InsaneJournal

[FIC] Lovely Wicked Things: Hermione/Oliver/OFC
Originally posted here on 14 September 2007

Title: Lovely Wicked Things
Requested by: nyruserra
Author:
Pairing: Hermione/Oliver/OFC
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Threesome, bondage
Summary: A conference in a foreign country is an eye-opening experience for Hermione, but not because of the guest speakers.


~o~

On the terrace a high vaulted arch

was once your coming and going

the code pulled from the beloved hand

I found her not, she is no longer to be seen

...

This poem written by Marianne von Willemer

in remembrance of her last meeting with

Goethe in the Fall of the year 1815

Hermione reads the tablet on the ruined wall of the aviary and ponders on the nature of the relationship between Willemer and Goethe. No stranger to castles, and having spent her formative years living in one, she's surprised by how enchanted she is by Heidelberg Castle. She's also well aware that it’s a Muggle tourist trap. But when she heard the conference was here this year, she simply couldn’t visit the city and not see the castle.

Walking out onto one of the observation terraces, she marvels at the city spread out before her. She feels apart from it and yet connected to it. Just as she did, just as she does with her own city. And lost in her thoughts, she doesn't hear the footfalls when they come to a stop behind her.

“Hermione?”

She looks up into a face that's familiar but not immediately identifiable. But then it comes to her…Oliver Wood. “Oliver?” Although she can't be completely sure. He looks so different.

He nods enthusiastically, and when she stands to greet him, he embraces her warmly, like an old friend. It's off-putting; she's still a bit surprised he recognized her at all after all these years. She can’t remember them ever having shared a conversation in school. Perhaps they would have both been present in a group of late night chatters in the common room, or a post-game celebration? But that’s as much interaction as she can recall ever having had with him.

As always, though, it occurs to her that he may only know of her. Her name is known, of course. Her connection to Harry and what she was a part of after Oliver’s time at Hogwarts.

She explains her presence in the city, as does he. Apparently he’s playing for the Harriers now, has been for a year. All Hermione knows of the team is that they took part in the longest match ever recorded; a rare Quidditch factoid lingering in her head. He seems pleased that she knows even this much.

When he suggests a bite to eat, she has no plausible reason to decline – he knows she’s here on business. And she wouldn’t mind the company, to be honest. Her hotel room is too quiet and her thoughts are anything but.

The bar is warm and dark and smells of yesterday's barrel and today's damp winter air. Oliver orders two beers as they walk in, and Hermione likes not having to make even that decision.

He quickly sheds his wool topcoat to reveal a more comfortable worn blue t-shirt underneath. She almost let slip a gasp when she sees his forearms, both tattooed heavily from the wrist to at least where they disappear under his shirt sleeves, if not further. Her surprise isn't rooted in any particularly strong feelings about body art one way or the other; just that she remembers Oliver as being so clean-cut in their school days.

The art on one arm depicts a slender, green winged dragon. A wyvern, if she isn't mistaken; unlikely that she is. On the other arm he sports a long narrow trellis through which vines and leaves and small white flowers are interwoven. It's an interesting choice, and she makes a mental note to inquire if the opportunity arises. She's never considered flowers as masculine as she does in this moment, while she watches the half dozen tiny square blooms wave over his sinewy extensor muscles.

Oh, damn, she thinks. He just said something. "I'm sorry?" Gripping the oaken table edge more tightly than necessary.

Oliver smiles, knowing full well he'd been under evaluation. "I was wondering about your work,” he repeats politely.

She tells him all about it, the standard narrative of her career that she tells most everyone. But it seems as if she’s recounting someone else’s story. She’s recently acquired the habit of thinking of her life in contained episodes, or chapters. Giving them titles, even:

Chapter Two: In which a young Muggle girl matriculates at a school that will change the course of her life.



Chapter Seven: In which our young heroine helps rid the world of the evil menace.



Chapter Nine: In which the heart acquires its long standing desire.



Chapter Twelve: In which our heroine's expectations about happily ever after are dashed.

That chapter, of course, still smarts and probably isn’t the best one for sharing with a man she’s not seen in over ten years.

The other problem inherent in this habit of mental abridgment is that it seems to isolate, compartmentalize, these respective times in her life. Make them all somehow disconnected from each other. Worse, she’s left with the sinking impression in her brain that they are tumbling themselves forward, one after another, in rote succession. Playing themselves out until she gets to the final one. Making it seem rather fleeting and meaningless.

She doesn’t want to think this way; considers herself an optimist, an idealist, really.

Hermione tries to steer the conversation to him. “You’ve changed so much,” she says, a declaration that is met with a grimace of sorts from Oliver.

“Yeah, I know. Leaving England wasn’t intentional—I was traded, you see—but I think it was probably the best thing that could have happened to me.” He takes in her expression, sees more explanation is needed. "Do you know what it's like, to discover that the identity you've spent your whole life developing is not actually you?"

Hermione reaches across the table to place a hand on his arm, determined not to reveal the scope of her surprise at his words. And yes, she does know what it's like.

They talk more, talk and drink for what seems like hours. He knows her thoughts, she feels. Can see through her and yet it’s not disconcerting. As the pub nears closing time, Oliver leans in. Amidst the buzz of the crowd and the alcohol, she thinks he’s going to kiss her.

He doesn’t. Instead he slides a hand up her thigh, rests it just under the hem of her skirt and looks into her face.

“Is this out of bounds?” he asks calmly.

Is it? She wonders. She isn’t technically in a relationship anymore, she thinks, her first response to what she determines to be the meaning of his question. But then she is immediately annoyed with herself for assuming the question included anyone other than the two people in the booth. He was asking something entirely different. He was asking if it was what she wanted. She answers his question and her own at the same time with, "Do you live nearby?"

She just catches sight of the crooked smile as he wraps both arms around her and turns them both into the dark compression of Disapparition. There is barely time to take in the surroundings she assumes make up his flat before his mouth is on hers; before she slides her arms up around his neck.

He is much taller than she and he has to bend his knees a bit to reach her arse. When he does, he slides his hands down, down, and then completely under—seeking out the warmth between her legs without hesitation, using a finger or two from each hand to trace her right through her clothing. His touch is anything but gentle; it's confident, and determined, and sends a shock of lightning through her, ending with a pool of wet heat in the exact place he's exploring. A surge of need so strong and so physical that she fears he might actually be able to feel it.

Things move at lightening speed; it's a little unsettling to her to think they've been here less than a minute. On the other hand, she suddenly realizes with the clarity of hindsight, the foreplay has been going on for hours. She lifts her leg to allow him better access, and he seizes it and wraps around his waist, pulling her tightly to him. At this first contact of her pelvis with his hard cock, her knees nearly buckle with want. One hand in his hair and one grasping his ass, she practically attacks him.

There is no turning back now, nor would she choose to. She's lost on the tide of free will, sweet release, and pure impulse.

All things considered, she thinks, it really isn't much of a surprise when within minutes she finds herself kneeling on the floor of the small room with her skirt pushed up above her arse and her shirt unbuttoned so that her breasts hang free. Oliver had been toying with them, pinching and sucking, but now he's abandoned them to move behind her on the floor. She barely has time to catch her breath before he has his mouth on the back of her thigh, running his tongue and teeth along the curve of her ass, and slipping his fingers into her damp knickers to swipe against her. It's animalistic, raw, and a bit rough, but he makes her feel cherished, worshipped—desired—by his ministrations. She feels beautiful for the first time in a long time.

Her hips rock back against him of their own volition, pushing her ass higher, giving him free access.

"Yeah," she hears him murmur his approval against her skin, before tearing her knickers down and thrusting his tongue up into her. The suddenness and the sheer bliss of it make her fall to her elbows onto the hardwood floor with a guttural moan. This doesn't deter him in the least. In fact, though she can't see him, she can imagine what he looks like - his smile against her most intimate places, his pleasure at her reaction. He continues to push his mouth against her, all teeth and tongue and lips, and when he slides his hands between her body and the floor to reach her aching breasts again, and hastily begins to knead her nipples, she almost comes straight away.

"Wait...wait!" she gasps, turning out of his hold, rolling onto her back.

He pulls back, leaning onto one elbow, and gives her the room she's asked for, but he doesn't seem either apologetic or discouraged. "Alright, love. This is me, waiting...everything okay?"

"Yes,” she stammers, “I just…can we…I just don’t want it to end so quickly." His eyes dart over her bare chest, and she vaguely considers covering herself up, but it seems rather pointless given the circumstances.

"End?" he chuckles. "Hermione, I have no intention of letting you off that easily." At her raised eyebrows, he qualifies the statement. “What I mean…that is…” He slides forward on the floor, hovering over her, and bends his head to make one long drag with his tongue across her collarbone. “I'd like nothing more than to make this last all night.”

He looks up into her eyes. "I want to make you come as many times as you can stand it.”

"Oh, god," she whines, her head falling back. This gives him a clear path to her neck, which he takes advantage of. He peppers her collarbone with soft kisses and trails one fingertip lightly across her pebbled nipple, completely different from the rough manner in which he’d been touching her before.

But it's no less erotic. She shivers, and when she does he hushes her. "You're wound up as tight as a spring, Hermione. Has it been awhile?”

She nods, unafraid that he'll place any meaning on the knowledge.

“Hermione,” he whispers her name against her belly as if he is saying it to himself, not her. “Let me help pull you apart, bring you down. Believe me, it will be my pleasure. You have no idea how fucking sexy you are. I’m at your service.”

Something about his choice of words makes her think of all the naughty, dirty things she's ever imagined she didn't like and yet still coveted in her most erotic dreams. Images, wants, buried within come rushing to the forefront of her desires, as wishes unfulfilled. And in some strange way, she knows that Oliver is the man to make them reality, even if she never sees him again in her life after tonight.

She seeks and finds his eyes again, and though she says nothing he knows she's asking a question.

“What do you want me to do to you?” he asks.

“Tie me up,” she answers immediately, not aware that she was going to make this request until she does.

With one swift motion, and without even seeing him reach for his wand, her hands are secured behind her back with magic. As she's still lying on the hard oaken floor, the position isn’t comfortable at all. Whether because he senses this, or because he too is tiring of the location, Oliver scoops her up, carries her into the adjacent room, and tosses her unceremoniously onto the bed.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” he says, climbing over her again, removing the knickers that are still tangled about her knees, “I’m not turned on by humiliation or degradation. If you’re looking for a spanking and someone to call you a naughty little girl you’ve come to the wrong place.”

Hermione feels the briefest flush of embarrassment; fears he’d misunderstood her after all.

But then he continues with an easy smile, “But I will play this game as long as I know it’s just your way of pushing yourself, plucking up courage to do something you really want to do, just so you won’t second guess yourself…”

“I just don’t want to have to think at all,” she blurts out unexpectedly. “I just want to surrender control....You know, for once.”

Oliver seems to understand this, because he smiles and pulls his shirt over his head. And while she's distracted by said smile, and by the hard lines of his lean, strong torso, he binds her feet to the foot of the bed. “You won’t regret it; I can promise you that.”

He's so incredibly hot, she thinks. The sinewy tattooed forearms, the way his hair falls forward over his eyes as he moves up her body. It all makes her dizzy until desire saturates every cell of her body.

He buttons her blouse back up halfway, covering her breasts at least partially. “We’ll save those for later,” he says. He adjusts the magical binds on her feet so that her legs are wider apart and slowly slides her skirt back up to get a good look at her, spread open and vulnerable. She's so wet and aching with need she's sure she might die if he doesn’t touch her soon.

“Really beautiful, you are, Hermione.” He lowers himself down to place kiss after kiss on the inside of her thighs, higher and higher but no where near where she wants him to be. Where she needs his mouth to be. She writhes under her restraints until he rises up to her face and kisses her hungrily.

“You’re still thinking too much,” he whispers. “Let go, remember? Let me do all the work.”

She nods, and he summons something from the closet. Once in his hands she sees the simple swath of cotton, and she knows immediately what he intends to do with it.

“I think it might help you to relax and just feel. Is it okay?”

She nods again, finding some words at last. “Yes, please. I’d like that.” Unable to see, she finds that she does relax. While she laments the wonderful sight of Oliver, she's able to focus entirely on his touch instead.

And touch her he does.

Massages her feet, then her calves, then her thighs, until she's boneless. By the time she feels the soft drape of his hair on her thigh again, she hears herself pleading softly, lifting her body off the bed to meet him halfway.

Oliver slides both of his hands under her ass and deftly lifts her body to him, but he doesn’t put his mouth on her again. He just keeps kissing her legs, only occasionally allowing a thumb to graze over her folds or through the crease of her ass. Not enough to provide any sort of satisfaction, only enough to tease her into a deeper frenzy. She struggles against the invisible ties keeping her pinned to the bed.

The need to find relief, to touch herself—anywhere—is crushing.

She feels Oliver’s weight shift on the bed, and his warm breath against her cheek, and thinks, yes, now, finally he’s going to fuck me, surprising herself with the recklessness of her desire. He kisses her again, a warm searing kiss so deep and desperate that their teeth clank together. It's like he's devouring her, and she's drinking him in.

Without benefit of sight, she can only delight in what she feels--the hot slide of his tongue on hers, his smooth lips tracing a pattern around the edge of her ear, the light scratching of his callused hand along her calf as he raises it up and to the side, as much as the magical ties will give.

She moans gratefully as he slips one finger inside her, and bucks wildly against the magical bind trying to gain better resistance.

“Are you ready, then?” he murmurs huskily against her neck, tearing her blouse back open and alternately licking and blowing cool air onto her nipples.

“Oh, god, yes, please…”

So focused is she on the wonders he's performing with his fingers, rolling and scissoring inside her, every now and again a teasing swipe against her clit, that it takes her a few extra seconds to register the presence of third person in the room.

On the bed.

It comes to her dully, almost in slow motion, like waking from a dream. The sensation of a second set of hands on her legs, the realization that if Oliver’s mouth is nibbling and teasing a nipple to a hardened nub, how could there be another wet, warm mouth working its way up her thigh?

Hermione reels from sensory overload, and is so high on the thrill of being so thoroughly attended to, that alarm simply doesn't come to her. At first. Adrenaline carries her for several more moments before the slightest bit of unease creeps its way in, rudely interrupting where she's trying to go. And when she hears the witch moan quietly, she's startled enough to give pause to the scene.

Hermione gasps, thrashes a bit against her restraints, although whether with wanton need or with the desire to be unbound, she can’t quite say. “Please, Oliver, what’s going on?”

He laughs quietly, sympathetically against her breasts, whispering up to her. “Don’t panic. This is supposed to be about letting go, remember? Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” she answers immediately. She does. She doesn't have any reason to, but she does.

“That’s the second time you’ve stopped yourself from coming tonight. Let go, already. She’s a friend. We just want to make you feel good, Hermione, honest.”

She nods vaguely, although she can't be sure he sees it, as he's already resumed his suckling and biting. She’ll surely be bruised tomorrow, but hell if she cares at this point.

His hand eases back down between her legs, where by this time she's dripping wet and aching with need. She tries to turn off the part of her brain that's asking all the questions about who and why and when, and instead allow herself the singular pleasure of imagining what it might look like – the scene she's only feeling – the witch’s tongue rising higher and higher up her thigh, the soft hands gently stroking her calves, tickling her feet. In sharp contrast to Oliver’s rough touch inside her.

Finally, Hermione feels the witch’s mouth tangled within Oliver’s fingers, working in conjunction with them, weaving in and out, as if they're battling for access to Hermione. And maybe they are, because when he finally moves his hand aside the witch seizes upon Hermione’s clit fiercely.

Oliver’s mouth is instantly on Hermione’s again to swallow her cry of pleasure.

“She’s good at it, then?” he chuckles. “That’s what I’ve heard. Do you want her to keep going, or do you want her lick your tits while I fuck you?”

His bold words banish all sense of reason. “Both, please,” she whines. And in that moment Hermione wants nothing more than to be sucked, fucked, and touched by these two people in every way she can possibly imagine. And in any way that she can't.

But.

“But Oliver? Please, I want to see.”

He tears off the blindfold and for the first time, Hermione sees the young witch between her legs, who pauses what she’s doing and places a gentle kiss on Hermione’s hip. Her short blonde hair is swept back off her face in little yellow butterfly barrettes that for some reason Hermione thinks she'll remember in great detail for years to come.

“That’s Sophie,” says Oliver.

Sophie smiles, and says simply, “Hi.”

Hermione, however, can't even manage that much. Sophie giggles a bit at this and returns her attention to Hermione’s clit in the form of long slow licks, causing Hermione's head to fall back onto the pillow in amazement.

Oliver seeks her eyes. “It’s about time to get you off, love. Watch this.” Emphasizing his point, he moves to her side so as not to block the view of what they're doing to her. Oliver makes to reach down and touch her again, but before he gets there, Sophie takes his finger into her mouth and sucks it eagerly, looking straight into Hermione’s eyes all the while.

Naturally, he groans. "All sorts of things Sophie seems to have a talent for..." Then Sophie places her hand over Oliver’s, and together they begin slowly rubbing Hermione’s clit. She, too, moans her approval.

Oliver pushes a finger into her, and Sophie follows suit while he whispers naughty words of encouragement into Hermione's ear. She watches in awe as Sophie adds her tongue to the mix, weaving it around the tangle of fingers and hands to seek out her clit with little flicking motions that drive Hermione insane in their incompleteness.

Before long, Oliver is at her breasts again, pressing them together and licking them all around, pinching her nipples, taking one bud between her teeth and flicking his tongue against it. And then kisses her again, taking her tongue into his mouth and sucking gently, and for the first time Hermione senses his arousal as strongly as her own. His moans only heighten her arousal.

Perhaps Oliver had moved his hand, because suddenly she feels Sophie efforts more intensely. She's pressing hard with her tongue, and nuzzling Hermione's clit with what seems to be her chin. And then Hermione feels Sophie’s slender fingers, sliding in and out of her wet folds with ease, gliding in between her buttocks, seeking out every last place to make themselves of use.

Hermione feels a little squeal escape from her mouth as Sophie slides one fingertip just slightly into her ass.

“That’s right,” Oliver whispers into her mouth. “Now come.” And as if they had planned it, he rolls a nipple hard between his finger and thumb, and eagerly sucks the other, while Sophie licks and licks then sucks Hermione’s clit, and fucks her hard with her fingers—everywhere.

And then it all comes crashing in around her. She comes with such urgency and force that she seems to be falling into herself.

Hermione hears herself screaming, but is apart from the sound somehow, watching the scene unfold in flashes of color and light. They don't stop touching her or even slow down for a long time, determined to prolong her ecstasy as long as they can, but Oliver seems somehow to know the right time to release the binds. When he does, she wraps her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his waist and clings to him for dear life, still riding the wave of her orgasm.

She is surprised and relieved when Sophie moved behind her, up against her, and slid her hands between Hermione and Oliver to gently stroke Hermione’s breasts while she comes back to earth. Only then does Oliver lay her back down onto the bed. Every part of Hermione’s body seems raw and sore, and yet, impossibly, when Sophie leans down to put her mouth to Hermione’s breast, she feels a surge of heat rush back between her legs.

Oliver sees it; he knows. She can tell because he smiles at her and sits back on his heels to watch them. Sophie is gentle now, dragging the tip of her tongue across the swell of Hermione’s breast, running her soft hands along her ribcage. “You said--you know, before--that you wanted me to do this,” Sophie mumbles, her soft mouth feeling so different than Oliver’s.

Hermione sits up on the bed; now that she's no longer restrained, she's interested in being a more active participant.

With a glance at Oliver and Sophie, she notes, “The two of you are still fully clothed.”

They laugh, and instinctively Hermione reaches up to unbutton Sophie’s shirt. Sophie move not a muscle, just lets Hermione take the lead. Pushing the garment off Sophie’s shoulders, she considers briefly how mad it is that she's never thought of experimenting with another witch before.

Sophie was gorgeous. Perfect, in fact. With a glance at Oliver, who raises his eyebrows suggestively, Hermione dips her head to take one small pink nipple in her mouth. It feels strange, but lovely and warm and softer than she’d expected it to be. Sophie moans eagerly and threads her fingers into Hermione’s unruly hair to pull her closer.

She pushes Sophie down on to the bed and moves over her, noticing for the first time that Sophie is quite a bit taller than herself. She feels Oliver move up behind her and then while she continues to kiss and suck, she spots him reach up under her to pull down Sophie’s track pants. She isn’t wearing any knickers.

The sight renews Hermione’s arousal completely. She glances over her shoulder at Oliver and shares a smile with him.

“I think Sophie has earned a little spoiling, don’t you?” he asks.

“Yes,” says Hermione. “Yes, I do.”

“Lie down on top of her.” Hermione does as she's told. She's unsure what he's up to, but it doesn't matter. She finds herself face to face with Sophie, and instinctively kisses her. Predictably, it's different than any other kiss she’s ever experienced; softer, yes, but also insistent and demanding. Sophie clearly knows what she wants and doesn't hesitate to ask for it.

Sounds familiar, now that Hermione thinks on it.

As they kiss, Oliver positions them closely together, with Hermione straddling Sophie, and then he disappears behind Hermione so that she can't see him anymore. But she knows he must be licking Sophie when she feels the witch groan into her mouth.

Hermione loves everything about it; loves seeing her eyes roll back in her head, the way her grip tightens on Hermione's arms, and wants desperately to help make her keep doing that. She takes a nipple into her mouth, unable to take her eyes off Sophie’s face, still hypnotized by her expression of raw need.

She's so focused on her task that she gasps when she feels Oliver tongue back on her clit, and almost collapses onto Sophie. She hears him chuckle, sees Sophie smile, and then glances down at him. Clearly he had adjusted them so that they were so close together that he could lick them both, back and forth, in turn. It feels amazing. And if that isn't brilliant enough, then Oliver's tongue is licking her ass, pressing inside, his fingers inside her again until she whimpers. She and Sophie are clinging to each other, kissing and sucking and kneading each other’s breasts, and she can't tell where one body ends and the other begins. Everything is wet and slippery and fantastic and she ventures to slide a hand down, too, to feel the magic of it.

This seems to catch Sophie’s attention. “Yes!” she screams, startling Hermione, but thrilling her, too. It's so unbelievably sexy to watch her writhing and panting. Hermione moves over to the side so that she can reach her hand down more easily. Before she sees, she feels. Feels Oliver’s mouth and tongue with her fingers. He's in and out and everywere, feasting on Sophie. For a moment, Hermione's not sure what help she can be.

But when Sophie looks at her and nods and pleads, “Yes, there, please, touch my cunt!” she tries again. Oliver moves only enough to accommodate her fingers, and he licks them as much as he's licking Sophie, as Hermione begins slowly pinching Sophie’s clit. They soon find their rhythm, and after a minute Hermione is able to maintain what she's doing and also bend her head to return her mouth to Sophie’s breasts.

“Yes, Hermione, lick my tits,” Sophie begs, and Hermione complies. “Suck my nipple, bite it a little…Oh, yes, just like that!" It's unbelievably erotic, to hear such explicit commands uttered without hesitation or embarrassment. Hermione envies her inhibition, and meets every demand without question.

Soon Oliver is speeding up his efforts, and Hermione guesses the reason, knows he must be reading Sophie correctly. So she also redoubles her efforts, lavishing attention to Sophie’s breasts and offering her deep hot kisses, while she keeps doing her part down below. Finally Sophie comes with an explosion of moaning and trembling that would be intimidating to watch if it weren’t so much of a turn on. Hermione feels like she could come again herself just watching her. She doesn't realize her hand is between her own legs until she feels Oliver grab her wrist to still it.

“If it’s alright with you, I’d rather do that,” he says. Hermione is momentarily startled, but this time doesn't hesitate. She hurriedly unbuttons trousers and yanks them down, eager now to get her hands on him. Sophie is still in the game, too, springing to her knees and wrapping her mouth around Oliver's cock as soon as Hermione's got it free.

"Damn, she beat me to it," Hermione says, feeling more confident now. Oliver pulls her nearer and kisses her fiercely, his large hands on the back of her head and the softness of Sophie's hair stroking her belly as she moves up and down on his cock.

Oliver groans, and wobbles a bit on his knees, and Hermione loves it. He's been the one in control so far, just like he promised, but seeing him like this makes her want to turn the tables. Sophie beats her to it, lifting her head up to look at him.

"You like that, Oliver?" she teases. "You want more?"

"Fuck, yeah," he grabs Sophie and kisses her, but Sophie pulls away a little.

"When are you going to fuck one of us?" she asks, wrapping a hand around his cock. "Put this to good use. I'd like to see you fuck Hermione...you've been teasing her all night." She takes his hand and puts it back between Hermione's legs. "Feel how wet she is, she's ready."

Before he can answer, Sophie turns her back to him and kisses Hermione herself, fingers finding Hermione's clit. "I'll do it again," she says, giggling, whispering directly to Hermione, and wrapping her arms around Hermione's waist. "Do you want me to lick your pussy again? You taste so fucking good."

"She likes to talk dirty," Oliver says over Sophie's shoulder, squeezing her between them to kiss Hermione, too.

"So I've noticed," replies Hermione. "I rather like it."

"Really?" he says. "We can accommodate that."

Sophie's mouth is on hers again, pushing Hermione down to the bed. Hermione lets herself be consumed, possessed by the witch's hungry kisses and exploring fingers. She grabs Sophie's ass tightly and trails her fingers inside her, exploring the warm wet depths of her. Every nerve in her body is pulsing with excitement and she thinks she could come again from the combination of hot kisses and probing fingers and Sophie's filthy mouth whispering into her ear, "...stick them inside me... your cunt is so wet...fuck me with your hands...suck your tits..."

But then, abruptly, Oliver rolls them over so that Hermione was on top again, on all fours. She sees him raise himself up behind her. Sophie squeals with delight, "Yes, Oliver, fuck her, oh..."


She feels Oliver positioning his cock at her entrance, and concentrates so hard on feeling him, wanton with anticipation. But then Sophie is underneath her, one hand on Hermione's clit, and the other reaching up to grab Hermione's breast, hanging above her, pulling it into her mouth. Oliver seizes the moment of her distraction to thrust himself inside, catching her off guard and making her moan out loud.

When she feels him, finally, gloriously inside her, she rocks back against him and relaxes so he slides in easily. Oliver's large hands are on her hips and he pushes into her roughly. After so long servicing the two witches, she loves that he is finally taking what he needs. Besides, every forceful thrust of his cock gifts her with a nice vibration on her clit that is amplified by Sophie's skilled fingers. Under her, Sophie sucks and licks her tits amid a litany of dirty words and entreaties for her to come when Oliver does. For her part, Hermione's not sure she'll outlast him.

And sure enough, the intensity is soon too much to bear. She feels the hot tightness coiling and tries to ride the sweet buildup as long as she can before one flick of Sophie's fingers and one last painful thrust of Oliver's cock finally brings on an orgasm so intense that she whines with release and screams out, "Yes! Yes! Oh, god, fuck me! Please..." before she thought her arms could no longer support her.

Sophie struggles to her elbows under Hermione to help support her weight so that Oliver can finish. "Fuck her, Oliver, fuck her!" Soft whimpers and sighs indicate that this is stimulating Sophie, too, and Hermione realizes that the blonde witch has her hand between her legs. Mustering all the strength she can bear, she pushes Sophie back to the bed and kisses her in earnest, keeping her ass high enough for Oliver to finish.

"You, too, Sophie...you come, too," she whispers, between kisses, and then remembers Sophie's weakness for words. "Do you want me to suck your tits? Do you want me to lick your cunt?"

"Oh, god, yes!" screams Sophie, wriggling her body high enough on the bed to offer herself up. Hermione plunges her mouth between her legs, licking her and fingering her as best she can with Oliver still thrusting into her. Watching Sophie writhing and moaning and playing with her breasts inspires Hermione, and she mimics Sophie's earlier efforts, sliding one little finger into her ass while assaulting her clit with tongue and thumb. And that's all it takes.

For everyone. Sophie screams Hermione's name as she comes, and Hermione feels Oliver's pace quicken, and then become erratic, until with one final grunt he slumps over her, panting.

"God, you two are going to kill me," he manages, rolling onto the bed next to Sophie and pulling Hermione with him. She falls asleep within seconds, no strength left to tell them thank you.

~o~

It's barely light when she ferrets around the floor to find her clothing and sneaks out of the tiny flat before they wake.

She’s not sure if she’ll see either of them again. She wants to and she doesn’t. She does know that something has changed in her—something has been broken and fixed, put back together.

Chapter Fifteen: In which Hermione's eyes are opened to new possibilities.