Ms Sara, Witch: Chapter II
II
Her D.A. professor, after testing the knowledge through a rather simple physical and in-depth written test, informed the class that what one thing can mean the difference in a duel is accuracy.
"What I mean by that is being able to not just hit who or what you are facing, but hitting where it may do the most damage.
"I want you all to pack your things and follow me outside."
Out on an open stretch of grass five teepees were lined up eight feet apart.
"What I want you to do is line up into five groups, behind this line." He flicked his wand and a long white line appeared. "You will aim your wand at the target and attempt to hit it in the center. Take three tries each. Return to the back of the line when you are done. Inform me when you are done."
He demonstrated for them, hitting the center all three times.
As they made their attempts he walked behind them, correcting form and aim. Drawing up to the last group, Ms. Sarah had hit the center once. Attempting for a second, she glanced to her left, saw him and blanched. She shook and the spell bubbled out of her lips. Instead of hitting the center, or even hitting the target itself, her spell flew off into the sky. Her third attempt did much worse. He looked at her and shook his head.
"You, Ms. Sarah, now why did you not even hit the target?"
"I was nervous sir."
"Nervous how?"
She shook her head, only curled her finger in a come closer gesture. Standing next to her, he lowered his head so as his ear came in line with her mouth.
"I was nervous. Nervous about performing in front of you."
"Ah.
"Return to the end of the line."
Ms. Sarah was unable to hit the target correctly the rest of the day. First his presence had made her nervous to fail, and then her embarrassment had shaken her. She blushed crimson when he had noted her mistakes, and the blush ebbed and flowed throughout the remainder of the class.
"Next week we will try hitting moving targets. I would suggest practicing on each other, but Nurse Pomfrey would have my head. Class dismissed."
It seemed that her professor kept her under close observation. Though for four weeks, the class had been marched out onto the lawn and she had shown some progress in able to hit the target, she still had the unshakeable feeling of being under a microscope where every one of her moves was watched with clinical precision.
At the end of one particularly stressful class, Ms. Sarah attempted to leave quickly without being seen but found her escape halted. She was able to walk, but not anywhere. She turned and her professor was looking right at her. She blushed again.
"Now Ms. Sarah, before you run off to lunch, I want a word with you.
"Other professor's have mentioned you as an exceptional student, and your O.W.L.s prove you to be that kind of student. However what I have witnessed the past month refutes all of that. You are unable to hit the center. You mumble the words with no confidence or conviction. When you are able to "speak", you transpose letters and you get "sputefy" or "petralis fictales". That is a personal favorite of mine.
"What is your problem? Why is this good student doing so poorly in my class?"
"I don't know sir. Honest I don't."
She was looking up at me from over her balled up hands. Her large watery green eyes threatened to erupt into tears if I pushed her too much farther. Ms. Sarah was faking the best she could to make this interrogation end.
"I don't sir. Maybe I'm stressed? Stressed about my N.E.W.T.s?"
"No. You are not the kind of student to stress this way. Or this much.
"But I find it…hard…to take the word of my fellow teachers. Yes I have noted that you've made progress, but that has simply been from terrible to not enough to be terrible. You are not doing well in my class."
She looked at him, shocked. Shame and embarrassment came next, alternating across her features as the play between shadow and light underneath a tree.
She tried to form words, but none were forthcoming.
"Dismissed."
When she had been stressed in previous years, or down, she would cast a silencing charm and allow herself time to stroke and explore her body. Her hands would flow over her breasts and feel the nipples harden under her fingers; down her sides and over the swell of her hips; to the delta between her lips. Smooth over her shaven mound, her fingers would find her cunt wet and ready for her fingers to slip and slither inside. Her clit would ache from the hardness, and the barest hint of movement would send electric bolts to her clitoris and then back out, rippling her body.
She would pull her pillows behind her to prop herself up and get a better view. Her fingers would alternate between rubbing around her clitoris, soft spanks that focused on her mons, and sliding her fingers into her vagina and stimulating her g-spot.
When her orgasm came, her eyes would scrunch up and her mouth would open as she cried; her upper teeth exposed as her lip pulled back. She would be drenched.
…none of this worked now.
Her talk with the DA professor was a week gone and the biting words never left. She was hurt most by the feeling that she was letting down the teachers who had spoken on her behalf, and viewed her as one of their good students. I am a good student, she kept telling herself. And she kept telling herself that because she could not believe the words herself. She was not in denial; she knew unequivocally that she was doing poorly, so she could not even hide behind that. The correct flick or wave of the wand eluded her sincere efforts; the words to spells strayed from her mind. Her concentration kept drawing towards the fantasized memories her mind had created of her professor. She remembered how he smelled, how he carried himself and spoke, and performed the most difficult of spells with ease. His disappointment was an excitant with her feeling an erotic shamefulness at letting him down Alternately, that same disappointment worried her: could her behavior and poor skills would put him off, if ever the opportunity arose and she made herself open and available for him.
Out of that embarrassment she withheld touching herself as penance for her deplorable schoolwork. But the pull of him was too much and her hand kept straying up her skirt. Each stroke, though never closer to orgasm, brought him inter her arms and made him a little more real till she could smell the wild woodiness of his wash, feel the burr of his beard, the iron grip of his arms…
…and most of all, the hypnotic affects of his blue eyes and his deep voice.