For the Potions Master\'s Amusement

For the Potions Master’s Amusement

Chapter 9

The Journal


Hermione pressed her cheek to her Potions master’s chest, listening to his racing heart as it slowed in the aftermath of his orgasm. She held fists-full of the midnight blue cashmere jumper in her hands, and her breathing was still ragged, as was his, in the wake of their unorthodox—but undeniable—lovemaking. A divine lethargy, unlike any feeling she had ever known, was stealing through her limbs, and she lay limply upon him, feeling positively boneless in her satiation and contentment. Wordlessly, he Summoned the emerald green throw and wrapped it around her, and they sat in the glow of the fire as their breathing and heart rates slowed in tandem.

Hermione had begun to doze against him when he spoke to her.

‘Are you all right?’ he inquired.

She hummed in response, rubbing her cheek against the softness of his jumper.

‘Can you stand?’

Hermione didn’t want to stand, but she also didn’t want to displease him. ‘I think so,’ she said, and he assisted her to slide from his lap onto her feet. He sat forward and smoothed down her skirt, his brow furrowed with concentration, and then he stood, as well, straightening her jumper over her blouse before stepping back from her.

‘You have two choices of where to keep your gift,’ he said, nodding to where the hairbrush rested on the sofa. ‘You may leave it here, for me to use upon you when I wish, or you may carry it in your book bag—but no one else can ever touch the hairbrush, Hermione, and certainly no one else can use it to brush their hair.’ He looked down at her sternly. ‘What will it be?’

Hermione loved the idea of carrying the hairbrush away with her, to use each night in her room before going to sleep—but she knew life could be unpredictable. What if some circumstance should arise which would require one of her friends—Ginny Weasley or Luna Lovegood or Parvati Patil—to open her book bag for some reason? If she were not there to prevent it, they would touch her beautiful silver hairbrush—who could resist the urge to do so?—and she would be in disgrace with her professor. No, it was too dangerous.

‘I’ll leave it here, please, sir,’ she replied, averting her eyes deferentially.

He voiced his approval. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Now, to other matters.’

Hermione’s head came up, then. What else on earth could he do or say tonight? She didn’t know if she was excited or dismayed at the notion he might wish something further of her. Her bum and quim were both sore, she was exhausted physically and emotionally, and as much as she craved his attention, she didn’t know if she could withstand much more of it tonight.

He turned from her and went to the bookshelf closest to the far end of the table, where he kept his writing implements. From that particular shelf, he picked up a green leather journal and glanced at her with raised eyebrows.

‘Oh!’ she said, hastening to join him.

One corner of his mouth quirked before he sobered and spoke again. ‘If I am to take you in charge and direct your development as a submissive, responsibility for your well-being then falls to me,’ he said soberly. ‘I take that charge very seriously, Hermione. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir,’ she responded promptly, wondering where this discussion was leading.

‘I will not overburden you with too much detail tonight; we will begin simply,’ he said. ‘We will begin, Hermione, with the basics. For the first time, when you leave this room, you will leave with instructions you are to follow outside of my presence. Are you prepared to obey me when I am not with you?’

Inexplicable warmth touched her, then enveloped her. He was asking her to think of him when she was away from him—didn’t she do that already, without his prompting? But the implication that in so doing, she would be obeying him, pleased her—and the idea that he, in turn, would be thinking of her, made her very happy, indeed.

‘Yes,’ she said, her voice a bit shaky with the tumult of emotion within her, ‘I am prepared to obey you when I’m away from you.’

The half-smile which meant she had pleased him touched his thin lips, and her heart flip-flopped in her chest. She had never seen him thus dishevelled, with his hair disordered, his jumper rumpled—and she knew for a fact there was a mess in his trousers, for which she was personally responsible—and in spite of his sallow complexion and his overly large, hooked nose, she found him devastatingly attractive. Get a grip! she scolded herself.

‘Good girl,’ he murmured, his enigmatic black eyes warm on her face. He opened the journal, and Hermione was surprised to see the pages empty—had she not, with her own eyes, seen him writing in it, on the night he had bent her over the table and spanked her with his belt? ‘This will be your daily journal,’ he informed her. ‘In it, you will record information; when you do so, what you write will appear in this journal’s twin, which is in my possession.’

Well, that explains that, she thought. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said aloud, showing him she was attending to him.

‘You will write in your journal every day, and you will record what you eat for each meal, including the amounts. You will record what time you go to sleep and what time you wake up. You will record when you study, what you study, and how many hours you devote to each subject.’

Hermione listened carefully, wishing that she already held the journal in her hands, so that she could write his instructions in it—or that he had permitted her to retrieve parchment and a quill from her bag, so that she could have recorded his words, verbatim. What if she forgot? Would he be displeased?

He extended the book to her, and she reached to take it from him, but he did not release it to her—instead, he looked into her eyes and said, ‘You will also make note of each time you touch yourself—how you touch your breasts, whether you pinch your nipples or roll them between your fingers, whether you rub your clit or fuck yourself with a dildo—and I want to know how long you masturbate and how many times you orgasm.’

Hermione swallowed, suddenly aroused when she had thought it was not possible for her body to respond to him again. He moved toward her then, and she didn’t know he had backed her up to the table until he set the journal aside and placed his hands at her waist, lifting her bum onto the table edge, all the while gazing into her eyes. She knew, then, that he had slipped into her mind, gently moving in the forefront of her memories, bathing in her feelings and emotions. For once, Hermione felt no impulse to push him away; their earlier intimacy had left her with such a strong feeling of connectedness that it seemed only natural for him to share her thoughts. She heard his approval of her willingness to allow him freely into her mind, and he stepped between her thighs, lifting her skirt to expose her quim to the air.

He spread her labia with the fingers of one hand, then wet the first two fingers of his other hand in his mouth before feathering them over her clitoris, wringing a shudder from her. The slick fingers continued down her cunt to dip inside her body, finding the warm wetness of her arousal, and gliding back up to caress her pleasure centre. With each rotation of his fingers upon her clitoris, her excitement increased, and with each increase of her excitement, the pupils of his eyes dilated a bit more as he revelled in the shared emotion. Fleetingly, she wondered how it would be to have his tongue in her mouth, teasing the tip of her tongue as his fingers teased her clitoris—then the hand which had been holding her labia wide slipped down to take over the clitoral stimulation, dipping low to gather the perfectly viscous slickness and to rub her with it, and the other hand entered her body, fucking. Her professor stepped closer still, widening her thighs further, exposing her gaping quim even more, and now his face was so close to hers that their noses nearly touched. She wanted so desperately to kiss his mouth, but she was unable to break eye contact with him as he pleasured her body, coaxing bliss from her cunt with clever fingers.

‘Such a good girl,’ she heard, but his lips had not moved; he spoke within her mind. ‘So passionate—so willing … Come for me, Hermione—come now.’

And she did, her mouth gaping and gasping her completion as she spasmed another orgasm, her thighs clamping convulsively on his hands, the force of the climax almost painful in its intensity.

He withdrew from her mind, then, and she sagged forward against him, her eyes closing. He gently disengaged his hands from her quim and put his arms around her, his hands moving in a soothing rhythm up and down her back. Hermione wrapped her arms about his torso and her legs about his thighs, pulling him as close to her as possible, clinging and slowly coming down from the peak to which he had driven her. As she did so, she noticed the unmistakeable erection pressed against her belly, and she felt another thrill.

He might control her response to him, working it to his will, but her response to him, in turn, controlled him—it was obvious to her. He was as driven to draw that response from her as she was driven to respond. It was gratifying and comforting to know she was not in this unusual situation all alone.

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour, and counting the chimes, Hermione knew it was eleven o’clock.

‘I do not like to rush your recovery, Hermione, but we have overstayed our time, a bit,’ he said into her hair, bending his head down to hers to speak, his breath warm upon her cheek. ‘I do not want you to be found out after curfew in this state. You must prepare to return to your room, now.’

He released her and stepped back from her, and Hermione slid unsteadily from the tabletop to her feet. ‘I’ll need the loo,’ she said, and he inclined his head in acquiescence. Resisting the urge to run an appreciative hand over the subsiding bulge in his trousers, she walked to the bathroom door, feeling his eyes warm upon her back as she did so.

All in all, it had been a most satisfactory Hallowe’en—in the end, she was not at all sorry to have missed the feast, for she had enjoyed a feast of her own, replete with the uninterrupted attentions of the most fascinating, powerful wizard of her acquaintance.

She was one lucky witch.