"Time to bolt!"
The moment Professor McGonagall's body shuddered violently, her resistance completely dissolving into a state of post-orgasmic paralysis, Jerry cheered inwardly with predatory triumph.
He swiftly withdrew his tongue, but not before delivering a sharp, parting bite onto those snowy-white, trembling butt cheeks.
McGonagall, gasping through the sharp sting, reached back blindly to grab him. But Jerry was as slippery as a greased eel. He slid past the weakened, dangling arms of the Gryffindor Head of House without wasting a single second.
Behind him, he could hear McGonagall's muffled, suppressed roar of fury.
"You little brat... just you wait!"
Jerry stayed low, using the jagged rocks and the thick, swirling steam of the baths as cover. He moved with lightning speed across the slick tile floor. He didn't even stop to dry the water droplets clinging to his skin before reaching the garment rack. He snatched his own pile of crumpled clothes, clutching them to his chest in a messy heap.
But as his eyes swept over the rack, he froze.
Dangling in the most prominent spot were Isabella's white silk panties—the ones Amelia had just dried with a charm. The memory of how those same panties had been soaked through with Isabella's juices earlier sent a fresh jolt of heat through Jerry's veins.
His gaze traveled upward, and it was as if he had discovered a hidden pirate's cove overflowing with treasure.
There were Professor McGonagall's panties—the same cat-paw pattern he'd seen before, the paw prints perfectly positioned over the "hidden valley." Next to them were the belongings of Liliana and her sister Alicia: one a pair of cute pink cotton briefs, the other a set of mature, light-blue lace.
Further down, he even saw Amelia's own—a pair of obviously expensive black silk panties with delicate silver thread embroidered along the edges.
The memory of his tongue probing the tight heat of McGonagall's body, combined with the sensation of Amelia's voluptuous curves pressed against him in the water, made Jerry's breathing turn ragged. An urge far more potent than simple lust—a cocktail of possessiveness and the thrill of conquest—overpowered his restraint.
His hands seemed to move with a mind of their own, beginning a frantic, greedy harvest.
One by one, these intimate tokens of authority, maturity, and innocence were snatched from the rack and stuffed unceremoniously into the enchanted, Undetectable Extension Charm pocket of his robes.
Once the fire of greed is lit, it is hard to douse. Jerry's eyes flicked to the adjacent rack, where Cressida and her "little sparrows" from Gryffindor had hung their things.
He didn't hesitate.
His hand darted out again, sweeping up a rainbow of teenage underwear—various styles, colors, and fabrics—and stowing them away.
In the middle of this looting spree, he spotted something unique. A thong. A deep, provocative shade of purple.
Jerry pulled it from a pile of floral cotton garments. He glanced at the school uniform hanging beneath it. There it was: the Gryffindor Seventh-Year Prefect badge.
This belonged to Cressida!
The thin strips of lace and the palm-sized triangle of fabric stood in shocking contrast to Cressida's usual stern, "hard-ass" persona. Jerry pinched the purple lace between his fingers, barely believing his eyes. He could almost picture this erotic scrap of fabric hugging the athlete's firm, toned ass.
A scandalous secret had fallen right into his lap.
A wicked, triumphant grin spread across Jerry's face. He stuffed this final, most surprising trophy into his pocket and shoved open the glass door.
Clatter!
The heavy frosted glass swung open, making a noise that was loud, but went unnoticed in the chaotic, steamy environment. The cool air of the corridor rushed in, colliding with the hot vapor to create a fresh cloud of blinding white mist.
It was the perfect smokescreen.
"Huh? Is the door open?"
Cressida seemed to hear something and glanced back suspiciously. But all she saw was a wall of swirling steam. The sound might as well have been a hallucination.
By the time the Gryffindor Prefect blinked, the culprit had already vanished. Clutching his clothes, barefoot and silent as a ghost, Jerry disappeared into the dark hallway, leaving behind nothing but a trail of wet footprints and a room full of unspoken tension and hormonal chaos.
"Quite a haul!"
Half an hour later, in Professor McGonagall's private quarters.
The fireplace crackled with a warm, orange glow. Amelia was doubled over in a plush armchair, laughing so hard she could barely breathe. Her laughter rang out like a string of shattering crystal bells.
"Hahaha... I can't... Minerva, you... hahaha!"
She held a small vial of "White Dew"—a milky, cooling medicinal paste—while looking at her friend, who was lying face-down on a long chaise longue.
On McGonagall's buttocks—usually a canvas of stern, dignified pale skin—there was now a very clear, very distinct, and slightly bleeding ring of teeth marks.
"Good lord, he actually drew blood!" Amelia finally managed to stop laughing long enough to lean in. She dipped a cotton swab into the medicine and carefully applied it to the bite mark, her voice dripping with mockery. "Which little unweaned puppy did this? He's certainly got a vicious bite."
McGonagall buried her face in a velvet pillow, refusing to say a word. But the crimson flush spreading from her neck to the tips of her ears betrayed her utter humiliation and fury.
Amelia continued to tease: "That little bastard! He's got some nerve, biting the ass of the Deputy Headmistress..."
"Enough!"
McGonagall finally snapped. She bolted upright, and before Amelia could react, Minerva's hand shot out, grabbing one of Amelia's heavy, soft breasts and giving it a sharp, punishing twist.
"Ow!" Amelia let out a sharp, breathless moan, nearly dropping the vial of medicine.
McGonagall's cheeks were as red as ripe apples. She glared at her friend, whose eyes were now watering from the sudden pinch, and sneered, "You think I don't know what the two of you were doing in the water? You really outdid yourself, hiding him right under my nose."
Minerva paused, a flash of pride in her eyes. "Don't forget, Amelia, my eyes were magically enhanced so I could catch every tiny foul during Quidditch matches. A little hot spring steam isn't enough to blind me. I saw exactly what was happening beneath the surface... I just chose to ignore it!"
Amelia choked on her retort, her face flushing an unnatural shade of pink. She opened her mouth to argue, but McGonagall's hand slid down from her breast.
The hand, calloused from years of wand-work and outdoor activity, slid over Amelia's flat belly and came to rest directly over the valley between her legs.
Through the thin silk of the dressing gown, McGonagall's fingers accurately found the soft hair that was still damp from the bath.
"What's the matter?" McGonagall's lips curled into a victor's smile. Her index finger pressed firmly against the core of Amelia's heat, feeling the moisture and warmth through the fabric. "Did Fudge not feed you enough? Just one rub from that little brat's 'head' and you couldn't even stand up straight in the water?"
The pressure of the finger and the blunt verbal jab made Amelia's body stiffen for a second. But she didn't pull away. Instead, she flashed a similarly devious grin.
"Takes one to know one, my dear Head of House!"
Amelia whispered, but her cotton swab took a detour. Instead of the bite mark, the swab began to glide downward, crossing the smooth expanse of the buttocks and hovering at the deep crevice between them.
With a flick of her wrist, Amelia began to trace slow, deliberate circles with the cotton tip right at the tight, puckered entrance of Minerva's anus.
The cooling sensation of the ointment combined with the light, rhythmic friction of the cotton on such a sensitive, forbidden spot sent a jolt of electricity through McGonagall.
The finger McGonagall had buried in Amelia's crotch faltered.
Amelia pressed her advantage. Seeing her friend's back go rigid, she used a voice that was mock-innocent and sharp with provocation. "Oops, my hand slipped. But it looks quite swollen here too. I wonder if that little brat used his finger or his tongue on his way out..."
Amelia didn't finish the sentence, but the implication was crystal clear. She prodded the sensitive opening with the swab, as if trying to confirm a suspicion.
"Amelia!"
McGonagall's voice took on a dangerous edge. She increased the pressure of her finger on Amelia's clitoris, even using a fingernail to give the sensitive bud a sharp, dragging scrape.
"Minerva McGonagall!"
Amelia fired back, pushing the tip of the swab harder, forcing a bit of the cooling cream into the shallow rim of the tight hole.
For a moment, the room fell into a heavy, charged silence, broken only by their synchronized, ragged breathing.
In the middle of this forbidden tension, the fire in the corner flared from orange to a ghostly, brilliant emerald green.
With a flash of light, a petite figure stumbled out of the Floo, batting soot off her pointed witch's hat. She was a young woman with a face full of freckles and a vivacious, chirpy energy. Around her neck hung a professional-looking magical camera, and a Quick-Quotes Quill with little wings fluttered excitedly beside her.
A reporter for the Daily Prophet.
"Minerva! I've missed you terribly!"
She burst out with a loud, gossipy tone. "I'm telling you, this year's Wizard Chess Tournament is a total bore! But hey, it was the only way I could slip away from the front lines for a decent holiday..."
Her words trailed off into dead silence.
She finally processed the scene before her: her friend, the venerable Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts, disheveled and prone on a couch, while another high-ranking official—the Head of Magical Law Enforcement—was straddling her in an incredibly compromising position.
The reporter's mouth fell into a perfect 'O' shape. The Quick-Quotes Quill hovered in the air, vibrating with excitement, its tip glowing as it prepared to record the scoop of a lifetime.
The air in the room turned to ice.
"Rita Skeeter!"
"Rita!"
Two screams of panic and rage erupted simultaneously. The two women, who had been at each other's throats a second ago, reacted like cornered lionesses with perfect synchronization.
Their eyes met in mid-air, reaching an instant agreement: Eliminate the witness.
McGonagall lunged off the chaise longue, ignoring the sting in her rear and her open robe. Amelia launched herself from the armchair. Like two blurred shadows, they pounced on the stunned, wide-eyed reporter.
"Ooh! A scandal!" Rita didn't look scared; she looked thrilled. She fumbled for her camera.
But she was too slow.
McGonagall seized her wrist, pinning the camera down. Amelia tackled her from the other side, throwing her entire weight into the smaller woman and pinning her to the thick wool rug.
"You will not write a word! You will not take a picture!" Amelia growled, wrestling for the camera while using her body to keep Rita down.
"Minerva! Amelia! This is assault on the press! You're murdering your best friend!"
Rita squirmed like a trapped eel, her hat flying off as she kicked and struggled. McGonagall was on her other side, her hand darting through the air to snatch the glowing Quick-Quotes Quill.
"Give me that damn pen!" McGonagall barked. In the scuffle, her robe fell completely open, exposing her toned, mature body to the firelight. The bite mark on her ass was on full display.
The three of them devolved into a wrestling match on the floor. Rita, being nimble, fought tooth and nail to protect her equipment. The struggle left all their robes in disarray; long, pale legs became entangled as they rolled across the carpet.
In the chaos, Amelia's knee accidentally pressed into Rita's stomach, drawing a soft grunt. Rita retaliated blindly, her hand grabbing a handful of Amelia's heavy, swinging breast.
"Ah!" Amelia froze, a deep blush creeping up her face.
"Gotcha! Let's see how big the Minister's wife really is!" Rita announced triumphantly, her fingers squeezing and kneading the soft mound with reckless abandon.
"You're dead!" Flustered and furious, Amelia abandoned the camera and went for Rita's ribs and waist, launching the most primitive attack: tickling.
"Ahahaha! Stop... I give up! Hahaha! Minerva, help!"
Rita was deathly ticklish. She dissolved into a fit of giggles, her body going limp as tears pricked her eyes. McGonagall finally snatched the quill, but as Rita flailed in laughter, she accidentally caught the belt of McGonagall's robe.
Rrip!
The silk tore away, and McGonagall's majestic, athletic body was fully bared once more. The bloody teeth marks on her butt were impossible to miss now.
Amelia and the laughing Rita both froze.
"Good heavens!" Rita's eyes went wide. She pointed at the bite marks and let out an even louder cackle. "Minerva! Did a dog get you? Hahaha! Those are some very neat teeth marks! Can I take a photo? I won't show your face, I promise! Hahahaha!"
"Rita Skeeter! I'm going to kill you!"
McGonagall was so red she looked like she might combust. With a roar that shook the rafters, she threw the quill aside and pounced like a predatory cat, her hands diving straight for Rita's own sensitive zones.
The professor's quarters were soon filled with the sounds of screaming, wrestling, and the frantic gasps of three high-powered witches acting like schoolgirls.
After the madness subsided, a heavy silence returned to the room, punctuated only by the ragged breathing of the three disheveled women.
Rita was eventually forced to take the ointment from Amelia. She sat behind McGonagall on the chaise longue, focused on treating the wound. Her touch was much more professional; under the influence of the "White Dew," the bloody marks faded and vanished in seconds. It was clear Amelia hadn't been paying any attention to the actual healing earlier.
Meanwhile, the "neglectful" Amelia was busy at McGonagall's massive wardrobe. She had tossed her robe aside entirely and was standing stark naked, holding various elegant dresses up to her body, completely indifferent to her friends' judging stares.
McGonagall, lying on her stomach, watched the naked woman twirling in front of the mirror. "Don't you have your own clothes, Madam Minister? You always insist on wearing mine."
"You have better taste!" Amelia chirped. She pressed a dark green velvet robe against her chest and looked back. "Seriously though, what are you wearing tonight? You're the top seed for the Wizard Chess Tournament. Everyone will be looking at you."
"I don't care," McGonagall sighed, her voice weary. "Just something dignified. I'm sure half the students will try to sneak into the victory ball tonight. I have to maintain my image of authority."
Slap!
A sharp sound echoed as Rita's palm connected squarely with McGonagall's firm, newly healed buttock, leaving a red handprint.
"All done, Lady Big-Butt!" Rita declared with a mischievous grin.
Ignoring the death glare Minerva sent her way, Rita hopped up and leaned over the couch, her eyes twinkling with gossip. "Seriously, Minerva, what are your chances this year?"
McGonagall pulled her torn robe back around her, hiding her curves. She turned her head, her voice calm but brimming with confidence. "As far as I know, the old geezers who like to play dirty didn't sign up this time. If no one cheats, none of the remaining players are a match for me."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
Rita chuckled mysteriously. She fumbled through the enchanted pockets of her trench coat and pulled out a folded parchment receipt. "I visited an underground betting ring in Hogsmeade. Look—I put three thousand Galleons on you to win!"
McGonagall was surprised. She took the slip. The betting info was standard, but her eyes froze on the numbers. Her expression shifted, her voice turning slightly odd. "Is... are there a lot of people betting?"
Rita, oblivious to the change in tone, nodded enthusiastically. "Tons! The goblins say the word has spread from Diagon Alley to Knockturn Alley! Tens of thousands of witches and wizards have placed bets. The prize pool is over three hundred thousand Galleons!"
Jerry rounded a corner in the corridor, debating whether to head back to his dorm to stash his stolen lingerie or find Catherine in the Great Hall and leave the loot with her.
"Jerry!"
He stopped and turned. Fiona, her short hair windswept, was jogging toward him. Her cheeks were flushed from exertion, and she looked like she'd been searching for him for a while.
She reached him, panting, but didn't speak immediately. Her bright eyes raked over him from head to toe, checking for injuries. She lingered on his damp hair and scanned his arms and legs. Once she saw he was completely unharmed, she let out a long, heavy sigh of relief.
Seeing the older girl so genuinely worried about him, Jerry couldn't help but remember their encounter at the Three Broomsticks. The memory of her first experience—delivered by his busy fingers after a few drinks—brought a playful, wicked smirk to his face.
"Looking for me so urgently, Fiona? Are you planning to treat me to another big meal?"
At his words, the flush on Fiona's face deepened until she looked like a ripe peach. It was clear that despite being drunk that night, she hadn't forgotten how her "precious first time" had been handled by this little devil.
She looked down at her shoes, her voice barely a whisper. "I... I heard Cressida was giving you trouble this morning... I'm sorry. It's all my fault."
Seeing her so guilt-ridden, Jerry waved it off dismissively. "Don't sweat it. She's just a Gryffindor lioness who likes to bark. I don't give her a second thought."
Then, his smile faded slightly, replaced by a more serious expression. "But Fiona," he paused, looking her in the eye, "we're... just classmates, right?"
The words hit Fiona like a physical blow. Her chest tightened with a sharp, hollow sense of loss. She thought he was drawing a line, punishing her for her drunken behavior or for interfering today.
"I-I'm sorry..." her voice trembled, nearly breaking into a sob. "I... I won't bother you anymore..."
Before she could finish, a warm, firm hand caught her wrist.
"What are you thinking, Fiona?"
She looked up, startled, meeting Jerry's mischievous eyes.
"What I mean is," Jerry said with a grin, "you really owe me that meal! Because of you, I spent the whole afternoon scrubbing the girls' lavatory. I'm exhausted!"
Fiona blinked, her tear-filled eyes wide and confused. It took a few seconds for her to realize he wasn't rejecting her—he was just being a brat.
She burst out laughing, a single stubborn tear clinging to her eyelash. Her smile was like sun breaking through a storm.
"Fine!" She didn't let go of his hand. Instead, she squeezed back with surprising strength. She wiped her face with her free hand, suddenly revitalized. "I'll take you right now! I know a place much better than the Three Broomsticks. I'll make sure you eat until you're stuffed!"
She didn't give him a chance to argue. She pulled him along the corridor, her steps light and bouncy as a deer's.
Jerry followed, amused, as she led him through the castle courtyards toward the station where the school carriages usually waited. But the platform was empty. No Thestral-drawn carriages were in sight.
"That's strange... where are the carriages?" Fiona peered toward the Forbidden Forest, seeing nothing.
After waiting for a while, Fiona suddenly slapped her forehead. "I forgot! There's a massive banquet in the castle tonight! It's the celebration for the Wizard Chess Sweet Sixteen. All the carriages must have been diverted to pick up VIPs from the village."
She got more excited as she spoke. "I heard it's going to be huge. Lots of celebrities. I think even Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic, is coming!"
"Well, that's too bad," Jerry said, looking at the glowing castle. "I guess my big meal is cancelled?"
Fiona looked at his "sad" face and smirked. She put a finger to her lips. "Who said anything about cancelling? Follow me!"
She grabbed his hand again and ran toward the Quidditch pitch. The wind whipped through her short hair. "Jerry, you haven't had your flying lessons yet, right?"
"I checked the schedule," Jerry panted, keeping up with her. "Lessons start next month. This month is all theory and Transfiguration."
"Right, but that's not the only reason," Fiona explained. "The pitch has been reserved for the Seventh-Years this month for their N.E.W.T. flight exams. It'll open up for the rest of us once they're done."
They reached the edge of the pitch, where massive, temporary Wizard Chess statues cast long shadows in the sunset. Fiona led him under a newly built spectator stand that hadn't been enchanted with Muggle-Repelling Charms yet.
The empty pitch was quiet and grand. They climbed the spiral stairs of the Slytherin tower.
"Where are we going?" Jerry asked.
"Here!" Fiona stopped at a door marked Slytherin Changing Rooms.
Inside, the room smelled of old wood and leather polish. Fiona went to an unlocked locker and pulled out a sleek, silver broomstick. The twigs were perfectly trimmed, and the silver handle shimmered in the dim light. It was clearly a high-end private broom, not a school-issued clunker.
She shouldered the broom and winked. "Want to go for a spin, junior?"
"Absolutely!" Jerry nodded, playing the role of the excited freshman perfectly.
"Good." Fiona took his hand, her palm warm and soft. "I'll take you to get that 'banquet' now."
They climbed to the very top of the tower—the starting platform. The wind howled up here, carrying a chill. Fiona set the broom down and prepared to mount it.
It was a provocative sight. As she lifted one leg to straddle the silver handle, her school robes hiked up. Jerry saw the curve of her calves in grey stockings and the tight, rounded shape of her buttocks under her skirt. As she leaned forward, her blouse tightened over her developing breasts, showcasing her athletic, feminine frame.
"Come on, hop on!" Fiona patted the spot behind her.
Jerry moved to climb on.
"Wait... stop!" Fiona blurted out, her face turning crimson. "I... I've never flown with a passenger before. I'm worried about the balance..." She wouldn't look him in the eye, stuttering as she made a suggestion. "Maybe... you should sit in front? If you... hold onto me, it'll be more stable."
The "holding onto her" she described was essentially him sitting face-to-face with her, his legs wrapped around her waist.
Jerry saw through her "I want to be close to my junior" scheme instantly. He laughed internally but kept his face innocent. He wasn't about to turn down an invitation to be pressed against her soft body.
"Sure! Whatever you say, Fiona!"
He hopped onto the broom, straddling it in front of her. Jerry was shorter and thinner than the nearly-adult Fiona. The result was an incredibly intimate arrangement. Jerry was practically curled into her warm embrace.
His cheek was pressed against her soft, full breasts. He could smell her scent—a mix of grass and floral soap. He wrapped his arms around her waist, his fingers almost meeting behind her back. Fiona, to steady him, circled him with her arms, her chin resting on his head.
"Hold tight!" Fiona's voice had a nervous tremor. She gripped the handle, leaned forward, and with a soft "Up!", the silver broom shot into the sky.
After a brief moment of weightlessness, the flight leveled out. The wind whipped their robes. Jerry squeezed her tighter, burying his face in the cleavage of her breasts. He could feel her heart racing against his cheek.
"Look, Jerry!" Fiona shouted over the wind. She circled the castle. From up here, Hogwarts looked like a glowing model, its windows twinkling like diamonds on black velvet. The Black Lake shimmered under the full moon.
It was romantic, but for the two of them, the scenery was just a backdrop. The broomstick vibrated with the hum of high-speed flight. That vibration traveled through Jerry's body and directly into Fiona.
Specifically, Jerry's crotch was pressed firmly against Fiona's lower abdomen—right against her most sensitive area.
At first, Fiona told herself the tingling was just nerves. But she soon realized something else was happening. Jerry, like a clever cat, shifted his position "accidentally," pressing the growing hardness of his young cock directly against her clit.
As the broom vibrated, Jerry began to grind against her with a slow, agonizingly rhythmic pressure.
"Nngh..." A muffled moan escaped Fiona's throat. Her palms grew sweaty on the broom handle, and her legs clamped tighter around the broom—which only served to press Jerry even harder against her heat.
She could feel herself getting slick. Her panties were becoming soaked with hot moisture. The combination of the vibration and the deliberate friction was making her brain go fuzzy.
"Are... are you okay, Fiona?" Jerry asked with "innocent" concern, his voice muffled by her breasts. But he didn't stop grinding.
"I'm... I'm fine..." Fiona's voice was shaky, almost tearful. She couldn't control her body's reaction. Her hips began to sway instinctively, meeting his rhythm. Her breath became hot and ragged against the top of his head.
As they soared over the Black Lake, Jerry pushed harder.
"Ah!"
Fiona couldn't take it. With a violent shudder, she cried out, her scream lost in the wind. The silver broom dipped dangerously toward the water as her body spasmed.
A flood of juice erupted from her, soaking through her underwear and skirt, even staining Jerry's trousers where they were pressed together. As she twitched in the throes of a massive orgasm, the liquid left her body. She tried to clamp her legs shut, but that only squeezed more of her love-honey out from under her skirt.
Under the moonlight, a decadent scene unfolded. From the tail of the silver broom, crystal-clear droplets began to fall. They trailed behind the broom like glistening threads before falling into the Black Lake, creating tiny, disappearing ripples—burying the secret of her climax in the dark water.
Jerry felt her body trembling against him. Her breath was hot and fast.
"Fly higher, Fiona!"
Through the layers of cloth, Jerry's cock was now rock hard and surprisingly large. He thrust his hips forward, wedging his hard length deep into her soaked crotch. The head of his cock pressed firmly against her core through the wet fabric, nearly stretching it to the breaking point.
Fiona spasmed again, but this time, the friction stopped.
Jerry went still.
The sudden lack of movement was worse than the friction. Her body, having just tasted pleasure, felt like a hot iron dropped in cold water. A crushing sense of emptiness hit her. Her wet, throbbing pussy began to pulse, desperate for the sensation to return.
"Mmm..." Fiona let out a whimper and started to move on her own. At first, she just squeezed her thighs, trying to grip him. But it wasn't enough. She began to clumsily grind her hips, rubbing her soaked mound against his unmoving cock.
"Fiona..." Jerry's voice came from her chest. "Why are you moving?"
His voice was innocent, but his body was a rock, letting her twist and turn against him like a fish out of water, desperate for satisfaction.
Fiona couldn't speak. Shame was gone, drowned by lust. She just wanted him to move again.
"I... I want..." She arched her back, slamming her pussy against his hard trouser-bulge. Each hit made a wet squelch and drew a sob-like moan from her throat.
The broom flew on, a silent accomplice to this mile-high seduction.
Seeing his senior completely lost in lust, Jerry finally smiled. He looked up, his young face wearing a predatory, dominant grin. He leaned up and captured her mouth in a deep kiss.
His tongue swept past her teeth, tangling with hers and sucking on it, forcing his saliva down her throat as she made a helpless swallowing sound. Fiona lost all ability to think, clinging to his back as if he were the only solid thing in the world.
As she gasped into the kiss, Jerry finally moved his lower body. He didn't just grind; he began to thrust his hips in a slow, powerful, steady rhythm. The hard outline of his cock rubbed against her through the wet silk, punishing her softest parts with every stroke.
Fiona made little whimpering noises into his mouth. The sensory overload—the wind, the height, the deep kiss, and the relentless grinding—was too much. The sound of wet fabric rubbing against wet skin became louder in the night air.
"Fiona... you okay?" Jerry broke the kiss briefly, whispering into her ear while his hips kept working.
"Mm... fast... please, faster..." she begged, her voice thick with tears and desire.
Jerry complied. He sped up his thrusts, hammering against her.
Finally, another massive wave of pleasure hit her. A fresh flood of honey soaked them both, running down her thighs and onto the silver broom handle. It flowed backward toward the tail of the broom until it reached a breaking point.
One drop, two... then a steady stream of glistening juice fell from the back of the flying broom, creating a brief, strange "rain" in the night sky.
In the courtyard below, several students in formal robes headed for the Great Hall felt the moisture.
"Is it raining?" one Slytherin boy asked, touching his cheek. His finger came away with something sticky and warm.
His friends stopped and looked up. The sky was clear, the moon was full, and there wasn't a cloud in sight. A faint, sweet, musky scent drifted through the air.
They looked at each other, confused by the "phantom rain" that had only fallen on them. They would never know that seconds ago, a silver broom had carried two lovers into the shadows of the high towers, leaving their scandalous secret far behind.