Probing the Depths

Readers of the Prophet may be shocked to learn that Wizarding London has a seamy hidden underbelly, where traffic in human flesh is a commonplace, and no desire is too dark to be satisfied . . . for a price. For the first time ever, an intrepid Prophet reporter, at great personal risk and sacrifice, dares to penetrate this secret world and thrust our readers into its dank, steamy interior.

Be warned: the following article is not for the immature or faint of heart. It contains graphic, gritty details of a world heretofore completely concealed from decent Wizarding society.

I stood in the dimly lit parlour of The Wayward Wand, an infamous house of ill repute hidden in a clandestine location in Knockturn Alley. One does not enter this establishment from the street, and journalistic ethics prevent me from disclosing the favours called in, and personal standards compromised, to allow me to gain entry on this occasion.

Expensively appointed in exquisite taste, the foyer was presided over by a distinguished, impeccably turned-out gentleman who summoned the lady of the House and then withdrew silently to his post, the picture of prudence and discretion.

The madam who swept regally into the room was a statuesque blonde who arranged herself at a dainty antique writing desk and took a blank parchment card from a drawer.

“Your name?” she asked unexpectedly. Her voice was low and husky, a whisky-soaked, smoky voice—the voice of someone who has seen, heard, and done it all.

Fortunately, I am well accustomed to thinking quickly on my feet. “Anopheles,” I replied. “Miranda Anopheles.”

She looked approvingly at me over the tops of her elegant reading glasses, clearly never suspecting my clever use of a pseudonym.

“And would you prefer a man, or a woman?” she asked. “Or both?”

Both . . . I toyed briefly with the possibility, which would, after all, have afforded me the most comprehensive and accurate research opportunity. In the end, however, fiscal caution and a knowledge of the limits of my expense account won out.

I was obliged to turn over my wand, and any other magical objects, to the silent butler—a requirement that caused me no small amount of apprehension, since it meant divesting myself of my trusty Quick-Quotes Quill and relying solely on my (admittedly photographic) memory to memorialise my experiences. In the true spirit of investigative journalism, however, I handed them over, and waited for my chosen companion to appear.

And what a companion he turned out to be, readers! Tall and dark, with rippling muscles and glistening, bronzed skin, wearing only a pair of bulging, skimpy cut-off jeans. His name was Lance, and he led me into a secluded room whose only light was provided by softly shimmering candles.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked, gesturing toward a group of crystal decanters.

I declined politely, knowing that journalistic ethics required that I keep a clear head.

“You don’t mind if I do?” he said.

“Certainly, go ahead,” I replied graciously, and he poured himself a generous amount from one of the decanters. I could see that his hands were shaking, and so pretended not to notice when he added a few drops from a small brown bottle. Poor thing, he was nervous. Perhaps this was his first time. Perhaps he had been forced into this degrading life, sold into slavery by depraved parents . . . .

My thoughts were interrupted when he approached me and began to take off my clothes. A tremor of fear went through me, but I resolved to make whatever sacrifice was necessary for the sake of my Art. Journalism was ever a profession fraught with danger, and I was determined to be valiant in the face of this demanding task.

At last I stood revealed before him, my still-youthful breasts standing perkily at attention, my flat stomach and slender thighs luminous in their perfection. He looked me up and down, drew a deep, appreciative breath, and put away the rest of his drink in one long swallow.

Then he removed his shorts, and I saw at last the size of the sacrifice I was about to make for my profession.

Readers, his manly parts, which stood rigidly at attention—inspired no doubt by the flawlessness of my own physique—were absolutely enormous.

I gasped in apprehension, and tumbled backwards onto the bed in disbelief. Astonishment caused my knees to part slightly, and without further ado the sturdy stallion was between them, his mighty member probing for entry between my creamy, yielding thighs.

Remembering my duty to my readers, I wrapped my shapely legs about him and urged him on, crying out in shock as twelve pulsing, throbbing inches of man-meat filled my love cavern. The highest standards of covert investigative journalism had caused me, in unconscious pursuit of verisimilitude, to stream with slick love juices in order to facilitate his entry, and he slid easily into my tunnel of passion, despite its youthful tightness.

Over and over he pounded into me, his pulsating manhood thrusting into my hot, wet grotto of romance. Staying scrupulously in character, I screamed his name and raked his back with my long, perfect red nails, clenching around his proud jackhammer with my powerful interior muscles as surge after surge of passion burst over me like breaking waves pounding the shore of a beautiful, youthful tropic island.

A few seconds later I saw his face contort with ecstasy and felt his hot man-seed spurt into me, and knew I had scaled new heights in my pursuit of journalistic excellence.

Author’s note: The following week, when I attempted to return for a follow-up interview, I was chagrined to find my Patronus unanswered, and the Portkey which had previously allowed me entrance suddenly ineffective. I can only conclude that rigorous investigation by the Fourth Estate (in the person of my fearless self) has driven this illicit business to seek out another, more hidden, location.

A/N: You can see Rita's card on my DA page here:

http://qalachaki.deviantart.com/art/Rita-Skeeter-Wayward-Wand-Card-135094152