Chapter 49
Notes:
In this chapter, I've attempted to imitate Victorian (or Shakespearean?) British English. The key word is "attempted." I can only hope it's not catastrophically terrible, and I apologize in advance just in case. T_T
Chapter Text
"The great Harry Potter, sir! The great Harry Potter, sir, has called Dobby?! The great Harry Potter, sir, needs Dobby?!"
Hermione jumped as a loud crack echoed around their "new secret place" on the seventh floor, the room Harry had brought them to so they could meet his "new friend" without any witnesses. A piercing shriek then assailed their ears.
"Is that Dobby?" Hermione stared, astonished, at the tiny creature, who barely reached her waist.
It had grey skin and enormous bat-like ears, and was wrapped in what looked like a ragged dishcloth. Its bald head was disproportionately large for its scrawny body and sat strangely on its thin neck. A long, pointed nose protruded sharply over a lipless mouth, which was now stretched into a wide, unnerving grin. Although Harry had warned her about the house-elf, Hermione couldn't stop gawping, genuinely taken aback by its pathetic and absurd appearance. It was the first time she had ever seen such a creature in the flesh, rather than in a picture in "Magical Creatures and Where to Find Them", and she was trying desperately not to stare.
Spotting Harry, Dobby bounced like a grasshopper, letting out another ecstatic squeak, and lurched forwards as if he were about to leap on him in an excess of emotion. Deciding it was best to stay perfectly still and not make any sudden movements, Hermione froze. Though she had read that the vast majority of house-elves were friendly towards wizards, one could never be one hundred per cent certain.
"Right... Harry trusts him, so perhaps he's not so bad..."
Dobby looked completely barmy.
"Hey, Dobby. Good to see you," Harry greeted him with a smile, at which the strange little fellow immediately started bouncing again, wringing his hands and literally weeping with joy.
"The great Harry Potter, sir, has not forgotten poor Dobby! The great Harry Potter, sir, is so kind! Dobby is so, so happy to see the great, wonderful, and the most powerful wizard Harry Potter, sir!"
Hermione's eyebrows shot up towards her fringe. She shot Harry a sceptical look, to which he responded with one that said, "Don't ask. I don't get it either."
"Please, just call me Harry, okay?" he asked Dobby, shrugging awkwardly. "We've been over this."
"Of course, Harry, sir! Whatever Harry, sir wishes! How can Dobby be helping Harry, sir?" The creature took another tiny step towards him, gazing up at him adoringly.
"Thanks. To start with, er... I'd like you to meet my... girlfriend. This is Hermione."
The house-elf's already enormous eyes bulged even more as he stared at Hermione, standing beside Harry, as if only just registering her presence in the room. She gave him an uncertain smile.
For several seconds, Dobby scrutinised her intently, as if scanning her in his own way, before tears suddenly began to stream down his cheeks and he let out a loud, drawn-out wail on the very edge of ultrasound:
"Dobby is so happy to be meeting the beautiful and lovely Hermione, Harry Potter's, sir, girlfriend!"
Hermione and Harry winced in unison as their ears rang. At this rate, they'd both need a Hearing Potion by the end of this conversation...
"I'm... pleased to meet you too, Dobby," she replied, flustered, and added hastily, "Please, just call me Hermione, alright?"
"Of course, Hermione, ma'am! How can Dobby be of service to Harry Potter, sir, and his Hermione?" he asked again, jigging on the spot.
"Dobby, I wanted to ask you something," Harry began. "Hermione and I are doing some... research, but we're completely stuck and we need your help..."
Stumbling over his words, he explained the crux of their problem as best he could while Dobby listened attentively without interrupting. Hermione wondered if the house-elf had, in the end, grasped why they needed all this, and if he had... would he keep their secret? As she continued to agonise with doubt, Dobby had by then gathered all the information he needed and declared confidently:
"Dobby will be happy to fetch any books Harry, sir, needs!"
"Brilliant! Thanks, Dobby."
"Dobby was just wanting to ask... oh! Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby! Dobby must not be asking questions of wizards!"
To Hermione's horror, he immediately began to bang himself on the head with his tiny fist, forcing Harry to physically restrain him.
"It's alright, Dobby! You can ask me and Hermione questions."
"Harry Potter, sir, is so kind to worthless Dobby!"
"There, there... it's all good..."
This went on for a whole five minutes, during which Hermione wondered if all house-elves were prone to hysterics, repetitive phrases, and self-flagellation, or if these were Dobby's personal quirks. Whatever the case, she could now at least understand why Harry hadn't seen him as a threat – Dobby's behaviour, for all its tragedy, was so grotesque and absurd that it was difficult to take him seriously.
Finally, the elf sniffled one last time and said timidly:
"If Dobby is permitted, Dobby would like to know... why does Harry, sir, not just ask the Room to give him the books he needs?"
"What do you mean?"
"Oh... Dobby thought Harry, sir knew..."
"Er... Knew what?"
"About the Room of Requirement, sir."
"Eh? The Room of Requirement?" Harry shot a questioning look at Hermione, but she could only shrug. She'd never heard of it either.
"Yes, Harry, sir. Dobby is speaking of this room."
"What about it?"
Hermione glanced around, trying to spot anything unusual, but at first glance, it was just another disused classroom or former common room, untouched for at least decades. Nothing remarkable. In truth, Hogwarts was full of such places, especially away from the main student thoroughfares. Harry had said he'd stumbled upon it by chance a few weeks ago, while wandering the corridors under his Invisibility Cloak in search of solitude – which explained his frequent absences from the Gryffindor common room. Apart from a couple of worn leather armchairs, a few shelves of books (nothing interesting, just some old textbooks), a dusty rug on the floor, and a fireplace, there was absolutely nothing to catch the eye.
Dobby, however, seemed to think otherwise. And what he told them next was truly intriguing.
"Hang on a minute..." Harry said slowly. "Are you saying this room can turn into literally anything, and all I have to do is ask?"
Dobby nodded vigorously.
"That is correct, Harry, sir. The Room can also provide you with any books, potions, and other items you might wish for, but they cannot be taken outside."
"Blimey!"
It sounded truly incredible, but if it was true... what possibilities this could bring! The magic of this place was astounding! Hermione had never heard of anything like it, and she was itching to see and test it all for herself.
"Wow!" Harry whistled, echoing her thoughts. "How do you know all this?"
"All house-elves know of this, Harry, sir," Dobby replied modestly.
"That's... incredible! Thank you, Dobby!"
Of course, this prompted another round of the elf's tearful proclamations and Harry's attempts to calm him down.
Watching them, Hermione sighed heavily. By this point, she didn't exactly trust Dobby – she still knew far too little about him for that – but she was finding it quite difficult to see him as a hidden enemy. In fact, she felt rather sorry for the house-elf – judging by his appearance and behaviour, he had been through a great deal...
Though she was still angry with Harry for his recklessness, she could understand why he had so quickly trusted and become attached to Dobby. In a way, they were horribly alike... but of course, she had no intention of saying that out loud. She knew how painfully Harry reacted to any hint of mistreatment from his relatives. Right now, she just wished she had noticed the signs sooner. She couldn't believe she could have missed something so obvious and been friends with him for a whole year without realising what he'd been through.
"Maybe I just didn't want to think about it or deal with it back then. We were all such little children then..."
Technically, they were still children, but God, she now felt decades older than she used to be. At least she no longer jumped to conclusions the way she used to.
If Harry wanted to consider Dobby his friend, she wouldn't stand in his way. Instead, she would watch the house-elf discreetly but very closely – keep your friends close and your enemies closer, and all that... Of course, she still didn't know for certain that Dobby was their enemy. But better safe than sorry, right?
* * *
The moment they were alone again, Hermione turned to Harry, her arms folded across her chest.
"Do you think we can trust him?"
"Well, he's been friendly to me so far... mostly," the boy shrugged. "And he told us about the Room of Requirement..."
"If this Room is even real."
"Hmm... well, yeah. Shall we test it?"
They looked around the space again, unsure where to begin. Dobby hadn't actually specified what they needed to do to "activate" the Room, and they'd forgotten to ask.
"Maybe one of us has to say something out loud?" Hermione suggested.
"Probably. Want to go first?"
"Alright. I want..." she trailed off, trying to think of the right image.
What did they need? They needed books. And if they needed books...
"I want this Room to turn into a library!"
Though they were surrounded by magic every day at Hogwarts, it was still astonishing to see the space around them suddenly shimmer, then expand manifold and grow hundreds of shelves stretching into the distance.
Harry gasped in awe, his head swivelling from side to side. He ran his fingers along the spines.
"Do you think it's all real?"
They and Hermione each took down a few books and flicked through them hurriedly.
"They're real," Hermione whispered, her eyes fixed on the thousands upon thousands of tomes before her. "Harry, they are real! Do you have any idea what this means?!"
Squealing with joy and excitement, she threw her arms around his neck and gave him a feverish kiss on the lips, then pushed him aside and descended upon the nearest shelves, eager to check as much of the collection as possible.
"Er... yeah. It's pretty cool," Harry replied with a weak smile, already realising they were going to be stuck here for the rest of the day at least.
Even if he didn't share her enthusiasm, Hermione could think of nothing else. It was like a second Christmas, only better! It seemed she had found her El Dorado and her Klondike all in one! An endless supply of books! Right here, within her grasp! O-o-oh!..
If there was such a thing as a cerebral orgasm, this was it.
Chuckling quietly at her bibliomania, Harry left her to it, disappearing behind the shelves. Hermione barely noticed him go, already up to her ears in the printed word. The pile around her grew and grew, and she couldn't bring herself to stop.
"I'm dreaming… I must be dreaming, and this is the most wonderful dream ever!"
She was so excited that it was only an hour later that she remembered why she and Harry were looking for all these books in the first place.
"Oh, bugger. Bloody pregnancy. Magical babies. Right."
Taking a few deep breaths, Hermione forced herself, by a titanic effort of will, to set down – for now! –"The Gleaner's Compendium of Secret Herbs", a book referenced by most modern potions texts and which was nearly impossible to get ahold of these days. There would be time later to read it from cover to cover and make copious notes... Right now, she needed to focus on something else important.
"I need something that will help me conceive a child..."
No sooner had the thought formed than a hefty tome materialised right in front of her face. Silver letters on a black cover read "The Alabaster Codex of Hearth and Home", which was rather curious and didn't sound like anything she had read before. Intrigued, Hermione opened the book at random in the middle, her eyes scanning the lines.
<< Chapter IX: Of the Wife's Pleasure for the Fastening of Seed
A wife who is cold in her bed is as barren soil; the seed shall not take root in her. Wherefore the husband must be not only the sower, but also the kindler of the fire in her womb. That her womb might be made ready to receive the precious seed, it is necessary to inflame her flesh to the utmost limit.
Begin with caresses that shall make the blood to pound in her veins. With thy fingers and thy lips, awaken her teats to a scarlet hue; descend to the mysterious mound, to the moist gates that lead to her innermost depths. Spare not thy spittle, that thou mayest soften the entry, and be patient, until she begin to writhe beneath thee, begging for grace. Thou must needs bring her to lewdness and make her know carnal delight ere thy member entereth her.
When she is already moaning and her juices floweth abundantly, enter her with authority. Let thy hard member pierce her to the very root, to the neck of her womb. Smite her to the very bottom, without mercy and with rhythm, as the smith smiteth the glowing iron. Hold her fast, suffering her not to escape, and drive her to the peak of delight again and again. Take delight in every cry and every spasm of hers, for thus do her gates become as jaws that draw thy member ever deeper into her womb.
And only then, when she trembleth in the throes of joy and ecstasy, unleash thy hot moisture into her. Let thy stream strike the very heart of her womb, mingling with her juices in a seething cauldron. For the more furiously the wife knoweth lewdness, the more surely shall the seed be fastened and bring forth fruit. >>
Hermione tore her eyes from the page, swallowing. This was certainly something new – quite different from what was on the shelves of the Hogwarts library. Not quite what she needed, but… perhaps Harry would find it useful? Just in case, she muttered a charm, copying the text onto a clean piece of parchment.
She flicked through a few more pages until she came to the next section, with an even more interesting heading.
<< Chapter X: Of the Wife's Cunning in Luring to the Great Sowing
O, good wife, await not 'til thy husband doth inflame thy flesh. Thy womb is no empty field, but a thirsting ground that crieth out for the heavens' rain. Thine is the duty to kindle in thy husband and in thyself a single flame, that he might be consumed in the great work of creation.
On the day before the sacred night, anoint thy body with oils that lead to fruitfulness, and drink potions of raspberry leaf, that thy womb may be soft and prepared to receive. Clothe thyself in light raiments that hide little, and walk before thy husband with a gentle swaying of thy thighs. Let thy gaze be direct and full of promise. Thy lips must whisper not of worldly things, but of the strength of his line and of how thou dost yearn to bear his child.
When the bed is prepared, fall to thy knees before him and caress his member with thy mouth, until it be hard as a warrior's spear. Not only to pleasure him, but to show all the thirst of thy soul. Let him behold how greatly thou dost desire that he should fill thee. Lie upon thy back, raise thy thighs to him, as a sacrificial chalice, and spread thy legs wide, opening to him the entry to the very heart of thy womb.
When he entereth thee, be not silent. Moan, call him by his name, rend his back with thy nails, like a cat in the throes of passion. Move to meet him, arch thy back, aiding him to pierce thy depths. Remember, thou art not only his wife, but a fellow partaker in this mystery. Speak unto him: 'Fill me! Give me thy seed! Let it pierce me to the very womb!'
Not for pleasure alone, but in one furious surge of creation, delight in him. When thou feelest that he is ready to spend his essence, tense thy whole body and squeeze thy thighs – and then shalt thou know carnal delight together with him. Thy climax is the final word, the lock that letteth in his seed and suffereth it not to depart. In this moment, ye are not man and wife, but the makers of a new life, and your passion is the hammer that forgeth it in the depths of thy womb. >>
Hermione's cheeks flushed slightly and she giggled quietly, imagining Harry saying something like that. Or comparing his penis to a "warrior's spear"... Pff. Then again, you never know... he might even like it. Boys could be very strange at times.
She reread the last passage and reddened even more when she came to the line about "caress his member with thy mouth". Until now, she hadn't even thought of anything of the sort in the context of her relationship with Harry. Thanks to her encyclopaedia, she already knew that different types of sex existed, including oral, but she found it hard to imagine her and Harry... touching each other with their mouths in that way. Wasn't it... well... disgusting? It was one thing for their genitals to rub against each other, as that was their purpose, but to touch them with lips and tongue...
A memory of the sharp smell of urine came to mind, and she grimaced in disgust.
Ugh. No, thank you. She definitely wasn't ready for anything like that yet and hoped Harry wouldn't ask her to do it anytime soon.
"But it's still curious. I mean… maybe it's not so bad if somebody write about it? Perhaps I ought to be more open-minded..."
As if charmed, her fingers began to glide across the pages of their own accord, turning them in their eagerness to find more information on the topic.
<< Chapter XLII: Of the Art of the Mouth and the Man's Nectar
Hark, sister, for there is a great power hid not in roots and potions, but in thy very body. Thy husband, like a tree, yearneth not only for the earth's moisture, but for a heavenly caress. Thy mouth, which is artful in words and spells, is also made for the greatest of mysteries, which a wife doth perform in the quiet of the bedchamber.
When thy husband returneth from the field or from battle, weary and sullen, do not plague him with talk of household matters. Approach without sound, kneel before him, and loose the belts of his hose. Look upon his staff not with horror, but with reverence, for in it is the root of thy line and the strength given unto thee. Touch it with thy tongue, like a quick lizard that glideth upon a sun-warmed stone. Feel how it stirreth and gathereth might.
Caress it slowly, at first but with the tip of thy tongue, tracing the vein that runneth along it, as a river runneth through the land. Then, take it betwixt thy lips, but make no haste. This is not mere solace for joy and merriment, but a rite of love and submission, where thou, on thy knees, dost rule him completely. Let thy head move in time with his breath. Feel how it groweth within thy mouth, filling thee, becoming hard as an obsidian rod. Fear not if it seem too great – thy jaws and thy throat were made for this.
When thou feelest him near to his release, quicken thy motion. Let thy hands hold him by his thighs, driving him deeper into thee. And now, sister, hearken closely, for herein lieth a great secret in how to give thy husband the highest pleasure and bliss. Withdraw not when his nectar floweth. Receive it into thyself, unto the last drop. This is not mere seed, but the elixir of life, the very quintessence of his strength. Each swallow that thou takest is a part of his might passing to thee. Thou dost absorb his valour, his will, his heat into thyself, as dry earth receiveth a blessed rain. By this, thou dost not only pleasure him, but dost draw strength for thy rites and thy magic.
After this, say naught. Simply embrace his legs and sit in silence, letting him feel that thou art his harbour, his comfort, and his sovereign lady. He shall belong to thee not only in his heart, but in his very flesh, and all his strength shall be at thy service. For the woman that mastereth the art of the mouth, mastereth also the world. >>
This was too much. By now, Hermione's face was burning like a hot frying pan as an image of Harry's cock – red, hard, and wet – stood before her mind's eye. She imagined leaning down and opening her mouth to wrap her lips around the head, protruding from its skin...
"Oh..."
She had to clench her thighs tightly, biting her lip almost to the point of drawing blood. Her hyper-sensitive clit was throbbing, and a treacherous warmth was already spreading between her legs.
"Bloody hell… what is wrong with me?!" she grimaced, trying to get a grip on the silly arousal.
It must be the pressure of the deadline for conceiving, because lately she'd wanted sex almost constantly – and literally anything at all could be a trigger. Like reading this sort of literature, which was hardly suitable for schoolchildren.
"Or maybe... the thought of oral sex with Harry doesn't actually seem that disgusting to me..."
But, good Lord, who even knew that medieval wizards could write something like this?! Then again, if you thought about Walpurgis Night and other sabbaths... hmm...
Hermione tried to imagine suggesting something like that to Harry – pleasuring him with her mouth – but it was too embarrassing and ridiculous, even in her own head.
No. She wasn't going to try anything like that this time. It would be better to leave it for later... Some other time. Maybe when they finally got this whole conception business sorted out...
* * *
"I need something more modern, on the subject of sex education," Hermione muttered aloud quietly.
The Room obediently responded with a new book – this one was clearly Muggle, with a shiny, glossy cover, suspiciously similar to the one Hermione had received for Christmas. Sighing, she turned the cover over, not particularly hoping for much.
<< Hello, darling! So, are you ready for a little chat? We know that adults sometimes act as if this whole 'sex' thing is some big, scary secret that's best not spoken about aloud… >>
She flicked through a couple of pages, skipping the silly introduction. And why did they always sound as if they were copied from the same template?
<< Get comfy, because now we're getting down to the nitty-gritty – to what makes you a woman. And yes, it's all about your body, which is currently working like the most complex and mysterious mechanism in the universe. Let's start with periods… >>
Okay, she already knew all this by heart, so she impatiently flicked ahead again, not wanting to read about the endometrium and the ovum accompanied by some daft metaphors, as if the book's target audience were complete idiots. Sometimes she simply didn't understand why authors were always so keen to use all these "real-life" comparisons instead of just telling you everything briefly and to the point.
<< ...and so here we finally get to the topic of conception. If, during this journey, the ovum meets a sperm (that very same dancer from the prom), a real miracle occurs. They merge, and in that moment, a new cell is formed, which contains all the information for creating a new person – your future baby. If this meeting has taken place, then that very bed your body so painstakingly prepared will come in handy. The embryo attaches itself to it and begins to grow. And if the meeting didn't happen? If the dance never started? Then your body says, 'Okay, didn't work out this time. Let's try again!' and in a couple of weeks begins to get rid of that unnecessary bed… >>
Hermione slammed the book shut with a crash.
"This is all not what I need!"
She already knew what sex was without all this nonsense, and she had a pretty good idea of the process of conception from a medical perspective. What she needed right now was information on how to increase her chances and what to do to make it happen sooner…
Hermione barely managed to dodge another tome, which almost hit her in the face. It plopped onto the table, opening by itself at the right page, as if the Room was mirroring her own irritation and impatience.
<< Chapter 3: Your Personal Schedule, or How to Pinpoint Ovulation
From the previous chapter, you already know that ovulation is the culmination of the female cycle, that very moment when your body is most ready for conception. And yet, oddly enough, many women still perceive their cycle as something mysterious and unpredictable, like a monthly lottery where the chance of winning depends on luck.
But what if I told you that it's not a lottery, but a very precise science, and your body is the most honest and open source of information? You don't need to guess; you just need to learn how to listen to it.
So, how can you increase the probability of conception?
Method No. 1: The Calendar Method. The simplest, but also the most approximate. If your cycle is stable, you can assume that ovulation occurs approximately 14 days before the start of your next period. For example, with a 28-day cycle, this would be day 14. But this method doesn't account for disruptions, stress, and other factors, so relying on it alone is like reading tea leaves.
Method No. 2: Basal Body Temperature. Here we move from assumptions to precise data. Basal temperature is the body's lowest temperature in a state of complete rest, measured immediately upon waking, before you get out of bed, drink water, or even move. In the first phase of the cycle, it hovers around 36.3-36.8 °C. Immediately after ovulation, under the influence of the hormone progesterone, it sharply rises by 0.3-0.5 °C and remains at this level until the next period. By regularly recording the readings, you will see a clear jump on the chart, which says: 'Ovulation has already occurred.' This method doesn't predict the moment, but it confirms the fact, which is invaluable for planning the next cycle.
Method No. 3: Observing Cervical Mucus. This is the most intuitive and 'natural' way. Your body is constantly sending signals, and cervical mucus is one of the clearest. Right after your period, there might be none at all, or it will be thick and sticky. As you approach ovulation, under the influence of oestrogen, it becomes progressively more fluid, transparent, and stretchy. On the day of ovulation and for 1-2 days before, it takes on the consistency of egg white – very slippery, elastic, you can stretch it between your fingers for several centimetres. This is the ideal medium for sperm, helping them reach their destination. As soon as the mucus becomes thick and cloudy again, the 'fertile window' closes.
Method No. 4: Ovulation Tests. This is a modern and highly accurate method. The tests detect the peak of luteinising hormone (LH) in your urine. 24-36 hours before ovulation, there is a sharp surge of LH, which triggers the release of the ovum. A positive test tells you: 'Time to act!' >>
"Finally," Hermione grumbled.
She created another piece of parchment, copying everything listed above so she could read it over again later. After all this time, she had finally found something real, something she could measure in numbers and assess logically! Something she could control.
<< Combining these methods gives you almost one hundred per cent certainty. Keep a diary, mark the days, your temperature, the nature of your mucus, your test results. After a couple of months, you will know your own body better than any doctor. You will understand that a slight pulling sensation in your lower abdomen mid-cycle is not a coincidence, but a signal from your ovaries. That an increased libido is also hormonal preparation for conception… >>
The book went into detail about the number of days and methods for calculating the ovulatory cycle, as well as measuring basal body temperature, observing cervical mucus, and finally, ovulation tests – and with every line she read, Hermione's confidence was restored. She could do this! All she'd need to get her hands on was a standard mercury thermometer and some tests…
"Hold on. I'm a witch!"
"I need a medical spellbook for measuring body temperature…"
And once again, the Room unfailingly provided what she required. Hermione loved this. She thought she could quite happily spend the rest of her life here, if she were being honest.
* * *
The hours flew by in the quiet rustle of pages, drawing ever closer to dinner, but Hermione was completely oblivious to it, just as she was oblivious to Harry, who had been whiling away the time opposite her with a book of his own for quite a while. She was half-reclining, half-sitting in a deep, soft armchair, her head buried in her reading. Soft sunbeams streamed in through the window behind her, creating the perfect lighting, so her eyes barely tired as they raced relentlessly across the lines, greedily absorbing every new morsel of information.
Strangely enough, much of what interested her was found not in books, but in ordinary women's magazines – the very kind she normally ignored and, if she were being honest, held in a tiny bit of contempt. By now, a respectable pile of glossy magazines had gathered beside her armchair, and an open questionnaire lay on her lap.
<< Question #1: Are there positions that genuinely increase the chances of conception?
Answer: Yes, there are. It's all about gravity. You need to help the sperm reach their destination – the cervix – as quickly and easily as possible. Positions where the semen doesn't flow out after ejaculation but stays inside create the ideal conditions for this.
Question #2: So, what's the number one position?
Answer: The classic missionary position. When you're on your back and your man is on top, deep penetration occurs, and the sperm pools right by the cervix. Moreover, this position allows for maximum closeness and tenderness after sex, which is also important.
Question #3: And if the missionary position seems boring? What other effective options are there?
Answer: Try the 'spoons' position. Lie on your side and ask your partner to lie behind you, nestled against your back. Penetration in this position is also quite deep, and it's the perfect option if you're tired or simply want tenderness and warmth. Another excellent option is when you lie on your back with your legs spread, and the man is on his knees. You can rest your legs on his shoulders – this ensures incredibly deep penetration and gives him access to the cervix at the perfect angle.
Question #4: Is it true that a female orgasm helps with conception?
Answer: Absolutely true! And this is, perhaps, the most pleasant piece of advice. During orgasm, your uterus contracts. These contractions create a sort of 'vacuum effect' that literally pulls the sperm from the vagina deeper, towards the uterus and fallopian tubes. So don't be shy about asking for caresses and achieving your goal. It's in your mutual interest!
Question #5: What about the 'cowgirl' position? I love it, but I've heard it's not good for conception. Is that true?
Answer: Alas, there's some sense to that. When you're on top, gravity works against you. The sperm has to 'travel upwards', which complicates the task. Of course, conception in this position is possible, but the chances are lower. Nevertheless, don't give it up entirely! Use it for a long foreplay to ignite the passion and have your orgasm, but for the final act, switch to one of the 'gravity-friendly' positions. >>
"Cowgirl? What on earth is that?" Hermione murmured thoughtfully, automatically snatching the magazine that had flown towards her.
<< Who's the boss in the bedroom, and who gets all the pleasure?
Forget modesty and delicacy, my dear. The cowgirl position lets you take power into your own hands... and not just your hands. Here you're not just lying there and letting your man shag you, but you are the initiator and the main driving force. If you love feeling his cock fill you to the brim, if you want to decide the rhythm, the depth, and when the finale comes – this is your position.
So how do you shag properly in it to have a bloody brilliant time?
First of all, tell him to lie on his back and make sure his cock is hard enough to start the fun. Then swing your leg over his hips and sit on him, as if on a horse. Feel him fill you as deeply as possible.
Next. Forget monotonous bouncing – that's for amateurs. Start with slow, circular movements of your hips. Feel how his head slides inside you, pressing on your most sensitive spots. You can lean forward, pressing your chest to his, and move up and down, working your vaginal muscles intensely, squeezing him with every movement. Or you can lean back, supporting yourself with your hands on his thighs – this gives him a perfect view of your spread quim and allows you to make deeper, piercing thrusts.
Don't be afraid to experiment. Alternate slow, mesmerising movements with sharp, deep rolls. Use his body as your personal shagging machine: grind against him, change the angle, bounce so your nipples touch his lips. In this position, you're not just receiving pleasure; you're controlling it, exactly as you want. You're the mistress here, and it's you who controls when he gets his orgasm. >>
Wow. That was... interesting.
Hermione's hips clenched involuntarily, and she shifted awkwardly in the armchair, trying to get comfortable. What she had just read was... unusual. The thought that she could not just take what Harry gave her, but direct the process... well, that was certainly arousing, though it didn't really suit her main goal at the moment. Perhaps she should look for more articles in a similar vein...
Glancing at the magazine's title, Hermione mentally summoned another batch of the same and enthusiastically dove back into her reading.
<< ...if your main goal is to conceive a child, you and your partner need maximum depth and ruthless precision. Leave the missionary position for now – it's better suited for your next bit of vanilla sex. Right now, you need a position where he'll mating with you like a primal beast.
To do this, lie on your back and throw your legs over his shoulders as high as you can, so your knees almost touch your chest. Give him full, ultimate access to your womb. Feel your pussy open up before him, turning into a wet, greedy entrance.
He must enter you to the hilt, so his balls slap against your arse with every thrust. At this angle, every thrust will ram his sperm as deep inside you as possible, right up to the cervix. You should feel him stretching you from within, feel his head pounding at your very core.
Hold on tight to the headboard or his hands, and don't be afraid to endure a bit of pain and discomfort, because right now you're not just his sexual partner, but a vessel created to receive his seed. And when he comes, let him not withdraw for a while. Stay like that with him, locked together, clenching your muscles so that not a single drop of his hot, thick fluid leaks out. You must absorb all of him. >>
* * *
The temperature in the Room seemed to have risen by a couple of degrees, making it almost difficult to breathe. Hermione tugged at the neck of her jumper, trying to cool her heated flesh. Her nipples were taut and rubbed uncomfortably against her vest, and her knickers were absolutely soaked. She stole a glance at Harry, who seemed to be completely absorbed in his own reading and paying her no attention whatsoever.
"I wonder, if I were to offer him right now..."
She wanted to sleep with him again, as if this morning had never happened. But he looked so focused...
"What is he reading?"
Her long front teeth worried her lower lip as she studied Harry's sharp cheekbones, which were cast in shadow by his long fringe. She wanted to run her fingers over his forehead and cheeks, she wanted to kiss him again...
"Ow," a quiet hiss escaped her lips as another book hit her on the head.
<< Thou liest here, upon these sheets, and I see how thy nostrils doth tremble slightly. Thou knowest what is to come. Thou dost crave it. Thy body is already prepared, it smells of rain and fresh, warm earth. It awaits my seed. It awaits my entry, that I may take what is mine by right.
I loom above thee. My hands grasp thy hips, my fingers dig into thy soft flesh, leaving upon it the imprints of my dominion. Thou art mine. This night, thou art but a vessel, and I shall fill thee to the brim.
I part thy legs, wider, stronger than thou couldst thyself, almost to the point of pain. Thou art open to me. Vulnerable. Mine.
I press my manhood to thy entrance. Thy delicate petals are already moist, already pulsing in anticipation. I do not burst forth. I creep within. Slowly. Thou feelest how the head of my phallus stretches thee, how thy body struggles and yet surrenders all at once, granting me entry. Every inch is a victory for me. Thou moanest. It is not a moan of pleasure, not yet. It is a moan of submission.
And now, I am inside thee. I have entered thee completely. I pause for a moment, that thou mayest feel it. Dost thou feel it? How I fill thee? How there is no longer any emptiness, naught but me, hot, hard, and alive, deep within thee?
I begin to move. At first, slowly, withdrawing almost entirely, only to thrust into thee again with force, with insistence, shattering thy silence to smithereens. Every thrust is an affirmation. Thou art mine. Thou belongest to me.
I quicken my pace. The bed begins to groan in time with my movements. Thy hands clutch the sheets, thy fingers have turned white. I lean down, I bite thy shoulder, thy neck, leaving my marks upon thy skin. Thou shalt wear them. Thou shalt remember this night.
I take thee with a vigour thou didst not even dream of. Roughly, mercilessly, with a primal force that knows no compromise. Thy moans grow louder, they turn to cries, to pleas, but I heed them not. I know what it is thy truer self desires. Thy hips are already moving to meet mine, instinctively, against thy will. Thy body betrays thee and gives itself to me wholly.
I feel thee begin to clench within, as the wave of thy climax rises from thy heels, about to overwhelm thee. "Nay, not yet," I whisper in thine ear. "Now is my time."
I pound my staff into thy cleft, driving the very wits from thee, until thou art thrashing and shrieking. My ballocks slap against thee, striking against thy sticky nether regions. I enter thee deeper than ever before, and I hold still. Thou feelest something pulsing, beating within thee, and then it explodes. A hot fountain bursts forth into the very depths of thy womb. I fill thee. My seed flows into thee, filling every corner, seeping deeper, to the very core of thy being. Thou must take it all. To the very last drop.
I hold thee thus, until I am spent, until thou hast taken all of my essence. I remain inside thee for several moments more. Let it be absorbed. Let thy body remember this feeling, this heat, this power.
I withdraw from thee slowly, and thou feelest my warmth trickling down thy thighs. Now thou art mine. Fertilised. Marked. A new life already stirs within thee, a part of me, a part of thee. And every time thou placest a hand upon thy belly, thou wilt remember this night. Remember how I took thee, filled thee, coupled with thee, and made thee with child. Made thee mine. Thou art mine. Thou belongest to me. For evermore. >>
It was absolutely outrageous! Such filthy, chauvinistic drivel! What was that tawdry little book called again? "Her Carnal Submission"? Well, of course. What utter filth! How could they write about women so vilely? How could they...?!
A dull ache throbbed in Hermione's lower belly, pulsing wetly and hotly, and she couldn't focus on anything but the image of a thick, heavy cock thrusting into her cunt again and again, until she started screaming and begging, just like the nameless heroine of the filthy medieval porn story.
She felt as if her own body were betraying her, while her mind, by force of habit, desperately clung to her modern upbringing. Her mother had always told her that girls were just as good as boys, and that giving in to boys meant sacrificing her own will and diminishing her own worth as a person.
"But this isn't about giving up anything that truly matters, is it? It's just... for pleasure, that's all. It doesn't mean anything..."
She felt dirty. A hypocrite. But she couldn't deny the fierce desire that those disgusting lines were stirring in her. She couldn't stop reading it.
* * *
<< Thou liest upon thy back, the only light in the chamber a dim lamp above the bed, which plucks from the gloom the pale curves of thy form. Thy hands are raised above thy head, thy wrists encircled by my belt, pressed fast to the bed's headboard. Thou art not bound, but it matters not. 'Tis a symbol, a boundary for thee, which thou shalt not cross.
I stand over thee, and thou canst see naught but my silhouette, a shadow that envelops thee. I do not hurry. Let the tension mount, let every cell of thy flesh steep itself in anticipation. I lower myself slowly, my knees to either side of thy hips, and thou shudderest at the touch of the cool air upon thy heated skin.
My hands are cold and certain, and rest upon thy shoulders, gliding down thy collarbones, down thy ribs. I feel thy heart beat beneath my palm. Fast, frightened, a frantic flutter. My fingers find thy nipples, pinch them, twist them, and thou lettest out a short, stifled sob. Pain mingles with pleasure, and I see thy eyes widen in the half-light.
But instead of continuing, I shift lower. Thy hips already tremble, instinctively striving to rise and meet me, but I pin them to the mattress with my weight.
"Nay," my voice is a low growl that thou feelest in thy very bones. "It is not for thee to decide now."
I sink lower still, and my tongue traces a wet line from thy solar plexus downwards. My hands part thy thighs, and thou feelest how vulnerable thou art. Exposed. Submissive. I gaze upon thy quim. 'Tis already moist, glistening in the faint light. The lips are swollen, raised, like a flower awaiting the rain. I trail a finger along its cleft, gathering the dew upon its pad, and thou tremblest as if struck by lightning. I bring the finger to thy lips.
"Taste. See what it is that thou desirest."
Thou dutifully openest thy mouth, encircling my finger with thy tongue.
Then I replace my finger with my mouth. My tongue touches the pearl of thy sex, and thou gaspest. I begin to lick thee slowly, methodically. Circling the swollen nub with my tongue, I feel thy thighs tense beneath my palms. I draw it into my mouth, nibbling gently, and thy body jerks. I taste thy essence – salty, sharp, primal. I delve deeper, my tongue sliding within to explore thee, and thou canst no longer hold back.
Thy moans grow louder, tearing from lips thou hadst sought to press together. Thy hands clench into fists above thy head, thou pullest at the strap, but it yieldeth not. I quicken my pace, my tongue working without cease, and I feel thee approaching the precipice. Thy hips quiver, thy belly tenses.
"Come now," I whisper, not lifting my head from thee. "Give it to me."
And with a final, piercing cry, thou spendest. A wave of thy crisis washes over thee, thy cunny convulses around my tongue, and I lap at thee through the spasms until the last shudder subsides.
Thou liest there, breathing heavily, thy body lax, pliant. I rise, and my staff, already rigid and heavy, presses against thy flesh. I do not enter at once. I rub the head against thy sensitive, freshly spent cunny, up and down, slowly, tormentingly. Thou writhest, attempting to grasp it, to draw it within, but my hands upon thy hips deny thee this. And then, when I see the tears of desperation and desire well in thine eyes, I enter. Sharply, to the very hilt. Thou criest out. Not in pain, but in fullness, in the sensation of being torn asunder.
I fill thee completely, and I pause for a moment, allowing thee to grow accustomed to my size, to the way thou stretchest to receive me. My member pulses within thee, alive, hot, and thou feelest its beating with thine own.
Then I begin to move. At first slowly, almost withdrawing entirely, only to thrust into thee again with force. Each thrust is a blow. A blow that steals thy breath, makes thy breasts bounce. I watch as my sweat-slicked body merges with thine. I see thy belly tighten with every motion. My hands find thy breasts, grip them, palms gliding over the damp skin.
I lean down, and my teeth sink into the flesh of thy shoulder, not to draw blood, but hard enough to leave a mark. So that on the morrow, thou mayest look in the mirror and see the sign of my possession. The pace quickens. I no longer restrain myself. My hips beat against thine with a wet, slapping sound.
The room fills with the scent of our sweat, of thy arousal, of the cloying sweetness of the act. Thou criest out no more, thou moanest, thy mouth agape in silence, thine eyes rolling back. I feel thee begin to clench around me once more. How thy muscles grasp my staff, trying to hold it fast. Thy back arches, thy legs lock around my buttocks, striving to draw me deeper still.
"Come," I hiss in thy ear, my voice breaking. "Give it all to me."
And thou breakest. Another wave of thy crisis courses through thee, bending thee in two.
Thou shriekest in truth, loudly, without shame. Thy cunny spasms around me, and 'tis the last I can bear. With a deep, guttural groan, I drive into thee to the root and begin to spend. Thou feelest the heat flood within thee, as my member pulses, jetting into thee, spurt after spurt.
I fill thee, and this is no mere coupling. 'Tis an act. The act of procreation, wherein I am the sower, and thou art my soil, my property, meant to receive my seed. I remain in thee until the final pulse has passed.
Then I withdraw slowly.
Thou liest shattered, curled into a ball, with my marks upon thy neck and with my issue, seeping slowly from thee, mingling with thine own. 'Tis the proof. The proof that thou wast mine. And shalt be again. >>
* * *
<< Thou liest upon thy side, and thy great, heavy belly, swollen with our forbidden fruit, is a mound upon which I rest. Thy hands are clenched into fists at thy face, and thou gazest upon me with wide eyes, wherein a mixture of fear and anticipation doth swim. This act – a sin we commit, adding yet another shameful secret to the one that already groweth within thee.
I introduce my member into thy fundament for the very first time and I pause. Just so. Dost thou feel that slight burning, at the very edge of pain, yet not quite? Dost thou hear how thy breath hath caught? Feel how thy body tensed for a moment, and now – let go. Relax. I am in no haste.
The head of my staff is within thee, but by a few inches. Feel this pressure, this new, unfamiliar, and filthy fullness. 'Tis another transgression against nature, another line we have crossed together in wickedness. Allow thyself to grow accustomed to it, allow me to feel how thy sphincter gripes me so tightly, so well. Dost thou feel it? Art thou ready to continue?
Very well… Now I begin to move. Slowly. Not thrusts, but a smooth, gliding immersion – deeper into thee with every pass. Scarcely withdrawing, I fill thee again and again. Harken to how thou beginnest to emit thy own quiet, stifled moans. 'Tis not pain, is it? 'Tis a pure, concentrated sensation.
I see thee relax, how thy back arches, how thou thyself leanest back to meet me, thy great body, so full of life, seeking yet another, depraved pleasure. Now thou wouldst have more. I take hold of thy hips, feeling their ripe fullness, and begin to enter thee yet deeper. Each of my entries is a wave that rolleth through thy form. I feel the heat building within thee.
My movements become a little bolder, a little faster, yet still smooth, as a dance. I lean down, I kiss thy neck, and I whisper in thy ear what a fine creature thou art, how thou inflamest me, how wondrous thou lookest in the midst of this sin. Thou hast given thyself entirely to this moment, given thyself to me.
And now, I would have thee come. I shall not leave thee wanting, my dear. My hand findeth thy pearl, moist and pulsing. Thou art all aflow. And as I continue to enter thee slowly from behind, my fingers begin their work. Circular motions, a gentle pressure.
Feel how these two pleasures merge into one. How the pressure from behind maketh the stimulation at the front a hundred times sharper. Breathe deeply. Feel the storm gathering within thee. I feel it. I feel thee beginning to clench around me, and it driveth me to madness.
Let it go. Come for me. Right now. >>
* * *
"Harry!"
"Huh?"
"Come here. Now!"
Unable to bear waiting for him to figure out what she wanted, Hermione threw her book aside and shot across the room, falling on top of Harry and immediately kissing him greedily and deeply without warning, her fingers burying in his hair.
"M-Mione..."
"I need this, Harry!" she rasped, grabbing his shirt and starting to rip at the top buttons furiously. Her hips were trembling and rubbing uncontrollably against his clothed crotch. "Please! Harry, please!.."
"Oh... y-yes. Yes, of course. Anything you want, Hermione... anything you want..."
She wanted him inside her. His cock in her vagina. Deep. Right now. And she couldn't have cared less how insane it looked.