All Minerva McGonagall really needed was a drink. No, not just a drink, but whisky. straight. It was only by luck that she saw the lights of an upcoming establishment called Hogs Head Inn through her foggy, rain-covered windshield.
She parked the Blue Honda rental as close to the entrance as she could, grabbed her purse, dashed out of her car and into the rain. It was a downpour, something she’s all too familiar with. But more or less perfect. An inn just above a bar was not such a bad idea. She could just check in if she got drunk… which most likely she would.
The heavily tattooed bouncer that stood at the heavy wooden doors, looked at her ID and stared passively back. He nodded and waved her in. Minerva stepped into the shaded establishment of various planks of wood. A cross between a pirate ship and a hunter’s cabin. The muted colours of bottles and the sharp smell of drinks wafted towards her. She never paid attention to couples grinding on each other as she made her way across a small dance floor, Conversations swirl in the dirty clouds of smoke. The crowd is young, mostly from the universities nearby. She wielded herself to the bar.
“Whisky straight,” she said to the barman who wore a top hat atop his unruly mop of blonde hair and tanned skin.
“Tough day?” he asked, his eyeliner eyes narrowed, as he poured her the nectar of the Gods into a lowball.
Minerva downed the whole thing in one shot, coughed and took a deep breath.
“Long flight to be exact,” she sighed and waved for him to pour more.
“You may look young but you seemed legal,” he half-joked and poured more into her glass. “I hope you’re not driving afterwards.”
She smirked at that. “Maybe.”
The barman brimmed with worry, and she rolled her eyes. “I plan to check-in if you have any room, I just arrived from the Scottish Highlands. Tonight’s a prelude to greatness since I’m being imported to Harvard Law. So just keep them coming.”
“Ah, an exchange student? or professor?” he asked.
“Yes, and No,” she smiled. “What’s your name? I believe you and I are
going to be very close by the end of the night.”
“Aberforth,” he grinned. “But you can call me Abe, darling.”
“Minerva.” she chuckled. “Minnie, to friends.”
“Well, nice to meet you, Minnie. Drinks are on the house,” he winked and she could not help but laugh.
“If you keep giving away drinks, your business will go bankrupt.”
“You’re the first and only customer I have ever had that’s fought me on free drinks.”
“I’m sure but—”
“No buts,” he replied, cleaning a glass. “Drinks are on the house.”
“Fine. How about the house pays for the first three drinks, and I pay for the rest?”
“How many do you plan on having?” Abe laughed.
She shrugged. “As many as it takes until I pass out?”
“Are you always this honest?”
“Only to the person who’s controlling the booze.”
He laughed, shook his head at her. “Fine, the first three are in the house. And I’ll get you settled with a room upstairs.”
“Thank you, Abe.” and downed another shot of whisky.
Minerva checked in half an hour later. She took her bags upstairs and ordered room service. To her surprise, the room was clean, the bedding was fresh, the bathroom was pristine, and for an Inn above a bar, it’s actually pretty good. After she stripped off her clothes and settled into her sleepshirt, she marched into the bathroom and stared in the mirror.
The woman who looked back, was quite tall at five foot nine, though she had to admit she looked best in her two-inch heels, even if they were a scooch difficult to walk in. Still, Minerva loved her high heels. She loved fashion. It was one of her guilty secret pleasures.
Her long dark hair curled softly over her shoulders, the back did have a bedhead quality from the long hours of travel. She had the requisite green eyes to go with the dark look. She had been thirty last October.
Minerva cupped her breasts through her blue satin sleepshirt. She undid two buttons and squished her breasts together, just the ample amount of cleavage. She thought. she may have had small breasts, but she had good legs. Sure, there were breast men, but there were also leg and butt men, too. Minerva stepped back and pulled her shirt to the small of her back and circled. Okay, not bad. Maybe her butt was a smidge big.
She sighed. dropped her shirt, covered herself, and grabbed the edge of the grey marble counter. All her life, she had thrived for perfection. Graduated with honours, A partner in a prestigious law firm. Watched her diet, worked out endlessly, denied herself all her favourite foods. Like a rack of lamb with baked potato and sour cream. Bread pudding. And two champagne cocktails. She always tried to look perfect for Dougal Mcgregor.
But Dougal Mcgregor went down on a woman whose breasts are three sizes larger than her. In their own home, their shower and probably their bed. She did not know what to feel except wounded and a little murderous. She might have run after him with the nail file and eviscerated him. It would have been oh-so-satisfyingly slow and painful. She had to get away.
The shower image battered her, almost brought her to her knees. she wanted to curl in her bedclothes and cry until the pain went away. But the woman in the mirror blinked at her. “He cheated on you. You gave him your all, and he cheated.”
She denied herself anything that her ex-husband might disapprove of. She was a young successful attorney. She had structured her whole existence around what she thought her ex-husband wanted. She tried to balance her personal and professional life. Gave him all the attention and love that he needed. Had Dougal asked her to go down and nasty? Passionate? She was the poster wife. Prim, proper and successful.
What difference had it made? Dougal had chosen someone completely different.
Suddenly Minerva wanted it all, a rack of lamb and bread pudding with lots of brandy walnut sauce. She wanted passion. She wanted to get her hair mussed and her lipstick smudged. She wanted to get sweaty. She wanted the hot, screaming orgasms she had always denied herself. Even if she had to give one to herself, she deserved it. Right now.
She was not going to deny herself any longer.
Tom Marvolo Riddle juggled his hockey sticks, duffel bag, and laptop, Up the stairs to the fourth floor of the shabby inn. He had an early Monday morning flight from L.A. Rather than drive over straight to his apartment near campus, he had opted to spend the night at the Hogs Head Inn. He had always left his car in their lot during breaks without the hassle of long-term parking.
The doors were set even and odd in small alcoves, and he found his room number halfway down the hall. He dropped his luggage on the carpet, rummaged in his laptop case pocket where he had stashed the card key. For an old shack, the place was pretty much updated with new technology.
Once inside, he tossed his bag and hockey sticks on the bed and carried his Laptop to the small wooden desk. He wanted to check on some emails before he turned in.
He rolled his left shoulder over, the injury that had ended his sports career and caused the distance with his father. Back when hockey took over his days, he had intended to pursue a career in law. He took up pre-law under his hockey scholarship and secretly applied to Harvard. His father however had other ideas. Years of doctor appointments, surgery and hours of therapy later, his left shoulder still aches so strongly it took his breath.
He’d taught himself not to complain. But some days, he felt the pain of both the injury and his father’s rejection more than others, and his old fears would return. The fear of failure. Being labelled smarter than other kids had introduced him to that at a young age. Where other kids did not have to measure up, he had to excel. Their great was his less-than-normal.
His admission to law school became his salvation. His brain could work while he could still enjoy the ice without professional pressure. Eventually, he had figured out how to exercise and managed his pain, but thinking and reading proved far greater medicine.
He wished his father realized that just like his mother did before they had passed. That was his worst failure. He had let him down and could not do anything about it.
After an hour between contemplation and emails, a murmur wafted up from the socket above the old bedside table. He moved closer, then sat down on the edge of the rickety single bed. Without a plugin, the electrical socket was a pass-through from one room to the other. And it was definitely a woman’s voice.
A gentle feminine moan. It seemed the couple next door was about to give him a show without the picture. Ha! Any minute now, Tom expected the wall to start banging. Yet there was only that low, breathy sound of pleasure. It was erotic in a kinky, voyeuristic way.
He could not help himself. What red-blooded twenty-five-year-old male could? Tom laid back, moved closer to the wall socket to listen. Maybe it was because he had not been with a woman in a couple of months, but her voice was like a stroke along his cock.
Tom loved women. He was a no strings attached type of guy, and the girls knew better than to ask. The one sure way to end up on his ‘Do Not Call’ list was to ask. He was the one in charge and he never, ever let them forget it. He had one brief relationship, of which had skirted the edge of kinky, a few toys, a blindfold, scarves for ropes. But he had felt no connection, and neither woman had fulfilled the craving in him.
He laid on the bed, listened to her, his hands stacked beneath his head, he hardened in his jeans. The intensity of her moans rose. He no longer had to strain to hear. The thread of her voice ran through her breath. Yet the wall behind his head still did not shake. Her partner must be going down on her. And she was loving it.
He rubbed his cock through his pants. She had the most seductive moan he had ever heard. Not a wail or screech or even a scream, but a soft, throaty pant that fed blood to his cock. He closed his eyes, her voice filled his head as his fingers worked open the button fly of his jeans, then he delved inside his boxers until he stroked himself to her rhythm. Her voice rose in a crescendo. As she cried out, he felt the throes of her orgasm as if her body milked his erection.
He almost came with her.
The woman’s voice spoke of moonlit nights, curtains blew in a gentle breeze, and the scent of the ocean washed over him. He had to laugh. He looked like a freaking perv, but hell, he would not deny how much he had enjoyed listening. There was something about her voice that called to him. Maybe it was their circumstance, the unexpectedness, the fact she was a total stranger, faceless, just a voice.
Minerva started to moan again. Tom’s cock twitched as if her particular sweet pitch had a direct line to his libido. He was not sure how he could want a voice, but he did. He thought if he were next door, he would have had her screaming. The head of his cock rose out of his boxers, a drop of cum leaked from the tip without even a touch.
“Fuck me, baby,” he whispered.
She moaned louder. Higher. Touch was more desperate.
He wrapped his thumb and forefinger around his head and pumped, just that tight circle, as if he delved with short sharp bursts in her pussy.
On the other side of the wall, Minerva went crazy. She panted, moaned. Tom could almost feel her writhed beneath him on the mattress, and he pretended she was all his, imagined his cock slid in her, her taste on his tongue. And as if she could read his mind through the wall, she cried out with that same musical, breathy quality that made him a little crazy. He wanted that sound, he wanted his name on her lips.
Minerva drove Tom to the edge with her voice, and still, her lover was quiet as a mouse. Damn if he was not glad. He did not think he had enjoyed hearing a man’s grunts and groans anywhere near as much as he listened to her by herself. Her voice enthralled him, made him actually feel she was there for him alone.
It dawned on him, she was alone. The lover in her bed was her own hand. Or her vibrator. Perhaps because he could not see, the wall a solid barrier, her voice, her soft cries, evoked the most erotic images he had ever known.
Gorgeous legs spread, fingers buried, silky hair fanned across her pillow. His cock swelled, and he pumped faster. Fuck, he wanted to do her. Worse, he simply wanted to watch her. A complete stranger. Learning who she was by the way she caressed herself. Her touch taught him what she craved. His head back, he groaned deep in his gut.
And he knew if he did not give in to this once-in-a-lifetime impulse, if he did not beg her to let him watch, he would regret it the rest of his days. Tom swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. He made the move before he could actually contemplate that she might call the cops and get him arrested for being a pervert.
She won’t be the one that got away.