Chapter Text
Chapter 1 - Humble Beginnings
It was the height of summer in Britain, on this fine day in mid-August 1994. The temperature was sweltering, the air shimmering in the heat, and all the residents of Privet Drive, Surrey were hiding away from the death-glare of the sun in their homes. Granted, the hiding did not help a lot, with no air conditioning in even the most expensive homes, but it was better than baking and burning outside.
The very same could be said for the residents of Privet Drive 4, namely the Dursley family as well as their nephew, Harry Potter. While Petunia Dursley, née Evans, would spend her time downstairs, knitting and watching TV while sitting beside a fan, her son Dudley Dursley was out and about at the home of one of his friends, having decided that if he was forced to be inside at this time of year, he would much rather be inside at the house of his best friend, Piers, whose parents were both at work during the day, thus giving the two of them open range to do whatever they damn well pleased. With Vernon Dursley at work, this only left one person unaccounted for.
The person in question, one Harry Potter, the “Boy-Who-Lived”, saviour of wizarding Britain and Child of Prophecy, could be found upstairs at Privet Drive 4, in his small room, the door of which seemed to be perpetually locked day and night, not that his relatives minded.
And Harry Potter was hard at work on this fine afternoon, just as he had been all summer long. Tirelessly, he worked his right hand up and down, up and down the length of his dick, his body coated in a sheen of sweat, the bed beneath him positively soaked in a perverse mixture of said sweat mixed with a frankly unreal amount of precum that had been leaking out of his near-30 cm long dick ever since he started today's session after returning to his room right after breakfast. His breaths were ragged, partly from the physical exertion of half a day of non-stop masturbation, partly from the slowly, slowly building peak he had been working towards for the last hours.
Up and down. Up and down. Again and again he moved his hand, the muscles in his forearm, shoulder, and chest burning from exertion. He was lost. Lost within the pleasures of the flesh. Lost within his own fantasies of undulating bodies, of the curves of his female friends and colleagues, imagined or real.
Fantasies of Katie, back last year when he caught a swift glimpse of her walking out of the shower after a particularly rough Quidditch practice, before the door to the girls’ cabin was yanked closed by Angelina. Fantasies of Lavender, all pretty and teasing, with her custom-shortened skirt flitting in the wind and the glimpse of her panties he had gotten when walking behind her up the trapdoor to Divination. Fantasies of Hermione, his first and best friend ever since he had met her on the Hogwarts Express and whom he had always found funny and cute and nice, feelings which had quickly turned to infatuation and finally to a raw, ever-present desire for her that made it hard to focus when she was near, let alone talk to her.
He remembered vividly when they had gone back in time to rescue Sirius at the end of the last school year. How she had pressed herself against him to fit them both in the chain of the time-turner. How she had led him by the hand, tugging him along from one hiding place to the next, while all he could do was try not to drool as he had his eyes fixed on her swaying, moving behind in front of him. He could still remember how her skirt seemed to cling to her cheeks, outlining them in a way that was simultaneously chaste, yet breathtakingly sexual at the same time. With each step she took it would cling to her round, oval-shaped ass, and each time she stopped him, each time she quickly shoved him behind an armor or held him back from moving outside of a corridor to remain unseen, he would inadvertently bump into those heavenly soft, round, wobbly yet firm globes with his crotch, delighting in the slight yet so incredibly arousing friction it caused.
It was a miracle she did not notice, caught up as she was in their super-secret mission, how his hard-on, massive and throbbing in his pants, poked her behind again and again. Even now, ragged breaths wheezing in and out of his lungs as he lay there in the small bed inside his room, he couldn’t help but fantasize about her. About what she would have done had she noticed. How she would have stopped him from moving once more, only to abruptly notice the lewd contact. How she would have blushed up a storm and initially tried to ignore it, only to stop him again and again, with more and more ludicrous excuses, letting the contact of her backside and his bulge happen each time. Soon she would stop him yet again, only this time she would begin to slowly grind her ass back at him, her face turned away but undoubtedly red from the delicious mixture of shame, arousal, and excitement. Unable to control himself, Harry would hug her from behind, eliciting a small squawk from her, continuing to dry-hump her from behind, breathing down her neck in ragged, short pants. One of his arms would hold her close around her ribcage, the other would be digging into her sides, fingers curled around the side and front of her hips, rutting into the sinfully soft and full roundness of her ass, losing himself to the moment fully. She would moan quietly under her breath in turn, muttering a soft “Finally, took you long enough you stupid boy” under her breath before she would arch her back, presenting even better friction for Harry while simultaneously turning her head back towards him, capturing his lips in a heated kiss, their tongues battling for dominance the whole time. His hand would inch downwards, briefly stopping at the rim of her skirt, his eyes seeking hers, a question in them. A quick, desperate nod would be all he needed to continue his hands journey downward into her underwear, his middle finger quickly being coated in the slickness that dominated her panties, before it moved upward to draw tight, rhythmic circles around the nub of her clit. Immediately, her legs would buckle, forcing Harry to hold her upright with raw strength just to keep them from being noticed, all the while he was getting closer and closer to his own peak by way of the delicious friction from rutting into the clothed yet still sinfully soft valley of her arse.
Harry was getting closer and closer to the climax he had been working on all day. His head thrown back, shirt in mouth to stop it from being drenched in the explosion waiting to happen, he desperately jerked his hips into his own hand.
Precum spurted out of his urethra with each new pump, coating his hand with a new layer of lube, which in turn lessened the friction he experienced from the death-grip he had on his own member. A desperate whine escaped his mouth as he lifted his hips into the air, hoping to somehow gain that bit more friction, that bit more sensation to finally push him over the edge. Again and again he pumped, his hand moving in a blur. His legs spread out, tensed to the absolute maximum the powerful muscles in his thighs quaking in exertion. His toes began to curl, the light at the end of the tunnel rapidly approaching.
Yet just as he was about to fall over the edge into the heavenly release that he had been chasing for so long, his arm reached its limit as well. Taxed by hours of masturbation, the muscles in Harry's shoulders and arm seized up in protest, a cramp of epic proportions knocking the boy out of the trance-like state he had been in for so long. The much needed climax, the release he needed vanished in a flash of pain, and with a desperate, hoarse shout of “Nooooo! I was so close, fuck!” the boy let his spasming arm drop to his side, his massive, rock-hard cock flopping onto his sweat and precum-covered stomach with a wet, heavy thump.
Desperately trying to finish, Harry clumsily grasped his dick with his other hand, yet the mix of pain radiating through his right side, mixed with the irregular, awkward movements of his left hand, quickly dissipated any chance of him getting off.
Breathing heavily, he lay still, exhaustion bone-deep. The air in his room was hot and heavy. It reeked of sex and of sweat and, if one were able to detect such, of desperation. Today was not the first time he had been unable to finish. It had not even been the fifth time. In fact, for the last three weeks he had been unable to finish himself off at all, yet his arousal was at an all-time high day and night, leading him to try again and again. His right hand was permanently sore, his member swollen at all times, the angry, red head overly sensitive yet not pleasurable with his hands alone, it would seem. If that was where it stopped, that would be bad enough, but the constant horniness slowly seeped into his regular life. He could not look outside his window without imagining doing unspeakable things to the girls that lived in and around Privet Drive. His dick was constantly, painfully hard, forcing him to walk bowed forward or with his hands in front of his crotch, trying in vain to hide the massive bulge lining his trousers.
He had always had … urges. More maybe than the ones his dormmates talked about, more intense for sure, for he could not think straight once he got into a mood, often having to bow out on the way between classes to quickly take care of himself in an abandoned classroom or secret passage. But it had been manageable. With his lusts coming and as quick as they went after one good rub. And it had even made him very good at the Vanishing Charm, if only to hide the evidence of his escapades.
Yet, the longer the last year, and thus his many … bathroom visits, went on, the harder it became for him to truly feel satisfied, something which first meant having to take care of himself more than once to truly feel back to normal, only to slowly but surely evolve into having a harder and harder time finishing himself off.
All this had reached its apex a week after the start of the summer break, when he had, for the first time, needed a whole day, starting at 9:00, finishing at 18:00, to cum only once. It had been a huge load that he coaxed out of his swollen, large balls for sure, yet when he lay there, not unlike he did now, on his back sweaty and exhausted, he only felt dread for what was to come in the future.
And that was how he ended up here. Here on this Wednesday evening, indescribably horny, having edged involuntarily for three straight weeks, weary in body and soul yet at the same time burning with a passion and sexual tension that just would not stop.
Heaving himself out of his bed, his erection swinging left to right with each step, he dragged himself to his shower. Stepping beneath the showerhead, he turned the water all the way to the cold side, hoping to give himself a short reprieve from his endless arousal until he inevitably would see or think of something that would set him off again. With the cold water pouring down on him, his dick softened until it was only semi-hard for the first time in what felt like an eternity. He stayed like that for ten long minutes, head blissfully empty, until he was yanked out of his trance by the incessant knocking of something on his bathroom wall.
Annoyed by the interruption, he walked over, only to see his ever-faithful companion Hedwig knocking on the window again incessantly. Quickly he opened the window and noticed to his embarrassment that the air coming in through the window seemed to be less hot and less sweltering than the one in his own room. Seemingly hit by the smell permeating the room, Hedwig recoiled, throwing Harry a scornful look before reluctantly entering the room, landing on the small table stood at the far side.
“I’m sorry girl, I don’t know what to tell you either,” Harry muttered, embarrassed, walking over to the table. He raised his hand to give the owl a few pats, only for the avian to hop away from underneath it, throwing him yet another judgemental look. “Hey, don’t be like that! I just got out of the shower, I won’t be ruining your pristine feathers, I promise!” the boy snorted, moving his hand nearer to his pet yet again. This time, seemingly still a bit standoffish yet trusting in her companion, Hedwig did not try to escape, even leaning into the soft caresses of Harry after a few seconds.
"See? Not so bad now, is it?” Harry mumbled. He continued running his fingers through Hedwig's feathers for a few more seconds before he noticed the letter tied to her leg. “Oh, what have you got there, girl? Post for me? You shouldn't have,” the boy said with feigned surprise, a crooked smile on his lips as he untied the parchment from the owl.
Having untied the letter from the owl’s leg, Harry quickly broke the wax seal keeping the envelope closed and proceeded to pull out and read the letter stored within. As he had expected, it was another letter from Ron, who had seemingly lucked out beyond belief this year, as he had managed to convince his brother Charlie to allow him to help out in and around the Romanian dragon enclosure said brother was working in.
The letter went on to detail the redhead’s week, from shoveling dung, to feeding the dragons, to even a memorable story of being allowed to brush the scales of one of the Green Welsh dragons. Harry could almost feel the joy through the pages, feeling happy for his best friend who seemed to have finally found something outside of chess and food to be truly passionate about. Like every letter Harry had received from his best friend in the last few weeks, this one too ended with a “see you at the World Cup”.
A smile on his face, Harry felt giddy just imagining how great that would be, having been invited to come along with the Weasley family to watch the finals of the Quidditch World Cup by the end of this week. By this time tomorrow, Arthur Weasley was meant to pick him up from here, bring him to the Burrow to relax for two days until Ron was scheduled to arrive back home with Charlie and Bill for dinner, before all of them, sans Ginny and Molly Weasley, would travel towards the stadium where the game was set to take place.
The giddiness about getting to see the highest level of Quidditch in person turned into sharp panic in a second, once his gaze lingered on his open, empty trunk for a second. Shit! Caught up as he had been in getting himself off, Harry had completely forgotten to pack his clothes and school supplies!
The following hours flew by in a flash, with the raven-haired boy rushing from one end of the room to the other, haphazardly throwing clothes, books, parchments, quills, and a way too high amount of odds and ends into his school trunk, only to have to take all of it out again for organisation when he discovered that no matter how hard he tried, he was unable to close the lid of his suitcase.
The sun had already set by the time he finally fell back on his mattress, still wearing nothing but his birthday suit, on one hand to try and keep himself from overheating, and on the other hand to stop the possibility of friction taking him out of his productive frenzy, plunging him right back into the depths of perversion and horniness. Soon Harry was overtaken by his tiredness, falling into a restless, lewd fantasy-filled sleep.
The next day started as the last had ended, with Harry waking up to a raging, near-painful boner, his stomach sticky with the precum that had been leaking all night, and the seemingly endless urge to caress, grasp, and pump his dick for hours on end.
However, today that was out of the question. With Herculean effort, he wrestled his rebellious body into a pair of loose, dark trousers and a baggy t-shirt, the fabric already tenting obscenely the moment he stood upright. He moved like a man in a dream, every shift of cloth a torturous whisper against his oversensitive flesh. He packed the last of his things with frantic, jerky movements, his trunk finally clicking shut just as a familiar, thunderous crack echoed from the living room.
They were here.
Peering down the stairs, he saw Mr Weasly beaming up at him, Fred and George already playfully shoving each other beside the fireplace, scattering soot all over Aunt Petunias living room. Panic, cold and sharp, cut through the fog of his arousal. He couldn’t go down like this. Snatching his school bag, he held it strategically in front of his groin, the thick canvas providing a feeble, necessary shield. Then, with the desperation of a condemned man, he crept into his uncle’s bedroom. The bottle of ‘Executive Musk’ cologne on Vernon’s dresser was as thick and cloying as the man himself. Harry doused himself liberally, the harsh chemical pine and oakmoss battling violently with the lingering, salty-sweet scent of sweat and sex that seemed baked into his very pores. He smelled like a brothel disguised as a forest, but it was the best he could do.
The farewell with the Dursleys was a terse, joyless affair, Petunia’s lips pinched as if smelling something foul (which, Harry thought wildly, she probably was), Vernon red-faced and muttering about ‘unnaturalness’. Harry barely heard them, his entire world narrowed to the pressure in his trousers and the bag clenched white-knuckled in front of him.
The journey to the Burrow was a quick one, a muttered address, a swirl of green flames and soon he stood in the living room of the Weasley family, the bad a permanent fixture in front of his lap. Harry looked around in the cluttered living room, full of bits and baubles, the grandfather clock on the wall, with no piece of furniture matching anything else, and all he could think of was “Home”. Or the closest thing to it. He quickly took a few steps towards the window, looking out over the surrounding area, down into the valley beneath the hill the Burrow was built on. As he let his gaze swing around he took notice of something however. Down by the pond, two figures were just emerging from the water, shimmering like mirages in the afternoon heat. Hermione and Ginny. They were both in bikinis, tiny strips of fabric that did nothing to contain the reality of them. Hermione’s was a simple blue, the bottoms clinging to the full, stunning curve of her hips and the delicious swell of her arse a thing of beauty, not fat or huge by any means, but seemingly larger than life, was round, supple and full, just the right amount of muscle to give it a delectable shape from carrying around absurd amounts of books all day, yet cushioned in a layer of fat that softened the edges, that gave it weight, that made his mouth water just thinking about it. If he had to put it into a single sentence, he would have said that her ass looked as if it belonged on a woman much larger than the lithe, slim form of Hermione. The perfect butt, sitting atop strong, shapely thighs. Her top sat atop her breast, no more than a handful, quite small if one were to compare them to someone like Susan Bones or Lavender Brown, but just the way Harry enjoyed them. The curve of them hinted at a woman's figure, enough to act as a cushion and give that delicious outline, yet not so much as to get in the way or to sag under its own weight. No, they were well formed, like small, rolling hills in a meadow. Water cascaded down the valley of her cleavage, over her flat stomach disappearing into her bottoms, which, now that she was turning around to talk with Ginny next to her, seemed to be devoured by her incredible arse. Ginny, beside her, was all lean, freckled lines and fiery hair, pretty and vibrant. Corded muscles and defined lines dominated her figure, her legs powerful from Quidditch training, her stomach having the outlines of a sixpack, her shoulders prominent and defined, her back segmented and bulging, yet her face was round soft but not fat.
The two of them continued to talk, laughing and smiling, before they saw him looking out of the window. With startled, laughing shrieks, they grabbed towels, wrapping them hastily around their bodies just as Harry held his bag like a lifeline.
“Harry!” Hermione’s smile was radiant, her eyes bright. She didn’t hesitate, rushing towards the house with Ginny to envelop him in a damp, warm, dual-armed hug. The soft, giving pressure of Hermione’s towel-clad body against his front, the scent of pond water and her own clean, sun-warmed skin cut through the cologne like a knife. His traitorous cock, already at full, throbbing attention, surged against the confines of his trousers, a rigid, unmistakable pillar jutting hard against the fabric and pressing directly into the softness of Hermione’s lower abdomen.
The hug lasted only three seconds, but in that eternity, he felt her whole body freeze. She didn’t jump back, not immediately. She just… stopped. He felt the sharp intake of her breath, saw the flush bloom violently from her chest, up her neck, to paint her cheeks a deep, scorching crimson. Her eyes, wide and shocked, met his for a fractured second before darting away. The warmth of her seemed to intensify, radiating a confused, electric heat.
“Oh Harry! There you are, it’s so nice to have you here! Oh my, you look like you are famished, what have your relatives been feeding you?” Mrs. Weasley’s jovial call broke the spell. Hermione and Ginny stepped back as one. Ginny, seemingly oblivious, was still grinning. Hermione’s gaze was fixed somewhere near his left shoulder, her fingers fiddling nervously with the knot of her towel.
“Long trip,” Harry blurted out, his voice an octave too high. “Really tired. Jet lag. Floo lag. Car lag.” He was babbling. “Mind if I just… drop my stuff? Ron’s room?”
“Of course, dear, right up the stairs, you can have it by yourself until Ron arrives on Saturday morning!” Mrs. Weasley said, wiping her hands on her apron. “Supper’s at seven. Hermione, Ginny, come help with the salad, but do dry off first, you’re dripping everywhere.”
Harry fled. He took the stairs two at a time, the painful throb in his groin a sickening counter-rhythm to his heartbeat. Ron’s room was a familiar, cluttered sanctuary. He dropped his trunk and bag, his hands immediately going to his fly, a pathetic, frantic need taking over. He needed release, he needed to be normal, he couldn’t sit at dinner with the Weasleys and Hermione like this, a walking, talking perversion.
With a wave of his wand, he cast a hasty Silencio on the room, the familiar magic muffling the world outside. But in his frantic, humiliated state, he forgot the lock. He simply stumbled to the bed, fumbling his trousers open, his massive, aching cock springing free, angry and red-tipped and already weeping steadily. He fell onto the worn quilt, his right hand, still sore from yesterday’s marathon, encircling the shaft. He began to pump, desperate and fast, his eyes screwed shut, conjuring every image he could—the glimpse of the pond, the curve of Hermione’s hip in that bikini bottom, the shock in her eyes—but it was useless. The pleasure was a distant, muffled scream behind a wall of overstimulation and desperation. He grunted, sweat beading on his forehead, his hips pistoning into his own fist, but the peak, the glorious, necessary peak, remained a taunting, unreachable horizon.
He hadn’t heard the door open. He’d been too lost in the futile, sweaty struggle. Hermione stood frozen in the crack of the doorway, one hand over her mouth. She’d come to check on him, to maybe laugh off the awkward moment, to see if he was okay. The excuse died in her throat.
She saw him. Really saw him. Not just the bulge she’d felt, but the shocking, breathtaking reality of him. He was huge, thick and long and veined, his hand a frantic pale blur upon it. His face was a mask of agonized frustration, his muscles coiled tight. The sounds he made, low, desperate grunts and whimpers, were silenced by the charm, but she could see them in the heave of his chest, the clench of his jaw. This wasn’t pleasure. This was torture.
A hot, shameful jolt went straight to her own core, a pooling, aching wetness that soaked through her knickers instantly. She should leave. She must leave. This was the most private, vulnerable thing she could ever witness. But her feet were rooted. Her breath came in short, silent pants, fogging the air before her. Her own hand, seemingly of its own volition, slipped under the waistband of her shorts, beneath her cotton knickers. She found herself slick and swollen. Two of her fingers slid through her folds, a silent, shocking mimicry of his motions. She leaned against the doorframe, her legs trembling, her eyes wide and unblinking, drinking in the sight of him, the powerful flex of his abdomen, the heavy swing of his balls, the desperate, beautiful agony on his face.
She watched, and she touched herself, her fingers circling her own needy clit in frantic, hidden circles. It was wrong, it was a violation, it was the most arousing thing she had ever done. Her rational mind sputtered and faded, drowned out by a rising tidal wave of sensation. She saw him arch his back, saw his movements become even more frantic, heard the silent cry on his lips as he chased a finish that wouldn’t come. And the sight of his struggle, his impossible need, tipped her over an edge she hadn’t known was there.
Her own orgasm crashed over her without warning, a silent, devastating earthquake. Her body locked, her back arching away from the doorframe, her free hand slapping over her mouth to stifle a scream that the Silencing Charm would have swallowed anyway. Pleasure, white-hot and shocking, ripped through her in pulsing waves. She felt herself clench and spasm around nothing, a hot gush of her own release slicking her thighs and dripping onto the wooden floorboards with soft, forbidden taps. She shook, dizzy, seeing stars, her mind blank of everything but the aftershocks and the image of Harry, still pumping, still unsatisfied, on the bed.
As the tremors subsided, a fierce, protective resolve crystalized in the haze of her own shameful pleasure. He was suffering. Her best friend was in a private hell of arousal, and he couldn’t escape it. He hadn’t even noticed her. He was so lost in his need he couldn’t find completion. The logic was flawed, twisted by her own newly awakened hunger, but it felt irrefutable. He needs help. Physical help. And I… I can give it. It’s not for me. It’s for him. The thought was a lifeline, a noble purpose to cloak the burning, curious ache between her own legs.
She slipped away, as silently as she’d come, leaving him to his fruitless efforts. At dinner, Harry was pale and distracted, pushing food around his plate. Hermione was flushed, chatting a little too brightly with Ginny. When there was a lull, she cleared her throat.
“Harry, I was wondering… you know I’m doing that extra research on magical creatures for Professor Grubbly-Plank’s independent study. I read about Demiguises and I think observing their passive invisibility in a controlled setting… could I borrow your Invisibility Cloak tonight? Just for a few hours? I’ll return it before bed.”
Harry, eager for any excuse to not have to look her in the eye, nodded mutely. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Trunk. Top left.”
“Thanks ever so much,” she said, her smile feeling brittle on her face.
The cloak was cool and fluid in her hands later that evening, a promise of secrets. She waited until the Burrow was quiet, until the ghoul in the attic had stopped banging on the pipes. Cloaked, she was a ghost. She slipped into Harry’s room, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs, synched with the incessant throbbing of her own sensitive vagina.
He was already in bed, the sheets rumpled, laying on his back. Moonlight streamed through the window, painting him in silver light, highlighting his athletic boy, built over years of weekly harsh exercises on the Quidditch pitch. He was shirtless, the bedsheets pooling around his lower half and she could see, even in the dim light, the prominent, obscene, rigid tent in the blankets over his groin. He was still hard. He was asleep, his breathing uneven, but his body was still taut with unsated need.
Her mouth watered.
This is for him. To help him sleep. To give him peace.
She let the cloak slide from around her shoulders to the floor. The room was warm, thick with the scent of him, clean cotton, broomstick polish, and underneath, that undeniable, musky, male smell that even now made her knees weak. She approached the bed on silent feet. The musky, heady smell only intensified and in turn Hermione took deep breaths, savouring every nuance of the scent, her mouth falling open slightly unconsciously in an effort to maybe taste what she had determined to be her new favourite smell. Gently, ever so gently, she peeled back the blanket.
He was magnificent. His cock lay against his stomach, a daunting, intimidating yet beautiful pillar of flesh, even in the repose of sleep. “Truly, what other way could he sleep other than on his back with something like this between his legs” was the first thing that shot through Hermione's mind before it blanked again in response to her scrutiny of Harry's dick. The head was a dark, flushed purple, glistening with a bead of precum that gleamed in the moonlight. A low whimper escaped her lips before she could stop it. This was it. This was what had pressed against her. This was the source of his torment. Her mouth watered.
Her rationalization was a thin, fervent chant in her mind: For him. For him. For him.
She lowered her head.
The first touch of her lips to the velvety, iron-hard shaft was a revelation. He was hot, so hot, like a brand. She kissed the tip, her tongue darting out to taste the salty-bitter precum. A jolt of pure, undiluted lust shot through her, making her clit throb, tasting better than anything she had eaten until now. For him. She opened her mouth wider, taking just the swollen head inside. The texture was sublime, smooth and silken over the relentless hardness. A low groan rumbled from Harry’s chest, his hips giving a tiny, unconscious jerk. Hermione swirled her tongue around it, letting the smell, the taste, the musk seep into her tongue. She let it imprint onto her tastebuds, wishing she could never taste anything else ever again. A fresh spurt of precum escaped, landing directly on Hermione's tongue. The moment the taste hit her, the very same musky, top heavy notes that were present in his scent but tenfold, her eyes went crossed, eyes lidded, giving the studious girl an obscene facial expression. She fell in love all over again.
Burning with passion, she began to suck in earnest, setting her tounge, her throat and everything she had to work. Truly, she began to worship in earnest. Like a monk proselytizing himself in front of a painting of his god, Hermione set off to worship and dedicate herself to this new idol she had found, losing herself in the process completely.
Glck, glck, glck. The obscene sounds escaping Hermione were swallowed up by the silencing charm she had set up before entering the room. Yet they only got more and more perverse as the bookworm, ever the eager student, took him deeper and deeper each pass she took at the mighty rod in her mouth. Her jaw ached already, his girth so large she had trouble fitting it inside at all. Her tongue worked in overtime, massaging the sensitive underside of his glands every time she reached the top, snaking along the bottom of his shaft whenever she took him as far down her gullet as she could, using the back of her tongue and her throat to massage his tip as best as she could at the same time.
One hand came up below, cradling his swollen, large balls, rolling and massaging them slowly, softly as to alleviate any uncomfortable feelings they may cause, while also slowly trying to coax their heavy, thick contents out. The other hand steadied the shaft at the bottom, her fingers not even meeting when trying to encircle him. Each subsequent bob of her head brought her a tad lower. With unparalleled focus and devotion she threw herself into the task at hand and soon he was taking away fingers of her hand one after the other as they stopped her from going deeper. She moved her has as if she were in a trance, her saliva slicking him, the lewd, wet sounds escaping her worship obscenely loud in her own ears in this quiet room.
She was in a frenzy. A primal, desperate frenzy. Her own need was a second heartbeat between her legs, pounding in time with her sucking. Yet that took second place to him right now, her focus solely on Harry, on the hitches in his breath, on the flexing of his large, powerful legs beneath her, on the twitching and pulsating of his dick on her tongue, on the periodical spurts of precum that escaped him, each more tasty than the last to Hermione. She sucked him like a woman dying of thirst.
Harry’s breathing changed. It was no longer the even breath of sleep, but the ragged, hitching gasps of building climax. His hands, which had been lying at his sides, twitched. He was dreaming, or he was waking into a dream. “Herm… mione…” he slurred, the name of a half-sighed prayer.
That was all it took. The sound of her name on his lips, thick with sleep and pleasure, shattered the last of her control. A second, more powerful orgasm that she had not noticed building rushed through her, the moment she became aware of the tight knot in her lower body, it was already unwinding, control over her body escaping her as her body gave out on her. Her legs shook like an earthquake, her hips rolling, undulating and jerking in the air. Her pussy clenched, on fire yet at the same time painfully empty, trying to wring something, anything dry to sate that primal need of being filled, pumped full of cum until it escaped back out of her. Clear, near scentless liquid escaped her, as she became aware that she was in the middle of her very first squirting orgasm, only that it was induced by her sucking her bst friends, her crushes' dick while he was sleeping. The humiliation of the situation only came back around to turn her on even more. She felt like a slut. Like a submissive little helper, only there to please her master, who was not meant to be seen or heard, only to please. The thought alone, coupled with the shame and arousal it caused, extended her whole body shaking orgasm for another 5 seconds, before it began winding down, the tension inside her muscles and body slowly escaping. Her arms, formerly holding her up above Harry' s hips, buckled and she fell forward, cock still in mouth. Slick with the lewd mix of spit and precum, Harry's dick encountered next to no resistance as it slid down her throat to the very base. As Hermione's nose made contact with her friends pubic bone she was set off again, thighs trembling as another orgasm tore through her like a hurricane through a neighbourhood, a new surge of girl cum gushing out of her, drenching the bed below again and again. Her eyes were unfocussed, crossed and half hidden behind half closed lids as the pure perversion of the moment etched itself into Hermiones mind for eternity.
And then he came.
With a choked, guttural moan, his hands fisted in her bushy hair, not pushing, just holding, anchoring himself as his hips snapped off the bed. His dick was still buried firmly down her throat to the very base, his cum surging through his dick straight into her stomach, not even allowing her to taste his load as it bypassed her tastebuds entirely. Pump after pump, each mighty twitch of Harry's dick shot yet another thick, viscous rope of cum into her, and in a rare, short moment of clarity Hermione resolved to get a real taste of his cum next time, before a third orgasm hit her by way of the feeling of being pumped full of his cum alone. Already spent by the last two and the ordeal that was going down on her best friend, Hermione's hips, the highest point of her own body, the snowy, large and wonderfully shaped globes of assflesh shook, twitched and contracted as a few more, weak squirts of liquid squirted out of her.
Both her and Harry came down from their highs at the same time, only his had lasted even longer than hers. Fully exhausted, Hermione lifted her head off his crotch, the dick that had still been buried down her throat until that moment flopping onto his stomach, in the process of currently softening for the first time in a long time. The stealth sucker rested her head back on his strong thighs, catching her breath slowly, her hand wandering down to cradle her stomach, which was distended as if she had eaten a feast for dinner. The feeling of the bump there, coupled with the sloshing feeling of his cum flowing back and froth sent another exhausted lance of arousal through her, building and building while she whined into his thighs, desperately peppering the naked skin with kisses and suckles. Less than a minute later it happened, the forth and last climax of the evening for her.
Her orgasm exploded, catastrophic and mind-breaking. It ripped through her with no direct touch, a seismic event born from the depths of her submission and adoration. She curled up, holding onto his leg for dear life, her body seizing, back arching violently as a ragged, silent scream tore from her throat. She spasmed, her thighs clamping together, and then she was squirting, a hot, clear fountain that soaked through her knickers and nightdress, splattering onto the bed yet again with shocking force. It felt endless, a crashing wave of pleasure that wiped all thought, all reason, leaving only raw, shuddering sensation. She shook uncontrollably, seeing white, her body convulsing around the profound, empty ache he had finally, blissfully soothed.
As the last tremors subsided, leaving her weak and dripping and utterly changed, terror rushed into the vacuum with the clarity of spring water. What had she done? The reality, naked and undeniable in the post-climax silence, crashed down. With a frantic, jerky movement, she snatched the Invisibility Cloak from the floor, fumbling it over her trembling, soaked form. She didn’t look back at Harry, now deeply, peacefully asleep, a soft smile on his lips. She fled from the room on wobbly, unstable legs, leaving a trail of droplets running down the inside of her thighs, a ghost once more, the taste of him and the feel of her own release a secret brand she would carry forever. The chapter of her old life closed silently behind her.