Skype Date/Sex
Ron looked down at his mobile device that was buzzing on the table; he always found such non-magic adaptive contraptions interesting. He and his father had been forced to do emergency inspections of cherry oak and mahogany cuckoo clocks in Zurich, and needed to remain undercover (aka: no magic) to avoid attracting unwanted attention of muggle newspapers and various other forms of non-magic media. All it took was a single Twitter tweet, and everything magic could be exposed. Ron cringed at the very thought. It had been a frustrating week—one cuckoo bird changed a child's ear into an oaken limb, and another clock had knocked an elderly lady unconscious and turned her wailing grandchild into a very-pigtailed Pinocchio.
Ron checked his mobile messages. One new message, the screen read. He clicked on the message icon, and a text popped up.
I'm writing another fanfic. –H.
Ron's frown transformed into a cheeky grin. To him, fanfics (or Fanfiction) was the literature version of fudge treacle, drizzled with molten hot dark chocolate syrup with whipped cream and a luscious, tart cherry on top. Delicious pleasure of the guiltiest kind.
Initially, he had no idea what fanfics were—until, during one bout of particularly lusty snogging, when Hermione mentioned such writings comprised of bits of humour…and a smidgen of literotica. And that she oft wrote such pieces under the pseudonym of 'Melanija.' Merlin's beard—a beautiful, brilliant witch, a captivating lover, and an erotica-writer—was there anything this woman couldn't do? He set his phone down in his dimly-lit office, surrounded from floor-to-ceiling with boxes upon boxes of black market cuckoo clocks.
…..
Skype Sex—Melanija
She turned off all of the lights in her bedroom, save for the smallest, located in front of her laptop. The heater was turned to its highest setting, and she was only wearing a spaghetti-strap silken black tank top and Victoria's Secret lacy grey underwear. She sat on her cushioned chair, legs splayed, knowing her companion was in for an interesting evening.
She heard the familiar beep of the Skype phone call. It was him, from a different country, three hours away or so. It was ten in the evening where she was, but eleven where he lived. She uttered a shaky sigh. 'Twas silly really. Should she have told him in advance what she was going to do over Skype? Or was spontaneity ideal? She supposed she would find out tonight, at this very time, at this very
moment.
His head and shoulders were visible through the computer screen. They grinned at each other. 'So—' she said with a half-whisper, 'my heater's malfunctioning tonight. It's simply overheating and I have no idea what to do.'
He glanced at her, puzzled. 'Did you owl—er—I mean, phone—the housing department?' He was sitting in his usual place in his own bedroom, with a floating picture frame of Pigwidgeon in one corner.
'No, there's no need for that' she airily replied. 'I might just take things into my own hands.' And with that, she slipped off her ebony tank top to reveal soft, delicate breasts that made his nether regions warm, and…lengthen. He groaned audibly, and she noticed his hand slipping into his jeans, stroking away, gently but firmly.
She began touching—her inner warmth, and her nether lips. Stroking, caressing, and sighing with pure pleasure; she kissed and licked her elbows, her shoulders, her forearms, and hugged herself gently. This continued on for several minutes, as she saw him remove his T-shirt to reveal his muscles and smooth, alabaster skin. She pinched each of her nipples with her forefingers and glanced ever-so-innocently at him, who looked like he would burst at any moment.
And this was the moment she had been waiting for; he hurriedly removed his jeans (nearly tripping over the computer power cord—she stifled a giggle). Her horny companion freed himself from his cotton boxers—she could see his enlarged length, and felt herself moisten all of a sudden. She could feel her own toes curl and her legs jerk involuntarily as she continued stroking herself with her right hand—which turned into full-on rubbing, slow, then faster, pressing into herself deeper and deeper. She then paused, and stuck her left index finger into her mouth, inside, and out, repeating for several times for his viewing.
She resumed her rubbing; she could see, through the computer screen, his back flush against his nylon/plastic chair, his cheeks red from excitement, as he kept rubbing his member, which grew larger. All of a sudden, she saw him pause and gasp, as liquid of pearl-grey hue emanated from within him in rhythmic spurts for her to see; she came seconds later, eyes closed, her mouth O-shaped, absorbing the sheer amount and intensity of throbbing from within. She was ever so wet.
She looked him in the eye, mouthed 'ILY' (their secret love language) and switched off Skype, posting, in an 'away message': More to come ;)