In the days following Molly Weasley's return home, the atmosphere in the entire house became bizarre and oppressive.
She no longer roared loudly to urge the children out of bed as before, nor did she hum ancient Celtic ballads with that vibrant voice, although a smile often hung on her face.
Yet, something always felt wrong.
But what exactly happened, perhaps only Molly's bedmate knew.
Oh no!
They were already sleeping in separate beds.
Molly stood in front of the stove, the wooden spoon in her hand stirring the food in the pot mechanically.
She was wearing a plain house robe, her fiery red hair tied casually into a loose bun, a few strands hanging by her cheeks.
On the surface, this was a most ordinary morning.
But if one observed carefully, one would find her eyes somewhat unfocused, and the movement of stirring the wooden spoon also appeared absent-minded.
A smile hung on the corner of her mouth, but it was that kind of hollow smile that didn't reach the eyes.
Footsteps came from behind.
Arthur Weasley walked into the kitchen, hair still somewhat messy, obviously just having woken up.
He looked at his wife's back, a trace of complex emotion flashing in his eyes—longing, confusion, and a trace of imperceptible hurt.
"Morning, darling."
Arthur Weasley's voice tried to sound relaxed.
"Morning." Molly didn't turn her head, continuing to stare at the food in the pot.
Arthur walked a few steps closer, standing behind her.
He could smell the familiar scent on her—the fragrance of soap mixed with a faint smell of sweat.
This woman was his wife, the mother of his children, the partner he had spent decades with.
But recently, Arthur felt Molly getting further and further away from him, as if separated by an invisible wall.
"The children are leaving today."
Arthur said, voice carrying a hint of probing, "Bill and Charlie are also returning to their respective posts.
The house will be quiet again."
"Mmh." Molly's response was brief, like perfunctory.
Arthur took a deep breath, extended his hands, wanting to hug his wife's waist from behind.
Just as his fingers touched the fabric of her robe, he felt her body stiffen obviously.
"Darling..." His voice became lower, carrying a hint of pleading, "The children are gone. Tonight... can we stop sleeping in separate beds?"
This sentence was like a fuse.
Molly turned sideways abruptly, dodging flexibly from under his arm. The wooden spoon was thrown into the pot with a clatter, splashing a few drops of oil.
She turned around, the smile on her face disappearing, replaced by a kind of defensiveness and resistance.
"Arthur, I'm cooking." Her tone was cold.
"I know you're cooking, I just..." Arthur's hand stopped awkwardly in mid-air. "Molly, we've been sleeping separately for almost a week.
You always say tired, always say uncomfortable, but... but we are husband and wife."
"So what?" Molly's voice suddenly rose. "So I must satisfy you anytime, anywhere?
I have to cook, wash clothes, clean the house, take care of the children every day. I'm tired to death; can't you be considerate?"
"Of course I'm considerate of you!" Arthur's voice also rose, face flushing red. "But Molly, you're avoiding me!
You look at me like you're looking at a plague!
I just want to hug you, what's wrong with that?"
"I'm not avoiding you!"
"You are!" Arthur almost roared out. "Do you think I can't tell?
You don't want me to touch you at all!
You're not even willing to talk to me!
Molly, what exactly happened? Did I do something wrong?"
The air in the kitchen seemed to solidify.
Molly stared dead at Arthur, chest heaving violently.
Molly's nails dug into her palm, using pain to suppress the truth that almost blurted out—she could no longer bear his touch because Molly's body had been completely possessed by another person.
That boy's fingers, tongue, and that meat root thick enough to almost tear her apart.
And!
Arthur's gentle caress, in her view, was just annoying harassment.
But Molly couldn't say it.
"You didn't do anything wrong." Molly finally squeezed out this sentence, voice cold as ice. "It's my problem.
I just... I just need time."
"Time?"
Arthur smiled bitterly. "How much more time do you need?
Molly, what exactly is wrong between us?"
"I don't know!" Molly suddenly exploded, voice carrying a trace of hysteria. "I don't know, okay?
Can you stop pushing me?!"
Arthur was stunned.
He looked at this strange woman in front of him, suddenly feeling a deep sense of powerlessness and sorrow.
Arthur opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but finally said nothing.
Arthur turned around, striding towards the door.
Bang!
The door was slammed shut fiercely; the entire Burrow shook.
Only Molly was left in the kitchen.
The pot on the stove was still sizzling. The bacon was already somewhat burnt, but she paid no attention at all.
Standing in place, Molly's body began to tremble uncontrollably.
Not because of guilt, not because of regret, but because of a deeper reaction from physical instinct.
Molly's legs suddenly went soft.
"Ah..." A suppressed moan spilled from her throat.
Knees bent, whole person collapsed on the cold floor of the kitchen with a thud.
Hands supported on the ground, head drooping, fiery red hair scattered down, covering her face.
But Molly's body made an extremely lewd posture.
Her waist bent down, but her buttocks stuck up high, like a bitch in heat displaying her most private parts to a male.
The hem of the robe slid up because of this posture, exposing the roots of her fair and voluptuous thighs.
"No... don't..." Molly panted, trying to control her body, but couldn't do it at all.
Molly's body had been completely trained.
Whenever she felt stress, anger, or any strong emotional fluctuation, her body would automatically make this posture—kneel down, stick ass up.
This was already a brand carved into her body by Jerry Rosier, a slave mark that could not be erased.
Molly knelt on the ground; her inner thighs were already wet.
Without any external stimulation, just this posture itself made her body start secreting love juices.
"Master... Jerry!" Molly murmured this word unconsciously.
In the kitchen, there was only her heavy panting and the sizzling sound of the pot on the stove.
After an unknown amount of time, Molly stood up tremblingly.
Her legs were still soft, having to hold onto the stove to stand steady.
Turning off the stove fire, the bacon in the pot was completely burnt, but she didn't care at all.
Turning around, stumbling out of the kitchen, upstairs, pushing open the bedroom door.
The bedroom was very quiet.
The bed was neatly made, curtains drawn tightly, only a faint ray of light penetrating.
Molly walked to the bed, tremblingly opening the bottom drawer of the bedside table.
Inside, hidden a thing wrapped in cloth.
Taking it out, untying the cloth, revealing the item inside—this was not an ordinary sex toy, but made with magic, a molded replica completely copying Jerry Rosier.
From size, shape, texture, even temperature and hardness, it was exactly the same as the real one.
Molly looked at it, eyes becoming blurred and greedy.
Fingers stroked over that thick shaft, feeling the protruding veins on it.
Just looking at it, a heat flow gushed out from Molly's lower body again.
Molly couldn't wait to take off the robe, lying naked on the bed.
Molly's body appeared exceptionally fair in the dim light. Full breasts heaved with breathing; nipples were already hard as pebbles.
She spread her legs, revealing that private place already muddy mess.
Slowly submerging!
"Ah... mmh..." Molly let out a satisfied sigh.
Then, she used force, submerging it in one breath.
"Ahhh!"
Molly's back arched into an exaggerated curve; her whole person almost bounced up from the bed.
That feeling of being instantly filled, even stretched to the limit, made Molly's brain go blank.
Soft flesh walls sucked tightly onto the meat root; every fold was flattened, every sensitive point was stimulated.
"Jerry... Master's... so big... so comfortable..." She began to talk nonsense.
Molly grabbed the base of the dildo, starting to thrust in and out madly.
Every time it was pulled out, one could see that meat root covered with Molly's body fluids, shining with lewd water light.
Every insertion was accompanied by squelch squelch water sounds, and Molly's unsuppressable lewd cries.
"Ah... ah... yes... right there... hit it... hit it..."
Molly's other hand rubbed her own breasts, pinching nipples forcefully, even pinching out red marks.
Pain and pleasure mixed together, making Molly even more excited.
Molly's waist began to twist actively, coordinating with the hand movement, flowing down along the butt crack onto the sheet, soaking the entire sheet.
"Please... please... please..."
Molly's eyes were completely out of focus, mouth open, tongue sticking out unconsciously, saliva flowing down the corner of her mouth.
Her face flushed red, forehead covered with sweat; the whole person looked like a completely estrous bitch.
Molly accelerated, arm veins bulging due to exertion.
The dildo thrust in and out madly inside her, crushing over her sensitive points precisely every time, even pushing open her cervical opening.
"Going... going to cum... I'm going to cum..."
Molly's body began to spasm violently, thighs tensed straight, toes curled up.
Her passage contracted madly, as if wanting to suck that dildo in.
"Ahhhhh!"
Orgasm swept through Molly like a tsunami.
Molly's eyes rolled back, mouth wide open, letting out a scream almost tearing her throat.
Molly's body shook violently like electric shock; every muscle was spasming.
Streams of white thick liquid sprayed out from Molly's passage, soaking the sheet thoroughly.
On her face was that expression close to collapse after being completely satisfied—eyes unfocused, mouth drooling, whole face twisted, as if the soul was extracted from the body.
Molly maintained the orgasm posture stiffly like this for several seconds before finally collapsing softly.
Jerry's mold was still inserted in Molly's body, but Molly had no strength to pull it out anymore.
Molly lay on the sheet soaked by her own body fluids, chest heaving violently, like a fish washed ashore.
After a long time, Molly had the strength to move.
Tremblingly pulling out that one-to-one made Jerry mold, the passage immediately gushed out a stream of mixed liquid.
Molly threw the dildo on the bed casually, too lazy to even clean it, standing up naked just like that.
Molly didn't even wear panties.
Those sticky body fluids flowed slowly down Molly's inner thighs, leaving lewd traces on the fair skin.
Molly could clearly feel that slippery touch, and the subtle stimulation brought by liquid flowing over sensitive skin.
But Molly didn't care.
She just threw on the robe casually, didn't even fasten the buttons properly, walking out of the bedroom like this.
Downstairs, back to the kitchen.
The pot on the stove was cold; the bacon inside burnt black.
She moved the pot aside expressionlessly, took out ingredients again, and started making new breakfast.
But if someone observed carefully, they would find that liquid was still constantly seeping out from her inner thighs, flowing down the legs, dripping on the floor, leaving small water stains one by one.
Molly's passage was still twitching slightly, still savoring the pleasure just now.
Just then, tap tap tap sounds came from outside the window.
Molly looked up, seeing a grey-brown owl standing on the window sill, a letter tied to its leg.
She walked over, opened the window. The owl threw the letter to her and flew away.
The envelope was printed with the Hogwarts crest, written in emerald green ink "The Burrow, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley."
Molly tore open the envelope, pulling out the parchment inside.
This was a Parent-Teacher Conference invitation.
Hogwarts invited parents of all first-year students to go to the school this weekend to participate in the term summary meeting, communicate with professors, and understand the children's performance in school.
Molly's hands began to tremble.
Hogwarts... Jerry was there.
Her breathing became rapid; a heat flow surged from the depths of her lower abdomen again.
Molly could feel more liquid flowing out of her body, sliding down her thighs...
Far away in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, breakfast time was nearing its end, but the atmosphere was not as calm as usual.
The huge dining tables were filled with various breakfasts, yet couldn't cover the undercurrent quietly surging among students.
Ron Weasley was wolfing down the last piece of sausage, golden-red hair jumping due to chewing.
Harry Potter sat opposite him, holding a piece of toast, eyes scanning the students coming and going in the hall from time to time.
Hermione Granger originally sat next to Harry, but just a few minutes ago, a senior Ravenclaw student came over, claiming Professor McGonagall had something to see her about, asking her to go to the office.
Although Hermione was somewhat puzzled, she still went, leaving Ron and Harry to continue enjoying their breakfast.
After that senior student left, he winked quietly in the direction of the Slytherin long table.
Draco Malfoy sat there, the corner of his mouth hooking into an imperceptible sneer.
Since Jerry liked her, he naturally wouldn't accidentally hurt her.
Soon, a carefully planned conflict brewed in the quiet corner of the hall.
First, a few first-year Hufflepuff students pretended to walk past the Gryffindor long table inadvertently.
A round-faced Hufflepuff boy "accidentally" bumped into a Gryffindor student sitting at the end, spilling his juice all over the floor.
"Don't you have eyes?
Fatty!" The bumped Gryffindor student cursed immediately.
"You're the one without eyes!" Hufflepuff wasn't to be trifled with either, retorting immediately.
Both sides soon began to argue back and forth.
Immediately after, a few Ravenclaw students also joined in. Their offensive was trickier, using all kinds of verbal disparagement.
"Weasley, you really are just like your family line, always so clumsy, knocking over milk even sitting and eating."
A Ravenclaw girl held her head high arrogantly, deliberately raising her voice, tone full of disdain. "No wonder your family can't even afford a new robe, poor look."
These words were like a knife, stabbing precisely into Ron's sore spot.
Ron was already somewhat inferior because of his family's poverty. Hearing such naked ridicule at this time, the sausage in his hand fell onto the plate with a snap, face turning liver-colored.
"You foul mouth!
What did you say?!"
Ron stood up abruptly, fists clenching creakily. Harry and the little wizards beside him hurriedly pulled him back, not letting him be impulsive.
"What I said is all fact."
That Ravenclaw girl sneered, eyes scanning contemptuously over Ron's worn robe. "Don't you know how embarrassing Gryffindor is recently?
Your house points added so much.
Trespassing in the Forbidden Forest can become a bonus item.
Breaking into prohibited areas alone can also add points.
Then this House Cup competition seems like it's specially held for you guys. Why do we other houses need to participate?"
Before she finished her words, Ron was burning with anger, unable to suppress his temper anymore.
He shook off Harry's hand, like an enraged lion, striding towards that girl, raising his fist, and smashing fiercely at that mean face!
"Shut up!"
Although this punch was full of power due to anger, it was Ron's first fight after all.
Fist swung out, the girl screamed. Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw boys around immediately rushed up to block.
This punch didn't hit the girl's face directly but grazed her cheek, knocking the hair ornament off her head.
The hair ornament fell to the ground, shattering into several pieces; the crisp sound echoed in the hall.
At this moment, the entire hall was instantly silent; all eyes turned to them.
Immediately after, a bigger commotion erupted!
"You dare to hit a woman!"
Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw people used this excuse to attack, surrounding them instantly.
"Gryffindor people are just so ill-bred!"
Seeing Ron make a move, Harry and other first-year Gryffindor little wizards naturally couldn't sit idly by. They also rushed up immediately, joining the battle group.
The center of the hall instantly turned into a chaotic battlefield.
"Harry, hit his eyes!"
Ron grabbed a Hufflepuff's collar, headbutting the other's nose fiercely.
Harry raised his fist, rushing towards the nearest Ravenclaw, but was dodged by the other's nimble side step, instead getting elbowed from the side by a Hufflepuff.
A dull pain came from his nose instantly, followed by warm nosebleed gushing out, dyeing the collar of his school robe red.
"Oh! Look, it's Savior Potter! Beat him! See if he can still cast spells!"
Those students hired by Malfoy obviously received Draco's instructions, showing no mercy to Harry.
"Ah! Don't kick my leg!"
A Gryffindor little wizard was tackled to the ground by Hufflepuff students, kicked and stepped on by several feet.
Fists whistled in the air, slap sounds pap pap rang out, hair was pulled messily, feet tripping each other back and forth.
Plates and cutlery were knocked over, food scattered all over the floor, the scene a mess.
Although Gryffindor little wizards were courageous, under the joint attack of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, they were soon at a disadvantage.
They were just some first-year freshmen after all, lacking fighting experience, and not dominant in numbers.
Soon, Ron, who started it first, was pressed firmly on the ground by two Hufflepuff students. One rode on him punching randomly; the other held his head down so he couldn't resist.
His face had been beaten like a pig's head; nosebleed and blood from the corner of the mouth mixed together, wretched beyond measure.
Although Harry resisted tenaciously, he was eventually pressed on the ground by a tall Hufflepuff fatty, unable to move.
His glasses were knocked askew, a circle of bruise had swollen around his left eye, groaning incessantly.
In just a few minutes, the hall originally full of laughter became chaotic.
Those first-year Gryffindor little wizards were all beaten black and blue; some lay on the ground, some covered their noses, wailing all over.
Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw students, although also suffered some injuries, appeared arrogant and triumphant.
Just then, several deafening roars suddenly came from the gate of the hall.
"Stop! What are you doing?!"
"Stop at once!"
It was the professors!
Professor McGonagall, Snape, Professor Flitwick, and several other professors rushed in with ashen faces.
Their appearance immediately stopped the chaotic fighting. Those students still showing off their might stopped all movements instantly like startled quails.
Professor McGonagall swept a glance, taking in the chaotic scene: wretched Gryffindor students, bruised and swollen Ron and Harry, and those Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw students who couldn't hide their triumphant expressions despite surface calm.
She took a deep breath, calming the anger in her chest.
"Gryffindor!" Her voice was low but carried irresistible majesty. "Fifty points from Gryffindor!
Ron Weasley, as a Gryffindor student, you actually picked a quarrel and started trouble in the hall, striking first. Another five points deducted!"
Ron opened his mouth, wanting to defend himself, but was pulled by the hem of his clothes by Harry, signaling him not to speak more.
"Hufflepuff!
Fifty points from Hufflepuff!"
"Ravenclaw!
Fifty points from Ravenclaw!"
Under Professor McGonagall's stern voice, the faces of the students of those two houses immediately became ugly, and those triumphant expressions disappeared instantly.
"In view of this serious group brawl incident!"
Professor McGonagall's gaze swept over all first-year students again. Every student swept by her gaze couldn't help but shiver. "And considering the mentality of all first-year freshmen now, the Hogwarts Academic Affairs Department has decided that the Parent-Teacher Conference originally scheduled for this weekend for first-year students will continue to be held.
At that time, your parents will come to the school personally to communicate face-to-face with your professors.
I hope before that, you can reflect well on your actions!"
"Dismissed!"
Professor McGonagall waved her wand; several damaged tables and chairs were restored immediately, and food residues and stains on the floor disappeared instantly.
All professors left the hall with ashen faces.
The lower-year little warriors returned to their respective common rooms wretchedly under the drive of senior assistants.
Professor McGonagall handled the hall disturbance resolutely. High heels made clack clack sounds on the floor. She walked hurriedly through the corridor, passing one corner after another, the dark green robe swinging a sharp arc behind her.
McGonagall quickened her pace, just wanting to return to the office as soon as possible, brew a cup of strong morning tea, to calm down the mood messed up by these little bastards.
Finally, McGonagall walked to the door of her office.
Pushing open the door, a fragrance of tea rushed to her face.
Her originally tense nerves relaxed a little.
However, when McGonagall's gaze fell on the center of the office, on that chair that should have belonged to her, she rolled her eyes fiercely.
In front of McGonagall's desk, on the comfortable armchair, impressively sat a boy.
This boy wore a well-tailored Slytherin school robe, hair slightly messy but revealing an unruly handsomeness.
Legs crossed leisurely on her desk, holding her favorite bone china teacup engraved with her initials in his hand, tasting her morning tea methodically.
He even picked up her precious crystal honey pot, used only when processing important documents, scooping out amber honey with a small silver spoon, stirring the tea elegantly.
That was none other than Jerry Rosier.
Seeing Professor McGonagall push the door and enter, Jerry just raised his eyelids, the corner of his mouth hooking into a lazy and playful smile.
"Oh, dear Professor McGonagall, you finally came back."
Jerry crossed his legs, fingertips rotating the exquisite teacup. No respect of a student for a professor could be heard in his tone; instead, there was a nonchalance and even teasing meaning: "Do you know, this tea is getting cold."
Professor McGonagall rolled a beautiful eye roll so hard one could almost see the back of her head.
She raised her right hand. Amidst Jerry's teasing, that black high heel was thrown straight at the boy wrapped in a gust of wind.
Jerry raised his eyebrows slightly, body not moving a bit, just lifting his right hand gently, catching that sharp heel about to hit his face precisely and steadily.
His fingertips rubbed the smooth shoe surface, eyes flashing with playfulness.
"Professor, don't be angry," Jerry smiled, placing the high heel casually on the table beside him, tone nonchalant. "That little fuss in the hall has nothing to do with me.
I've been staying peacefully in the office, didn't go anywhere." Jerry shook his head decisively, looking innocent.
Professor McGonagall's face was sunken like dark clouds pressing down on the city.
Ignoring his lies, she raised her foot directly and threw the other high heel cleanly too. This time, without the element of sneak attack, this shoe carried a clearer anger, heading straight for Jerry's vitals.
"Hey hey hey!
Professor!" Jerry was startled, hurriedly raising his hands in surrender, but his body still didn't leave that chair, just legs wrapping tighter around his exclusive seat, dodging the flying attack. "I confess, I confess, okay?
Don't play for real!"
He caught the flying high heel, placing it carefully beside the first one, then spread his hands, eyes sincere like a child begging for forgiveness—if not for that malicious smile at the corner of his mouth that couldn't be hidden no matter what.
"I had no choice, Professor.
You also know, that old fox Dumbledore adds points to Harry Potter's group of lions every now and then, wishing he could stuff the Gryffindor trophy into their dormitory.
Do you really want to watch me helplessly as Slytherin gets bullied, watch me withdraw from Hogwarts, Professor?"
Jerry's tone carried a trace of helplessness forced upon him, but his eyes flashed with slyness.
Professor McGonagall rolled her eyes again, letting out a soft scoff audible only to herself.
At this moment, Professor McGonagall was completely barefoot. Her feet, wrapped in black stockings, stepped steadily on the soft wool carpet, each step carrying the calm and elegance of taming prey.
The material of the stockings was tight and fitting, glowing with a low-key luster, outlining the beautiful arches of her feet and the shape of her toes.
The hem of her robe swayed slightly with her steps, revealing her slender calves, forming a unique conflict and beauty with those enticing stocking-clad feet.
She walked to the desk and snatched the teacup stained with the boy's saliva from Jerry's hand with a movement bordering on rude.
Her fair fingers gripped the cold porcelain wall tightly. Under Jerry's slightly stunned gaze, she drank the remaining black tea in one gulp, moving as boldly as if drinking a glass of iced Butterbeer.
"Knew it was you, you damn bastard brat!"
She murmured, her voice carrying the fatigue from dealing with the dispute in the Great Hall and the anger provoked by this boy.
Professor McGonagall's gaze moved from the empty teacup to Jerry's face, then slowly lowered, landing on his lower body covered by his robe, currently pointing high towards her through the thin fabric.
Jerry sat in the chair, legs still lazily resting on the desk, left leg casually crossed over the right. The loose fabric of the school robe opened slightly, vaguely revealing the bulging shape underneath.
Professor McGonagall's gaze became deep and dangerous.
She pursed her lips imperceptibly. The black stockings on her feet seemed to flash with a faint white light—an illusion produced by static electricity and friction with tight fabric, yet making her feet appear even more charming.
She didn't speak, just leaned forward slightly, left hand supporting on the edge of the desk, posture becoming more domineering.
Then, she lifted her right leg. Stretching out her tall and slender calf, that foot clad in black stocking bypassed the desk directly, carrying an irresistible dominance, landing skillfully on the bulging shape under Jerry's school robe that was sticking up high.
The smooth touch of the stocking, carrying the unique temperature of her sole, instantly covered Jerry's scalding "meat root."
Even through several layers of fabric, Professor McGonagall could still feel its hardness like a red-hot iron block and its shocking size.
And Jerry, under this sudden foot pressure, stiffened abruptly, letting out a muffled groan from his throat.
"Mmph!"
The playful expression on his face shattered instantly, replaced by a burst of astonishment from being violated and ascetic-like shame.
His body trembled violently, subconsciously wanting to break free, but was pressed down firmly by Professor McGonagall's foot.
Professor McGonagall's foot ground gently on his lower body.
That was a movement carrying punishment. The black stocking separated by fabric, every friction made the heat in Jerry's crotch even more scorching.
Her toes rubbed that thick shaft seemingly inadvertently with skillful force. The friction between stocking and fabric, mixed with the unique scent of Professor McGonagall's foot, made Jerry's breathing instantly heavy.
"Mmh... hah... Professor..."
Jerry's face began to flush. He gritted his teeth, trying to suppress the moan spilling from his throat.
The corner of Professor McGonagall's mouth outlined a dangerous arc.
Professor McGonagall lifted her other foot and stepped on the desk too, posture becoming increasingly domineering.
At this moment, Professor McGonagall straddled the desk completely, trapping Jerry thoroughly between her legs and body, like a queen looking down from above.
Professor McGonagall's feet, one left and one right, like two agile hunting dogs, rubbed and pressed repeatedly at Jerry's crotch and thigh roots. Soles wrapped in stockings, sometimes gentle, sometimes forceful, carrying clear punitive meaning yet full of teasing.
That foot, carrying the unique thickness and toughness of Professor McGonagall's sole, slid slowly on Jerry's shockingly sized "meat root." The fineness of the stocking left faintly visible traces on the fabric.
Professor McGonagall's toes wriggled nimbly, teasing that tender yet unusually sensitive tip through the clothes.
This slow and precise foot caress made Jerry's lower body thrust up constantly. Streams of warm liquid seeped out from his crotch, soon wetting the fabric underneath.
"Professor, spa... spare me..."
Jerry's breathing was rapid and heavy. His legs opened uncontrollably, letting Professor McGonagall's beautiful stocking feet play wantonly at his private parts.
He felt waves of unspeakable numbness and swelling pain surge deep in his body. That was an extreme experience of being pulled by huge humiliation and primitive desire simultaneously.
His young body, unbeknownst to himself, was actually excited to some wet state by Professor McGonagall's feet in such a short time.
"Punishing you, this little bastard who doesn't know the immensity of heaven and earth, has just begun."
Professor McGonagall's voice was low and magnetic. Every word was like an invisible whip, lashing on Jerry's already high-standing lower body.
Professor McGonagall's feet became more flexible. The black stockings, like a second skin, wrapped accurately around that tender yet majestic object.
Jerry's body became harder and harder in this shameful yet tempting punishment.
Jerry's face was written with the intertwining of pain and pleasure. Broken moans spilled uncontrollably from his lips, looking exactly like a creature on the verge of desperation yet addicted to it, unable to extricate himself.
Jerry's crotch was already a muddy mess, ravaged so wantonly by Professor McGonagall's stocking-clad foot.
Jerry could feel his consciousness beginning to blur. Only Professor McGonagall's breathing sound and the buzzing of his own blood flowing violently remained in his ears.
Professor McGonagall's toes scraped gently at Jerry's scrotum with mocking force. Every gentle touch of that soft sole wrapped in stocking made Jerry's lower body tremble violently.
Professor McGonagall's toes seemed to step and knead unconsciously on his huge "meat root" beneath him, carrying the fine friction of black stockings, eliciting faint water sounds with crying tones from his mouth, and the wet sound of liquid constantly gushing from the depths of his crotch.
Professor McGonagall's stocking sole seemed to flash with fine white steam at this moment. That was because her sole heated up slightly due to exertion, rubbing and generating heat through the thin stocking and the boy's fabric, scalding that thick male root almost to burning.
Professor McGonagall's stocking sole, carrying suffocating pressure, wrapped deathly tight around the thick meat root beneath Jerry. Every slight movement made the boy's body tense, forehead seeping fine beads of sweat.
The arch of her foot ground slowly and firmly with a precise and magical rhythm, as if trying to crush that painfully hard thing completely through the thin stocking and school robe.
She felt the scorching heat and bouncing coming from the sole. That strong object, sized like an adult male's, became increasingly swollen under the friction of her foot.
She could even hear the subtle swish sound between the stocking and fabric every time her sole exerted force, like unhurried drumbeats knocking on the boy's nerves.
"I really didn't expect!"
Professor McGonagall suddenly spoke. Her voice carried a trace of indescribable mockery, yet seemingly flat with insight into everything, forming an extreme contrast with the movements under her feet. "After you got the license for the Crystal Golem Workshop from the Ministry of Magic, you actually went to sell magic sex toys?"
Her toes hooked lightly onto Jerry's high-erect tip, twirling playfully.
Jerry's breathing stagnated abruptly, the flush on his face deepening a few shades.
He couldn't break free, his whole person confined to the chair, legs trembling violently due to extreme humiliation and pleasure.
But Jerry soon recovered a few points of his usual rogue air, though his eyes were still shrouded by desire. That contradictory feeling of wanting to resist yet unable to resist made him appear exceptionally tempting.
Jerry's hand reached out at some point, carrying a trace of coolness, actually boldly grabbing Professor McGonagall's ankle clad in black stocking. Fingertips touching the warm skin and fine stocking, he felt a terrifying electric current run up his arm.
"Can't help it, Professor, gotta make a living!" Jerry grinned, a bit bad, a bit unscrupulous.
Jerry's peripheral vision swept over Professor McGonagall's tense yet seductive face. Every pressure from her foot made him feel an unprecedented stimulation.
Professor McGonagall's brow furrowed imperceptibly.
This little bastard's guts were really getting bigger and bigger.
Her ankle was held by him; that warm palm even burned her ankle through the stocking. This should have been an offense, but at this moment, she just stared coldly at Jerry and didn't pull back.
"You'd better give up this idea."
Professor McGonagall's voice carried a cold and absolute command, the pressure under her foot increasing accordingly. Her heel ground fiercely a circle at the bottom of Jerry's scrotum, eliciting a muffled groan from his throat.
"Although witches are dissolute, they still have shame, especially some families with face and status."
"Haha!" Jerry laughed disapprovingly. His face wore a trace of evil, but the force in his hand tightened unconsciously around Professor McGonagall's ankle.
Jerry spread his legs wide, letting that big gun played by Professor McGonagall's sole stand high under the school robe, even sticking up more exaggeratedly.
At this moment, Jerry completely put down that disguised innocence, leaving only a demon cub tempting the beast tamer.
"Professor, want to make a bet with me?
Bet on how many witches will attend the Parent-Teacher Conference secretly, carrying small toys specially designed by me, hiding under spell cover?"
Professor McGonagall's eyes sharpened instantly, like an enraged female leopard.
She yanked her ankle back from Jerry's grip abruptly, movement merciless, but her sole still stomped deathly tight on his amazingly erect meat root, even subconsciously increasing the grinding.
That huge pressure from the sole, along with the violent friction between stocking and fabric, made Jerry's body tremble violently. His eyes closed tight, muscles all over twitching, a broken moan spilling from his mouth, mixed with an unsuppressable wet, sticky water sound.
"I can't be bothered to make such a boring bet with you!"
Professor McGonagall's voice regained majesty. Although her stocking sole rubbed against the meat root in Jerry's crotch increasingly fiercely—that disturbing wetness even transmitted to her sole through clothes—her face maintained an inviolable coldness. She looked down at Jerry, eyes becoming serious and righteous: "Jerry, according to the news I got, Katherine and Ophelia seem to have encountered difficulties, but there is no life danger for now, you don't need to worry too much."
Hearing the names "Katherine" and "Ophelia," the playful smile on Jerry's face finally faded, replaced by a trace of solemnity.
His brows furrowed tightly, body twitching subsiding slightly, seeming partially distracted by this news.
Jerry's heart tightened, just about to say something.
However, Professor McGonagall suddenly increased the force under her foot. Her heel ground ruthlessly on Jerry's meat root, already swollen to purple, in a punitive posture. That arch wrapped in stocking seemed to want to break him from the middle, making the already unusually sensitive boy's lower body emit slap slap slapping sounds, accompanied by an unsuppressable stream of water completely soaking his school robe.
"Don't think about doing anything."
Professor McGonagall's voice was cold without a trace of emotion. Her gaze seemed to penetrate Jerry's soul, staring dead at his eyes. "The N.E.W.T.s are very sacred.
No one can cheat in it. Otherwise, once discovered, you may not care, but Katherine, Ophelia, and even the witches participating in the N.E.W.T. assessment in the same batch will encounter a trust crisis.
At that time, you are not helping them, but harming them!"
Jerry was stomped until his forehead sweated. His body arched upward uncontrollably into an exaggerated curve, arms gripping the armrests of the chair tightly, knuckles turning white due to excessive force.
Enduring the severe pain and limit-approaching pleasure coming from his lower body, Jerry nodded slowly, indicating he listened.
Jerry knew Professor McGonagall was warning him not to try to use some "unconventional" means to affect the exam results, thereby indirectly helping Katherine and Ophelia.
"Humph!" Seeing him finally restrain a bit, Professor McGonagall slightly reduced the force under her foot but still didn't move it away.
That soft sole with stocking still stepped deathly tight on his huge meat root; she could even feel its every beat through the clothes. "What, you came specifically to ask me about the movements of your... little lovers today?
I thought you came to cause trouble for me."
"Of course not, Professor."
Jerry endured the gradually subsiding numbness and burning from his lower body, trying hard to calm his breathing. He raised eyes somewhat blurry from the impact of desire and pain, revealing a slightly weak yet sly smile to Professor McGonagall.
He struggled to fish out a Recording Stone from his inner pocket, the surface warm, emitting weak magical light.
"I have something else, something more interesting, to show you."
"The leading actors, are you guys!"