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“What a Witch Wants Hotline. Do you have an account with us, or are you a first-time caller?” 

“I ... I have an account.” 

“Could I have your PIN number please?” 

“Uh ... 7631?” 

“Seven. Six. Three. One. Yes, I have you here. Welcome back, Miss Lovegood. Is there a particular operator you’d like to speak with this evening?” 

“Um ... Mister ... oh gods. Mr. Discipline?” 

“Yes, I believe he’s free. Please hold while I connect you.” 


“Mr. Discipline speaking. Have you been a bad girl?” 

“Ah ... ummmm ... not particularly?” 

“Hmmm ... that’s odd. You don’t sound like 7631. Have I been misinformed?” 

“This is my friend’s account. She told me to use it.” 

“I see. You must be very good friends.” 

“Extremely. She knows I can’t risk anyone finding out I’m doing this.” 

“If you wish to remain anonymous, you can set up an account under an alias.” 

“Yes, but that account has to be connected to a Gringotts’ vault. And if it was ever traced back to me, it could destroy my career.” 

“Ah. Then you’re an important woman. Successful. You must need a break from the pressure every once in a while.” 

“That’s why I called.” 

“Did your friend tell you what to expect?” 

“Not really. She just said I should ask for you.” 

“Is that so? I specialize in fantasies involving discipline and dominance. Is that why she sent you to me? Are you in need of correction?” 

“I ... I’m not really ... I mean ... I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude, but you sound so much like someone I know. It’s rather disconcerting.” 

“I sound like someone you know? Interesting.” 

“Honestly, it’s uncanny. I’ve got goosebumps. For a split second, when you first answered, I thought you were actually him—until I realized that was insane. He’s the last person in the world who’d be willing talk to anyone on the phone. Especially about sex.”

“Are you attracted to this man?” 

“Ah, well ... that’s ... a loaded question. He’s someone I kind of ... shouldn’t be attracted to.” 

“Why ever not?” 

“Mmmm ... It’s a bit embarrassing. Or maybe perverse. I’m not sure anymore.” 

“Don’t be shy. Embarrassing and perverse are my bread and butter. And it’s not as if I know who you are—so it’s safe to say your secret will go no further.” 

“Well ... he’s kind of ... older. Like old enough to be my father. And he’s my ex-professor.” 

“Is that so? What did he teach?” 

“He taught me ... hmmm. He taught me when to keep my mouth shut.” 

“A lesson most never learn. I’m sure he appreciated having such an attentive student.” 

“Actually, he never liked me much, which is really what makes any attraction to him so wrong.” 

“I doubt it was that bad. Perhaps he simply sensed your infatuation and didn’t want to encourage anything inappropriate.” 

“No. I didn’t realize how sexy he was until later, after I was out of school. He just didn’t like me because I was such a pedantic little swot.” 

“Well ... you seem reformed now.” 

“Only slightly, at least according to my friends. And now you’re laughing at me. That’s very reassuring.” 

“I’m really not laughing at you. I just find your blunt self-assessment amusing. Tell me, would you like to be reunited with your teacher this evening?” 


“I mean, I could play him, and you could play the grown witch, older and wiser, who returns to ... reminisce about her former swottiness ... to make amends. Go on. Tell me what he was like. Stern?” 

“Um ... yes. Harsh. Demanding. Maybe forbidding.” 

“And that turns you on?” 

“His intelligence turns me on. His ... control. And, even though he doesn’t like people to see it, he’s rather devoted. Protective. But it’s his voice that makes me mental. It’s ... magical. I mean like knicker-drenching vocal honey drizzled over a mid-shag Shere Khan magical. I wish I could go back now and listen to him lecture for a few hours.” 

“And you say I sound just like him? How complimentary.” 

“Oh please! Don’t pretend as if you haven’t heard all this before. I bet you’re the most popular operator on the What a Witch Wants switchboard.” 

“I get my fair share of requests. Are your knickers really drenched right now, or was that just poetic license?” 

“I ... I’m not wearing any knickers.” 

“Indeed. That should make for an interesting finale to our teacher-student conference. Tell me, Ms.— I’m sorry, what would you like me to call you?” 

“Hmm ... how about ... Miss Dashwood.” 

“Miss Dashwood? Very well. Tell me, Miss Dashwood, what would you say to this ex-professor of yours if you had the chance? Would you be so bold as to request a nice long lecture ... whilst you sit on his face?” 

“Ha! Hardly! I probably wouldn’t say anything. I think he’d prefer to hear silence when in my presence.” 

“Were you really that annoying as a child?” 

“I’m sure he thought so. But he’s a hard man to please.” 

“Is he amenable to apologies? You could ... get on your knees and beg for his forgiveness. He might find your mouth more agreeable now that you’ve grown into it.” 

“I have a feeling he’d hex off my lips if I so much as smiled at him.” 

“Well then, you’ll just have to use me as a surrogate. I’m quite amenable to apologies. Would you like to try earning my approval?” 

“What did you have in mind?” 

“Where are you right now? Your bedroom?” 


“Are you wearing anything at all?” 

“Not anymore.” 

“Excellent. I want you to stop touching your pussy and close your eyes.” 

“How did you know I was ...?” 

“The connection is quite clear, Miss Dashwood ... and that rhythm is telling. Now do as I say and remove your fingers from your clit.” 

“Seriously? I’m doing quite well for myself here.” 

“You have till the count of five. One ... two ....” 

“Okay, okay, stop counting! My hand is on the bed; my eyes are closed.” 

“Good girl. I want you to picture this professor’s classroom. He’s sitting at his desk, grading essays, shirt-sleeves rolled up, his face pinched with concentration. You come through the door, quietly, wearing nothing but your best traveling robes. And heels. Underneath, you’re completely nude. It’s the first day of winter break. There are no students in the corridors. No noise. No interruptions. You close the door behind you. He looks up but says nothing, his face expressionless. You show him the bottle of wine you’ve brought, a Christmas present with his name on it. He nods, indicating his reluctant acceptance. You walk over, and, as you pass it to him, your fingers brush, eliciting a jolt of desire that flutters through your stomach ... all the way down to your suddenly slick pussy. He sees you flush and asks, ‘Are you quite all right, Miss Dashwood?’ What do you say?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Sir ... Oh, you are a good girl, aren’t you? I shall keep that in mind. Let’s see, where was I? Ah, yes ... He gestures to the bottle in his hand and gives you an acerbic sneer. ‘If you’ve come to bribe me with alcohol, you’re a bit late. I can’t do anything about your grades after all these years.’” 

“No, I’m happy with the ‘O’ I earned.” 

“‘Then what brings you to my classroom?’” 

“I ... I came to ... apologize for being such a swotty terror when I was a student.” 

“‘Did you now?’ He sits back and studies you with an appraising look. ‘And you thought a bottle of wine would make up for all those years of torture?’” 

“Not at all. It was merely a token of thanks for all your hard work ... and patience.” 

“‘Are you getting cheeky with me? In the middle of an apology? I must say, you don’t sound very sincere.’” 

“Oh, but I am!” 

“Prove it.” 


“He pauses, chin lowering thoughtfully, his eyes locked on yours. He traces the neck of the bottle with one finger, and you can’t help but squirm, your face heating at the thought of what that finger could do to you—what you wish it would do to you. He notices your blush. ‘I can think of only one way to prove the sincerity of an apology, and that’s with a very red bottom. If I didn’t know better, Miss Dashwood, I’d suspect you came here this evening hoping for that very suggestion.’” 

“No, sir. I swear I didn’t!” 

“‘Then look me in the eye and tell me you don’t need a spanking.” 


“‘That’s what I thought. Would you like to bend over the desk ... or would you prefer to be across my knee?’” 

“Oh gods ... ummmm ... your knee, sir.” 

“He pushes back from the desk until there’s enough room for you to lie over his lap. Your eyes immediately drop to the bulge of his placket, straining to catch a glimpse of swelling, some sign of arousal, but the room is too dark, and you’re left to guess at his true intentions. He slides to the edge of his chair and flicks his fingers in your direction. ‘Take off your robes and bend over. Stop stalling. We haven’t got all night.’” 

“I ... I ...” 

“What will you choose, Miss Dashwood? Will you bravely do as he says and remove your robes, revealing your naked body to him in a stunning moment of glory, or will you demur? You could also confess your predicament, confess why you came to his rooms, at night, with no clothes beneath your fine robes.” 

“I’d ... I’d take off my robes ... but I’d be scared out of my mind. He’d probably laugh me out of the school.” 

“He does not laugh. He raises a single eyebrow, his only reaction ... except to hold out a hand to you to help you get into place. Heart pounding, you rest your trembling hand in his and, slowly ... carefully, arrange yourself over his knee.” 

“I think I’m about to come.” 

“Are you touching yourself again? After I told you not to?” 

“Argh! Isn’t the point of this for me to orgasm?” 



“The point is extraordinary pleasure. As in out of the ordinary. If orgasm was your only goal, you could have easily taken care of yourself, alone, without calling me. But since you have called me, I suspect you’re after something more substantial. Would that be an accurate analysis?” 

“I suppose you’re right.” 

“Then you will refrain from touching yourself until I tell you otherwise.” 

“But I’m so wet. I don’t want all this to go to waste.” 

“I assure you it will not. But I fear my efforts are going to waste. This is my area of expertise, and I will not be told how to do my job. Now ... do you want me to be in charge, or would you prefer to talk to one of the other operators?” 

“I ... want you to be in charge.” 


“I—Merlin’s pants—I want you to be in charge!” 

“Good. We’re on the same page. Now, do you have an extra pillow nearby?” 

“Uh ... yes?” 

“I want you to put it in the center of your bed and lie over it, arse in the air. I want you in the same position as your fantasy counterpart.” 

“You honestly want me to bend over a pillow? Right now? Even though you can’t see me?” 

“Yes. You want to be a good girl for me, don’t you?” 

Oh, fuck me ... yes. Hold on just a second.” 


“Okay ... I’m ready.” 

“Are your legs together or spread?” 

“Um ... a little apart.” 

“Perfect. If your professor touches you in the fantasy, you may touch yourself in the same manner, but that is all . You stop when he stops. Is that clear, young lady?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Good. Now ... you’re over his lap, your naked body pressed against his thighs. You can feel the heat of him through his clothing, the power of his magic. A hand comes to rest on your lower back, his pinky dangerously close to the valley of your cleft. ‘I had no idea you were so ... penitent ,’ he says quietly, admiring the soft lines of your backside. ‘How long has this apology been plaguing you?’” 

“Years, sir.” 

“His hand drifts lower, grazing the curve of your bottom, fingers skating along your crevice with almost no pressure, light as air ... so light you have to arch into his touch to make sure you feel it. He chuckles and gives your bottom a reproving swat. ‘It looks as though you’re ready to begin. Have you ever been in this position before, Miss Dashwood, waiting for your spanking, the anticipation growing, unsure what to expect?’“ 

“No, sir.” 

“‘No? It’s your first time being over someone’s knee, then?’” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“‘How are you feeling about that?’” 

“Scared ... excited.” 

“‘I think we’ll start with a nice even dozen as a warm-up. Spread your legs for me. And turn your feet in. I don’t want you clenching.’” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“‘Are you blushing, Miss Dashwood?’” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“He pats your left cheek a few times, tipping his head to the right to study the slip of pink that peeks from between your thighs. He can see the slick shine there ... not that he hasn’t been able to smell your arousal since you took off your robes. You shift anxiously, bottom twitching, bracing yourself for the harsh slap of his bare hand. But he makes you wait. He intends to draw out your discomfort and use your embarrassment to his advantage. ‘Legs wider, Miss Dashwood ... wider ... that’s it. There will be no more hiding what you so obviously want to show me. Now try to stay still—if you can. I wouldn’t want my fingers to ... slip .’ He gives your arse a sharp slap, not as hard as you were expecting, but hard enough to burn.” 

“Do ... do you really want me to ... do it?” 

“Do what , Miss Dashwood?” 

“Do you want me to ... spank myself?” 

“Yeeeess, I think you’d better. We need to keep those naughty hands of yours busy.” 

“Do I just ...?” 

“Don’t try to hit. Just slap. More across than down. Hard and quick.” 

“Okay ... um ... Ah! Uh, wait, I can do better. Hold on ... Unh!” 

“Good girl. Let’s keep going. He gives the other cheek a testing pat, his free hand around your waist to keep you firmly on his lap ... pressed tightly to the stiff column of heat now straining his trousers. He calmly counts the next hit aloud: ‘Two.’” 


“And back to the other side.” 


“And the other.” 


“Faster. ‘Five.’” 






“‘Eight, nine.’” 

“Fuck! ... Ow!” 

“‘Language, Miss Dashwood. We’d better make this last one extra hard ... Ten.’” 


“He stops and gives your bottom a soft rub, soothing the sting but adding to the pulsing heat. His fingertips glide over the sensitive patches, and you gasp when they dip lower, almost brushing the damp curve of your exposed sex. ‘Is this repentance I feel slicking your thighs, Miss Dashwood? Or did you find your first spanking to be more pleasure than pain?’” 

“It hurt, sir, but ... it felt good.” 

“‘It felt good to hurt?’” 

“It felt good to ... let myself hurt ... with you. For you.” 

“‘That wasn’t for me, Miss Dashwood. It was for you , to make your repentance manifest.’” 

“Yes, but it was for you, too. It was ... recognition of the pain you suffered. It was kind of like you gave a little of it to me to hold on to. Just for a second.” 




“Sir? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s—“ 

“He ... he runs a hand up your back, along your spine ... your neck ... up into your hair. He tangles his fingers into the roots and lifts your head, his touch gentle—yet commanding. ‘Tell me the truth, girl. Why did you come here tonight? To make amends? Or were you using me to assuage your guilt about the past?’” 

“I—I want you, sir.” 

“‘You want me?’” 

“I want you so much. I want ... I want what I can’t get from anyone else, what I don’t want from anyone else.” 

“‘And what’s that?’” 

“Understanding. You understand me, and I understand you. And ... I like you. All of you. Even the snarky bits. You make sense to me ... and ... I like things to make sense.” 

“Are you crying, Miss Dashwood?” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“You don’t need to apologize.” 

“I didn’t know I thought all that ... not until you asked.” 

“I understand ... there’s nothing to ... ‘Get up on the desk.’” 


“He takes you by the hips and pulls you up. Shoving aside his grading with one arm, parchments falling to the floor in a jumble, he guides you to sit atop the desk.” 


“He lays you down on your back and pushes your legs to your chest, his hands beneath your knees. ‘You’re forgiven, Miss Dashwood. And if anyone could ease my burden, it would be a witch of your sensibilities.’ He lowers his head and breathes in the scent of your excitement. His ragged exhalation is warm against your cunt, and you lift your hips toward his mouth, your sweet lips meeting his in a wet kiss.” 


“His tongue snakes out over your slit, and he delves into your honied core. Flicking upward, he laps the juices from your sex, swirling over your clitoris ... again and again.” 


“He mashes his face against your pussy and, using his nose, nuzzles your clit as his tongue plunges into your channel, fucking you ... fucking so deeply you think he’s trying to taste your womb.” 

“Oh gods! I’m so close, sir.” 

“He groans into your flesh and, beneath the desk, rips open his trousers ... freeing his cock with a relieved sigh ... tssshhht! ‘Are you ready to come for me, Miss Dashwood?’” 

“Yes, sir!” 

“Wait until I say the word.” 

“Yes, sir!” 

“Growling, he stands and swipes his tip through your silky folds. You feel the heat of it and moan, then spread your legs so you can see. His erection struggles in the tight grip of his fist, thick and red, large enough to make your heart skip a beat. He buffs your slippery nub with the head, and the sound of your arousal is so obscenely loud, you blush like you’re seventeen again.” 

“Please, sir!” 

“His eyes flare, pulse racing as he pushes his rigid length down to your opening. He waits there, at the cusp, nestled in the pocket of your entrance. His palm settles atop your mound, and he traces the contours of your clit with the pad of his thumb.” 

“Oh gods!” 

“‘Now,’ he whispers as he eases inside, his thickness stretching you, filling you so full you feel tears stream down your face. He looks into your eyes, his mouth open, panting, overwhelmed by your passion ... by the soft wet clench of your desire, the pull so strong he thinks you’ll never let go. ‘Come for me,’ he murmurs. ‘Say my name. I want the whole school to know why you came here tonight. Tell them who makes you scream, who makes you—’” 

“Uuuuungh! Severus! YES! Fuuuuuuuuuck!” 

“That’s it, love. Come for me. Don’t stop. Don’t you ever fucking stop.” 

“Want you ... want you ... so much. God! I’m ...” 

“‘I can’t hold off. Do you want me to come inside you?’” 


“Unnh! You ... are such ... a good ... girl !” 


“Yes ... yes ... so good! Nnnngh! ... Fuck.” 

“I ... I can’t come anymore!” 

“It’s okay, love. You can rest now. You were perfect ... beyond perfect. Bloody hell.” 


“I can hear you crying. It’s all right. You don’t have to hide it.” 

“Oh bollocks ... I’m completely buggered!” 

“What! What’s wrong?” 

“What’s wrong is that I want someone who doesn’t want me! And now I know that. I have to live with it! Every day. Why did you have to go and make me think? I didn’t want to think! Not tonight.” 

“You honestly can’t tell him how you feel? I ... well, not to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong, but I assumed when you called out Severus during your orgasm that you meant ... Severus Snape? From the papers?” 

“Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods! Please pretend you didn’t hear that!” 

“There’s nothing to worry about. I promise I won’t tell another living soul about this call. And you’ve never said your name. There’s nothing to tell really.” 

“Yes ... well, all the same, I think I should go now.” 

“Wait. Miss Dashwood ...”


“Don’t give up on what you want.” 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“Time has a way of wearing down even the hardest stones. People change. Have you not changed since you left school?” 

“Well, yes, of course.” 

“Then give him the benefit of the doubt. You can’t know what life has thrown his way since you last spoke.” 

“I ... I’ll think about it.” 

“Feel free to call me back ... if you ever find yourself in need of further release. You know where to reach me.” 

“Yes. Thank you. I’ll ... I’d better go now. Goodbye.” 

“Goodbye, Miss Dashwood. Take care of yourself.” 


“Miss Dashwood?” 


“Have you gone?” 


“Yes? ... Yes. Well ... if you’re going to come and run, I’ll just have to set up an appointment with your office. Apologies have so much more impact when delivered in person. Don’t you agree, Minister Granger? We can discuss the particulars tomorrow. Say ... eight o’clock? Any objections? ... No? Excellent. I’ll bring the wine this time ... and I suspect the apology, as well.”