mr. Darcy to her Elizabeth Bennett – and shifted her attention to the newest addition in her growing collection of sex toys. It was apparently all the rage in Eastern Europe, or so the shopkeeper claimed.
This device came in two parts.
The first part was a vibrator eight inches long and two inches wide – but with a twist. There were no controls. There were no speed settings or even an on/off switch. She had no control over it.
There was, however, someone in the world with control; someone with whom she could communicate using the second part, which happened to be an earpiece.
In other words, she had gone to an adult shop and spent about a week's earnings on glorified phone sex. It made her feel worse than pathetic, but she tried not to think about it as anything other than business. It was better than using her hand every night. This way, she at least had the illusion of another person – a paid professional – but another person nonetheless.
With trembling fingertips, she lifted the earpiece from its packaging and placed it in her right ear. The shopkeeper had given her one line of instruction – insert the earpiece and wait – so that's what she did.
Hermione poured herself a glass of wine and made her way from the kitchen to the lounge. She draped herself across the chaise. She stared up at the ceiling. She couldn't focus. She could only drink and blink and wonder what on earth had possessed her into thinking this was a good idea. Before long, her entire body was shaking with nerves. She felt ridiculous. She had no idea what to expect, when to expect or how to –
"Er –" Hermione froze. "Huh – Hi."
There was a gentle laugh on the other end. "You sound nervous."
"I – erm – I've never done this before."
"Never?" he asked, vaguely young judging by the sound of his voice. "Not even with a boyfriend?"
Hermione thought back to her one and only relationship. "If talking with a mouthful of leftover takeaway counts, then my ex talked dirty to me all the time."
There was more laughter, but this time she joined in. "I suppose that makes me your first."
She smiled. "I suppose so."
"In that case, let's start with something light. Tell me about your day."
"My day? Erm – well – I had a rather rough start this morning. For some reason, my alarm clock wasn't working and I ended up an hour late for work."
"That sounds bloody awful," he remarked. "This is why I love what I do. I work at night."
"Lucky you," she grimaced. "I can't remember the last time I wasn't forced to wake up at an ungodly hour."
"Sounds like you have a tough job."
"I do…but I'd be lying if I said I don't love it. I get to travel loads."
"Around Europe, most of the time," she explained. "It's usually business from arrival to departure, but I did manage to get into some innocent trouble in Amsterdam last spring."
"Did you?" he asked, delightfully impressed. "How much trouble are we talking?"
"No more than usual," Hermione shrugged, ignoring the mildly suggestive nature of her wording. "I – erm – I actually feel like I'm in more trouble right now, to be perfectly honest." Nervous laugh.
There was a pause on the other end. "What makes you say that?"
"…I'm talking to a complete stranger," she answered quietly. "No offense."
"None taken," he assured her, maintaining that air of youthful maturity. "So, in the spirit of getting to know you, how about we play a game?"
Hermione pushed herself into upright position and took another sip of wine, feeling it was necessary. "What sort of game?"
"I'm thinking a modified game of truth or dare," he explained. "We take turns asking each other some harmless questions – and if one of us refuses to answer, we do a dare of the other person's choosing."
She sucked on her bottom lip. "That sounds dangerous."
There was another pause on his end, as though he were caught between a smirk and a smile. She imagined it was quick, something faint that crossed his lips for barely a moment before he planned his next course of action.
"I'll go first," he started, interrupting her thoughts. "Something easy. What's your favourite position?"
Her jaw slammed open. "That is neither harmless nor easy!"
There it was again. The same smug little break. She was beginning to realize this bloke never missed a beat. "You could always go for the dare."
She scrunched her mouth to the side. "I think not, going by the state of your easy question." Another sip of wine. Another deep breath. "Right – favourite position. I suppose I like being – being on – on top." For some reason, she waited for him to laugh. He didn't. "Whatever that's called."
"It's called cowgirl. A personal favourite of mine, as well."
Hermione snorted. "Lazy arse."
"Don't be so quick," he laughed, with a touch of surprise. "Fucking from underneath requires some serious core strength."
There was another pause, but this one came from her end. The manner in which he uttered the fuck-word so casually made her lightheaded, though it could also have been a by-product of all that wine.
"I s'pose it's my turn," she mumbled, hoping she didn't sound as flustered as she felt. "If you could –"
"I choose dare."
Hermione arched an eyebrow. "I haven't even finished asking you my question!"
He didn't seem at all bothered. "I'm curious to know what sort of dare you'd think up."
The nerve of him.
"Fine," she decided. "…I dare you to take off an article of clothing."
"Cheeky," he remarked. "It's as if you know I'm sitting here in nothing but my boxers." Before she could form a proper comment, there was some shifting about on the other end of the call, and then he was back. "Dare complete."
Her face paled. "Er –"
"All right. In keeping with your previous answer about being on top, do you like to slide on and off your partner or do you prefer to rotate your hips and grind against your partner in slow circles?"
She had yet to wrap her head around the fact that this mystery man was quite possibly talking to her in the nude. The mention of sliding and grinding didn't help one bit. Her thoughts drifted to the last time she had sex – which was ages ago. Everything was in flashes. Every touch. Every feeling. Nothing was complete.
She tried to remember, to form a complete memory, but it was all frozen in staccato.
"Is everything all right?" he voiced.
Hermione swallowed hard. "I – yes – I just – It's been so long and – I – erm –" She closed her eyes, feeling ridiculous. He was just a random person. There was no need to be nervous. But something about him didn't feel at all random. In fact, her eyelids were beginning to ache from how hard she was squeezing them shut.
Finally, as if on their own accord, her hips began to move on the spot, right against the chaise. Her muscles relaxed. Her nerves dissipated. Her pulse quickened. She couldn't remember, but she could still pretend.
"It's been a long time for you, hasn't it?" he asked, abandoning the arrogance.
"Y – Yes."
"Tell me what you're thinking about."
It was the wine. It must have been the wine, because she wouldn't have said this sober. "You."
His voice lowered. "Don't be shy." Deep breath. "Tell me what you're doing."
Hermione breathed in, bottom lip quivering. "I – I'm on top – rotating my hips in slow – slow circles."
This was insane. This was complete and utter insanity. She would never live this down.
"Do you feel me against you?" he furthered, dispelling her nerves.
Her blush deepened. "Y – Yes."
There was a change in his breathing. "Where?"
"B – Between my legs," she whispered. "Through my clothes."
Something about the manner in which he took a moment to exhale, made her entire body tremble in response. She had no idea it was possible to be so aroused by just the sound of someone's voice – a complete stranger, at that.
"You're doing this wrong," he said, sounding anything but displeased. "I'm supposed to be the one turning you on."
"S – Sorry."
His response was swift. "Don't you dare apologize."
"What – What would you do to me if you were here?" she managed to ask, cheeks flushed, slightly horrified with her own boldness.
"Let me show you."
Those four words both aroused and terrified her to the point that she had no choice but to give in to her body's desires. Her eyes fluttered open and she reached for the second part to her purchase, feeling the cold sleek exterior send a collection of shivers down her spine. It was long, silver and almost snake-like. She took a deep, rousing breath and spread herself across the nearest sofa, with the back of one hand resting delicately on her forehead and the other draped along her upper abdomen…holding tight.
There was a cool, summer draft coming in from the vents. She allowed it to envelope her, alongside every sensation coursing through her veins. She still couldn't believe this was happening.
"Don't be afraid," he told her, reading her thoughts. "Just close your eyes and relax for me. I'll do the rest."
Hermione followed his instruction. She breathed in and out, feeling like a nervous schoolgirl again, about to be touched for the first time. Her earlier bouts of nervousness had been replaced with an unexpected feeling. The anticipation collected in her chest and sprouted through every inch of her body. She couldn't focus on anything apart from the sound of her mystery man's hushed breathing.
She wondered where he was, what he was doing and most of all, what he looked like.
His wordplay suggested youthfulness. He can't have been more than twenty-five. But it was the sound of his voice that made her question everything. He was well versed, without sounding practiced. He was swift, without being haste. He was patient. He treaded lightly on the line between cockiness and confidence, in a way that told her he didn't always play fair.
This boy was bad.
But her wandering thoughts were eventually cut short. There was a gentle vibration against her upper abdomen. Hermione sucked in another breath, and released the sleek rod. It moved on its own, controlled by the person on the other end of the call. The shopkeeper hadn't told her about that feature, but she didn't mind.
She stirred, consumed by the shallow tremors, picturing her mystery man hovering over her with his strong, steady hands in place of the device.
"How does that feel?" he asked, kindling her inner flame with just the sound of his voice.
Hermione shifted, inadvertently spreading the gap between her knees. The rod skimmed along her torso, drawing wide circles around her abdomen. She could feel the rounded tip through the fabric of her dress. It then made contact with bare skin, gliding along the narrow space between her aching breasts. She yearned to strip off her clothes and feel everything the way it was meant, but her body had been rendered immobile.
Her man, whom she would henceforth refer to as Erik, after the phantom in her favourite novel, continued his foray into forbidden territory. He dragged the rod along her clavicle, against the protruding bone that framed her collar. He dismantled her inhibitions with each passing second.
She released a quaking breath. "Oh – Oh gods."
"There are no gods here," he relayed. "Just me."
The placid threat in his voice stimulated her senses. She could picture him clearer now, suspending himself above her with his warm, titillating breath along the inner curve of her neck, directly over her pulse, where the vibrations continued.
There was a sound on the other end, an expulsion of air that sounded something like a faint laugh, neither mockery nor insult. It was more disbelief. "This is torturous," Erik whispered. "Being able to feel you without actually feeling you."
She imagined he said things like this to all women, but even the chance that this was meant solely for her, made the space below her bellybutton come to life – completely and utterly responsive to her phantom's every whim.
The vibrations traveled from her neck to the line of her jaw and towards the bow of her mouth. Hermione could feel each individual tremor circulating through the rod – and without further provocation – she pressed her starved, quaking lips against the rounded tip and captured it in an open-mouthed kiss.
"You, my love, are so sexy," he murmured, as though he knew what she had done …as though he could feel it.
The second and third words resonated with her, causing heat to swirl around her face and neck, and pretty much everywhere else. She unconsciously tugged at the tie on her wrap dress and felt the emerald fabric cascade down her sides, leaving her exposed down the middle with just the thin white lace of her bra and panties for cover.
Hermione sighed with longing, as a gentle breeze tickled her bare skin. It felt as though even the slightest touch would detonate the energy building in her core. She wanted very much to let her phantom know how good this felt and how much she needed him, but words were no longer possible. She could barely form a single cohesive thought, let alone a sentence.
Judging by the subtle inflection in Erik's voice, he was equally, if not more dismantled. "Just the sound of your breathing," he furthered. "You really have no idea, what I would do to you if I could touch you for real."
She wanted to find out. There was no price she was unwilling to pay, in order to find out, and in order to uncover the mask that concealed him from her. But all they had to communicate these desires was the sleek, metallic device that seemed to gain speed with each painfully glorious second. Hermione was hanging onto the cusp of her sanity, chest heaving as she felt the tip outline her left nipple, coaxing it to life and then the other. The rosy peeks of her breasts hardened, practically poking through her bra, begging for release.
"I want you to imagine my lips," he said, speaking in hushed tones and delivering more delicious vibrations to the sensitive skin of her areolas. "I want you to imagine my lips kissing you …right here."
There was a divide between Hermione's own lips, providing passage for the moan that whirled up her larynx and over her tongue. Her eyes were half-lidded and shielded under the smoky, covetous haze that Erik fabricated with every word and every scenario. It was all in the details. It was all in the small, minute details in this entanglement of voices and feeling.
Hermione quietly admitted to herself that she had never felt so aroused, even in the presence of an actual man. This was the single most sinfully erotic thing she had ever done, and would probably ever do. She couldn't get enough. She couldn't stop the urges building in her chest and between her legs. She could only lie there and submit to her desires …to his.
"Those seraphic sounds you make," he disclosed, practically shuddering. "I can't get enough."
In the back of her mind, her thoughts lingered around the second word, knowing it was famously used in one particular novel; the novel from which her phantom had found his alias. It felt oddly personal, sharing this classic piece of literature with him, with the only stranger in the world that had managed to turn her into a hot, clumsy mess.
The vibrator abandoned her risen nipples and moved down her twitching stomach, to the hem of her panties. She wondered how the controls worked, but couldn't focus long enough to further this bout of curiosity. Instead, her thoughts were shrouded in the very real possibility that she would feel these vibrations in criminal places.
She needed this.
She needed this more than Erik would ever care to know, more than she would ever allow him to know.
"Shall I do it?" he asked, speaking slowly. "Shall I fuck you?"
There it was. The fuck-word. The combined flush and fissure in that single word made her weak. She wasn't one for cursing, but the way he did it, the way he spoke these words as though they formed the skeleton key to her one true place of worship, made her feel wicked.
This boy was more than bad. This boy was positively corrupt.
Hermione swallowed her nerves and breathed in and out, bit by bit, until the tip of the vibrator glided beneath her panties. The change in speed made her eyes roll to the back of her skull. She could feel her arousal dampen the lace, hot with desire.
"I would give anything to smooth my tongue along your gorgeous cunt," he confessed, tearing holes through her defense with each of these sinful words. "Sing for me, angel."
She whimpered, caught somewhere between a cry and a moan, relishing the onslaught. The rounded tip lapped her sensitive areas over and over again, coaxing moisture from her entrance with each motion, and probing her pulsing clitoris as though it were made for that purpose, for this moment.
It felt better than amazing. It felt divine.
Her pulse quickened. She closed her eyes and imagined him combing the damp hair from her forehead, blowing kisses onto her lips and pressing his own arousal between her thighs. She wondered if he was sitting there in a dimly lit room, stroking his erection as he divulged to her the many sinful things he wished to do to her mind, body and soul. She wondered if he imagined her, the way she imagined him. She wondered the colour of his hair and the look in his eyes.
These thoughts drove her up the wall with longing. There was so little she could do to satiate her growing appetite to know more. In fact, there was close to nothing. Her only through-line into this man's identity was the sound of his voice, and so far, she couldn't get enough of him.
The vibrations gained even more speed, causing her lower lips to tremble against the sleek exterior. Her core was throbbing. She could feel it. She could practically hear it. The vibrations. The wetness. The breathing on the other end of the call. Every facet of this fantasy come to life had her hanging by a single thread.
Hermione waited, holding her breath, shaking and drowning in hope.
The tip just barely outlined her entrance, extracting a guttural moan from deep in her core and then sliding inside her with her natural lubricant dripping from the base. She opened her mouth all the way and trembled. Her phantom responded to this with a deafening grunt that proved to her she was not alone in this whirlwind of lust.
Again, she wondered if this was a regular occurrence or something reserved solely for this particular call, something that had never happened before.
Hermione exhaled. "You – You don't know that."
"You're beautiful," he repeated.
She had neither the time nor the focus to argue his point. She could feel the vibrations deep inside her. She grabbed the corners of the sofa with both hands, steadying herself as the device surged in and out. The first few times, it went all the way in and then all the way out, teasing her and testing her. She was grinding her teeth, aching for release, aching for the moment her senses would come together and then fall apart.
Erik innocently rotated the device inside her, adding new sensations to the old ones, unveiling a new level of pleasure she had never before experienced. He knew exactly what he was doing. He knew she wasn't a virginal princess dressed in a white sundress with flowers in her hair. He knew she needed something more, something harder and deeper and darker.
And, gods, was he was giving it to her.
Hermione dug her nails into the sofa as he slid in and out of her. The force combined with the second-by-second collision of what was happening and the possibility of more, had her delirious. There was no medicine for this sort of fever. There were no potions. There was no remedy. There was only the growing chance that one of these thrusts would eventually unravel her from the bottom up.
She breathed out, moaning and gasping for dear life.
She hoped these sounds turned him on. She hoped these sounds drove him over the edge of no return.
She hoped these sounds would ingrain themselves into the depths of his memory, where he'd be forced to remember this night, where he'd be forced to remember her.
Somewhere amidst these wayward hopes and throws of passion, Hermione felt a glimmer of something in her centre, where the vibrations twisted and turned and surged with incredible might. It started off small – powerful but small – like an ember that could still burn the first layer of her skin and then it grew – fanned by her phantom's desire mixed with her own – from an orange flicker to an all-consuming, cataclysmic wildfire that burst through every fibre of her corporeal being.
Hermione tossed her head back, knocking the daylights out of her as she slammed it against the armrest of her sofa. She cried out – chest heaving and heart racing – caught in wave after wave of rapturous triumph. Her face and hair was covered in sweat, in longing for this one moment, for this overtaking. She shook and quivered and practically bit a hole through her bottom lip.
The feeling consumed her wholly, so much so that she barely registered her phantom's mirroring reaction.
If there were ever any doubts.
She struggled to breathe, to make sense out of what had just happened, when suddenly the world came tumbling down on her. She was still in her flat. She was still in her lounge. She was still draped across her sofa. She was still in a call with a complete stranger, a stranger that had turned her inside out and left her quaking against the tremors of an earth-shattering orgasm.
He was there. She could hear him gasping for breath. She could hear him slowly regain control, as she had. But there were no words that came to mind, nothing to follow what he had done to her, nothing that could possibly compare to the madness that had ensued from one conversation with a stranger.
For all she knew, he was a dangerous person.
But even that made her flame burn brighter.
She could handle danger.
She and danger were on a first name basis.
"I dare you to do this with me again," he finally said, breaking the silence with his low, sensual voice.
Hermione felt something close to a giggle tickle the insides of her lips. She couldn't believe his audacity. She couldn't believe his boldness. She especially couldn't believe he remembered their game. She hadn't exactly given him an answer to his question, which left a dare.
"You're quite forward," she remarked, sounding impressed rather than irritated. "But I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to do this again."
He paused, undoubtedly smirking to himself. "I'm technically going against the rules by even proposing we do this again."
"What are the other rules?" Hermione asked.
"There aren't many," Erik explained. "We can't exchange addresses or names, basically anything too personal."
No names. This caused a hint of a frown to tug at the ends of her lips. She suppressed the sigh threatening to escape, and instead searched for an alternative.
"What about initials?" she inquired, precociously ingenuous. "Will you give me your initials?"
There was another break in their conversation, but this one didn't carry the hint of a smirk or a smile. It felt as though they had crossed into no-mans-land, into a place that was forbidden and uncharted. The looming silence made Hermione anxious, and she slowly opened her mouth to take back her invasive questions, to go back to the way things were with just jokes and innocent teasing but –
"DM," he answered, after several minutes. "My initials are D and M."
Hermione opened her mouth to respond, to thank him for giving her a response even though it was completely unwarranted. But the echo of his answer reverberated within her psyche, and a slow, crippling realization seized control of her body.
She sat there, in silence.
"Is something wrong?" her phantom asked.
"N – No," she muttered. "I – I just – I forgot I had to – erm –" It can't have been. There was no chance. There was absolutely no chance. "I – I have to go –"
Hermione pursed her eyes shut and tried to ignore the disappointment in his voice. But there was no way she could continue this conversation after – after – "I'm sorry," she breathed, gathering her limbs into upright position and taking one final moment to dwell in the aftermath of what had just happened, before lifting the earpiece from her ear, thereby ending the conversation, and placing it onto her coffee table.
She remained there, on the edge of her sofa, bewildered beyond words and comprehension.
"There's no way," Hermione spoke out loud, running both hands through her hair. "Fuck."
Hello! Thanks for reading 'Vibrations' all the way through. This was a last-minute idea, inspired by the song 'Do I Wanna Know?' by Arctic Monkeys.
[UPDATE]: This used to be a one-shot, but I've added five new chapters! Give them a read and tell me what you think.