Chapter Text
Hermione
“I was hoping I’d see you here,” came The Heir’s low and steady voice. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
Hermione nodded, chewing on her bottom lip as she relaxed against her pillows, the silk of her pajama shorts already too tight against her skin.
Gods, she loved Wednesdays. And Fridays, though Friday was two days away, and all she could focus on right now was the sound of The Heir’s chuckle going straight down her spine. So, for right now, she simply loved Wednesdays and her months-long routine of taking an everything shower before pouring herself a glass of wine and getting into bed with the latest update from The Heir and her favorite toy.
“Come on in, make yourself comfortable.”
He hadn’t updated for a week, meaning she’d missed out on two nights spent fucking herself senseless to the sound of his voice, and she needed him desperately.
With her eyes closed, Hermione could picture it – stepping into The Heir’s house, marble floors and vaulted ceilings with crystal chandeliers shimmering down on them both. He, in his suit, and her in some dress she’d never feel comfortable wearing in public, her breasts on display for him.
“Wine or whiskey?” The Heir almost always asked.
“Wine,” Hermione whispered into the silence of her bedroom.
“Coming right up,” he said, and Hermione imagined slinking down onto a velvet couch in front of a roaring fireplace flanked by columns that only someone named The Heir would have in his living room. “Merlot, your favorite.”
It was her favorite, and she opened her eyes just enough to prop herself up on an elbow and reach for her glass, taking several sips in rapid succession before he could speak again.
“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me.” The sound of The Heir sitting down could have been coming from inside her room from how clear the acoustics were wherever he recorded these audios. “Or maybe your husband had finally come to his senses.”
Oh, but he hadn’t. And, as soon as Hermione could hunt him down, the divorce papers would be signed, and she’d never have to worry about Ron or his general lack of empathy and decorum ever again.
“My, my, you did need that drink,” The Heir said. “Talk to me, baby. What’d he do this time?”
“What do you think?” Hermione grumbled, making herself comfortable once more. “He’s off Merlin knows where being a twat while everyone claps.”
It may have been silly to answer him out loud, but it helped Hermione feel more comfortable. And he spoke to her like a friend – a friend more than willing to help her feel better.
“Don’t worry, love,” The Heir continued after a brief pause, and the sound of him shifting closer made Hermione shiver. “You won’t even remember his name when I'm done with you.”
Clips like that were the reason Hermione had downloaded the app to begin with. Erotic audio had never crossed her mind until an ad appeared one day, and that tone set her skin on fire, igniting a wine-fueled blaze that saved her from the brink a week after she’d changed the locks to the house. The Heir was everything she wanted: domineering, independently wealthy, talked her through it, and posted more married woman/single man content than most of the others on the app.
“Why don’t you set that glass down and come a little closer?”
She imagined him sitting next to her, an arm on the back of the couch, the other extended toward her, beckoning her into his embrace.
“That’s better,” The Heir purred. “I can’t tell you how badly I’ve missed running my hands up these legs and watching goosebumps follow the trail of my touch.”
For a moment, Hermione let her believe that she could feel it.
“It’s like your body knows me – knows what my cock is capable of.” He shifted; she could hear it in the background, and she bit her bottom lip in anticipation as he let out a soft, warm laugh. “And, looking into your eyes, I can see your mind knows it too.”
Hermione nodded in agreement, her hand sliding down her stomach to the waistband of her pajama shorts.
“Gods, I missed you so much while I was away. Missed sneaking my hand past the hem of this poor excuse of a dress. Ghosting my lips along your neckline, smiling against your skin as your breath hitches in your throat.”
Shit.
In the real world, a week was nothing. Seven days of non-stop action, meetings and trials and dinners with friends tumbling over one another in a blurred string of moments with few lasting impressions. But here, in her bed, that week had felt like an eternity.
“Why don’t I help you out of his dress?”
Hermione didn’t have to be told twice. She shimmied out of her tank top and dropped the barely-there shorts onto the floor, her toes curling as she rubbed her thighs together.
In the beginning, she’d start touching herself almost immediately, chasing an orgasm the same way her husband chased after witches seeking their five minutes of fame. Now, she liked to let The Heir take the lead, following along with him in the moment. And something told her that the audio recording wasn’t thirty-six minutes long for no reason.
“Spread your legs for me, baby.”
He whispered it into the microphone, the low timbre of his voice sending her into overdrive.
“I missed this sweet pussy so much, darling. You have no idea how many times I had to walk away from a meeting to get myself off to the thought of you waiting all week for me.”
A smile slid its way onto Hermione’s lips as her hand itched to slip between her legs, fingers flexing as she waited for The Heir to touch her.
Gods, she wished he was real and that he could touch her.
“I wonder…” he let his voice trail off seductively as he shifted again, and she bit her bottom lip to keep quiet. “If your cunt missed me as much as I missed her.”
Oh, it did – gods, Hermione’s cunt had missed the vibration of his voice and the way her breath became labored as the sound of his fingers parting something that sounded dangerously like her folds echoed in her ears. She quickly followed his imaginary movement, trailing her fingers through her folds and bucking her hips at the sensation.
“Did you touch yourself while I was away?”
Hermione shook her head no. The thought had occurred to her once that she did pay ten galleons a month for this bloody app, and it was well within her right to listen to any of the thousands of other recordings by men who were no doubt as equally up to the task of getting her off. But the idea of listening to anyone but him, even if it weren’t real, had been enough for her to stop.
“No?” The Heir’s voice trembled as he leaned into the microphone, the sounds of his fingers sinking into what should have been her cunt getting louder. “I wonder what your husband would say if he knew your body belongs to me.”
“He’d hate it,” Hermione mumbled, circling her clit with her fingertips and pressing her head back against the pillows. “He’d hate it so much.”
“I know he would,” The Heir said as if he heard her. “I know he’d hate how well you stretch for my fingers – that this pretty little pussy knows I’m the only person who can give it what it wants.”
Hermione slipped a finger inside herself, frustrated at how her fingers didn’t fill her the way she knew The Heir’s would. She peeked her eyes open to stare at the icon on her phone screen: a lithe body spread across a bed with a glass of whiskey in one hand and rings decorating the other as it splayed across his chest. The black slacks and matching button-up did things to her as she added a second finger, scissoring them to try and find the stretch he was talking about.
“Gods, baby, you’re so wet for me.” In the background, the tempo of the sound increased, and Hermione tried her best to match it. “Can’t wait to show you how hard I am.”
“Please,” Hermione whimpered, reaching a second hand down to rub her clit in frantic circles as she fucked herself harder.
“But I want you to cum for me first, baby.”
The Heir shifted again, and Hermione canted her hips up, pretending he was beside her on a couch and using a new angle to fuck her deeper with his fingers that only a pianist would have.
The first few buttons of The Heir’s shirt were undone in his photograph, hinting at the broad chest beneath the black fabric. And the way he’d spread his legs drove her wild, as she belonged between them, her mouth wrapped around the cock that she couldn’t make out but knew was there.
Hard.
Long.
Aching for her.
“I want you to ruin this couch because you missed me so much. Can you do that for me?”
“Yes,” Hermione groaned, heat pooling low in her belly as she curled her fingers, catching that spongy spot inside of her that made everything go hazy.
“The harder you cum for me,” The Heir whispered into the microphone. “The harder I’ll fuck you.”
He meant it. Fuck, Hermione knew that he meant it.
“Please, baby.”
The Heir paused, his pace increasing until Hermione couldn’t breathe, her eyes locked on the rings on his hand as she imagined them wrapped around her chest, holding her in place as he spread her legs with his, fucking into her like a man on a mission.
“Cum.”
Hermione didn’t have to be told twice, sliding a third finger into herself as she crested, gasping out his name into the darkness. In her ears was the sound of The Heir’s frantic pace not slowing once, and she did her best to mimic his movement, riding out an orgasm that had waited far too long to be felt.
Before she’d had a chance to catch her breath, Hermione removed her fingers from her cunt and wrapped them around her pink vibrator, knowing what was coming next.
“Good girl,” The Heir praised, the sounds of his fingers fading as he shifted once more. “Now, why don’t you get on those pretty little knees and show me how much you missed my cock.”
Hermione moaned, wasting no time in lifting the vibrator to her lips and sucking it into her mouth at the same time that he mirrored the sound in his recording.
Thank gods The Heir had gotten back from wherever he’d gone. Hermione had missed him so much that she thought she would die from the pressure building up within herself without any hope of release.
In the morning, she would wake up to a cup of tea and the morning paper before donning her work robes and heading to the Ministry, where thousands of people depended on her to keep them safe. She’d pour over case files, write memo after memo, and run herself ragged, preparing for her upcoming trial. Lunches would be skipped, meetings would be attended, and no one would doubt that she, Hermione Jean Granger, was the most feared prosecutor the Wizengamot had ever seen.
But here, for the night, she belonged utterly to The Heir and his desires. Desires that matched hers so perfectly she’d be a fool not to believe in magic.