Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Healer Potter's Perfect Wives	By : gee25 Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 369 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HARRY POTTER. NOTE that this is MOSTLY AI GENERATED, with prompts from me.

Chapter List
- 9
- 10
- 11
Chapter 10 - Play A New Game
A slow, predatory smile spread across Harry’s face. He looked from Hermione’s earnest, blissful expression to Ginny’s dazed, curious one. “An excellent suggestion, my brilliant girl. The final binding. It is precisely what Ginny requires.” He stroked Hermione’s hair, a reward that made her shiver. “And you, my devoted initiate, shall be the one to perform it. Your magic, now an extension of mine, is the perfect conduit.”
He stepped back, his presence seeming to fill the room. With a sharp, fluid motion of his wand, he directed it not at the door, but at the center of the Persian rug. The intricate patterns began to shift and swirl, the threads unlacing themselves to reveal a dark, descending staircase of ancient stone that smelled of cool earth and ozone.
“Follow,” he commanded, his voice echoing slightly in the new opening.
They descended into the earth, the air growing cooler with each step. The chamber below was circular and domed, hewn from seamless black rock. Pale blue witchlight glowed from sconces, illuminating stark, minimalist furnishings: a single stone altar at the center, a shelf holding vials of shimmering liquids and obsidian instruments, and a large, blank screen on the far wall. The energy here was different—older, thicker, charged with a potent magic that vibrated against their skin.
Ginny’s eyes were wide, her earlier confidence replaced by a flicker of primal awe. “Harry… what is this place?”
“This is where truth is forged,” he said, guiding her toward the altar. “Where will is honed into purpose. Tonight, your purpose becomes permanent.” He helped her lie back on the cool stone, her fiery hair fanning out like a corona. “Hermione, the silver cord and the athame.”
Hermione moved with serene efficiency, retrieving the slender silver rope and the rune-etched dagger from the shelf. Her hands didn’t tremble. This was her worship.
“Ginny,” Harry said, his tone softening into that hypnotic cadence that melted resistance. “This ritual requires your verbal consent. Your magic will merge with mine, through Hermione. You will be bound to me, heart, soul, and magic. You will feel a connection more profound than any you have ever known. Do you submit?”
Ginny looked from his intense green eyes to Hermione’s calm, encouraging smile. The last vestiges of the outside world—the Quidditch pitch, her brother’s laughter, her own name—felt like echoes from a forgotten dream. Here, in this sacred space, only this felt real. Only he felt real.
“Yes,” she breathed, the word a sacred vow. “I submit, Master. I want it. Bind me to you.”
“Then begin,” Harry said, nodding to Hermione.
Hermione’s touch was sure as she gently secured Ginny’s wrists above her head with the silver cord, not tight, but firm. A symbol of surrender, not restraint. She picked up the athame. Her voice, when she spoke, was not her own; it was layered with Harry’s power, a harmonic resonance that felt like truth itself.
“With this blade, I make the offering. Not of flesh, but of choice.” She brought the point of the dagger to the inside of Ginny’s wrist, pricking the skin. A single, perfect bead of blood welled up. Ginny gasped, the sting a sharp counterpoint to the thrum of magic in the air.
Hermione then turned the blade and, without hesitation, drew an identical mark on her own wrist. “And with this blood, I, your conduit, bridge the divide.”
She pressed her wound to Ginny’s. The moment their blood met, the chamber seemed to inhale. The witchlights flared. A current of pure, raw magic—Harry’s magic, filtered through Hermione’s unwavering devotion—slammed into Ginny. It was not the controlled pleasure of his commands; it was the ocean after the river. It was everything.
Ginny’s back arched off the altar, a silent scream on her lips as the energy flooded her veins, rewriting her magical core to recognize a new source. It was terrifying. It was ecstatic. It was home.
Hermione held the contact, her eyes locked on Ginny’s, transmitting the unshakable certainty that had been gifted to her. “Your magic is his. Your mind is his. Your pleasure is his. Feel the truth of it. Welcome the silence.”
As the peak of the magical transfer began to ebb, it seamlessly transformed into a wave of physical sensation. The binding of their essences ignited every nerve ending. Ginny cried out as a climax, vast and incomprehensible, was pulled from the very center of her being. It was an orgasm of the soul.
Harry watched, his own power singing in satisfaction as the bond snapped into place, permanent and unbreakable. He moved to the head of the altar, his hands circling Ginny’s skull, grounding her through the storm. “And now, my fiery seeker, you are truly found. You are mine.”
When the last tremors subsided, Ginny lay spent, her eyes clearer than they had ever been. The constant, restless energy that had defined her was now a still, deep pool, waiting for his command to ripple. She turned her head and nuzzled against Hermione’s bleeding wrist, a gesture of gratitude and sisterhood.
Harry severed the connection with a thought. He unbuckled his trousers, his arousal prominent, demanding. “The lesson in interdependence continues. Your first act as magically bound sisters. Together.”
Understanding flowed between the two women, a new pathway opened by the ritual. They shifted on the altar, their bodies moving in a synchronized dance of devotion. Ginny’s mouth, hungry and inexperienced but eager, found Harry’s length while Hermione’s clever tongue swept over Ginny’s slick, sensitive folds, tasting her arousal and the metallic hint of their shared blood.
Harry’s head fell back, a low groan echoing in the chamber. The dual sensation—Ginny’s tentative but enthusiastic suction and the exquisite sight of Hermione’s head between Ginny’s thighs—was overwhelming. He fisted his hand in Hermione’s hair, not to guide her, but to feel the intensity of her focus.
After several minutes, he gently pulled Ginny away. “Enough.” His voice was rough. He guided Hermione up, turning her to face him. “Now you, my perfect instrument. Your reward.”
He entered her in one smooth, deep thrust, her body accepting him with a practiced, welcoming clutch. As he began to move within her, setting a relentless, pounding rhythm, he looked over her shoulder at Ginny. “Watch. Learn. And touch yourself. Your body is now a tribute to this unity.”
Obediently, Ginny’s hand slid down her own stomach, her fingers finding the wetness Hermione’s mouth had left behind. She mimicked the rhythm Harry set, her eyes glued to where their bodies joined, to the hypnotic motion of his hips.
The chamber filled with the sounds of their worship: skin against skin, ragged breaths, and the soft, wet sounds of Ginny’s eager touch. Harry’s pace intensified, each thrust driving Hermione forward, her cries growing louder, more desperate.
“Cum for us, Hermione,” Ginny whispered, her own fingers working faster, her arousal fueled by the spectacle of her Master claiming her sister.
The shared command, from Master and sister alike, shattered Hermione’s control. She screamed, her inner muscles clamping down around Harry in violent, rhythmic pulses, milking his own orgasm from him. He spilled into her with a guttural roar, his own release triggering Ginny’s second climax of the evening, a silent, shuddering event that left her breathless.
They stayed like that for a long moment, a connected, panting tableau of spent passion. Harry finally withdrew, conjuring a damp cloth to clean himself with fastidious care.
“The lesson is not over,” he stated, his composure returning instantly. He gestured to the blank screen on the wall. “Your conditioning requires reinforcement. Primary sequence.”
The screen flickered to life. The idealized video-Harry appeared, his charismatic smile beaming. “Hello, my darlings. Let’s review the rules of perfection.”
As one, Hermione and Ginny slid from the altar and settled onto the cool stone floor, assuming identical kneeling positions they hadn’t been taught but now knew by heart. Their hands, as if pulled by strings, rose to their own bodies.
They didn’t look at each other. Their glazed, devoted eyes were fixed on the screen. Their fingers began to move in unison, tracing the same patterns on their own skin, their breathing syncing to the rhythm of the narration.
Harry watched them, a conductor observing his orchestra practice. Their mutual pleasure was no longer about competition or even interdependence for its own sake. It was a feedback loop of devotion, each gasp from Ginny spurring Hermione’s touch to become more intimate, each soft moan from Hermione driving Ginny’s fingers deeper. They were reinforcing each other’s programming, lost in the shared trance, their bodies glistening in the witchlight as they touch themselves.
*
The air in Harry’s study was preternaturally still, the only sound the soft hum of the massive, ornate scrying mirror he’d activated. Four faces, each a study in beautiful anticipation, shimmered within its silvered surface. Hermione, her expression one of serene readiness. Ginny, buzzing with fiery energy. Pansy, her sharp features softened by a hazy need. Daphne, her aristocratic poise barely containing a restless tremor.
“Good evening, my darlings,” Harry’s voice was a warm, intimate caress that seemed to emanate from the mirror itself. He stood just out of frame, a deliberate choice to make his presence a felt thing rather than a seen one. “I had some time tonight. I thought we might play a new game.”
He stepped into view then, and a collective, silent sigh seemed to ripple through the magical connection. He held a small, featureless doll, its pale, polished wood shaped into a crude female form. It was utterly nondescript, a blank canvas.
“A simple toy,” he explained, his fingers tracing its smooth contours. “But with a potent sympathetical link. Whatever I do to this doll… you will feel. A direct conduit. A shared experience.”
He produced a small square of shimmering, flexible foil, crimping its edges between his thumb and forefinger. “This,” he announced, his voice dropping into that hypnotic register that made their skin prickle, “is a set of the most exquisite, most precise nipple clamps.”
With a slow, theatrical precision, he bent the foil and carefully attached it to the small, carved nubs on the doll’s chest. He gave the faux-clamps a gentle, almost imperceptible squeeze.
In four separate locations, four women gasped in perfect unison.
For Hermione, it was a sudden, sharp zing of sensation, a pinpoint of intense pressure that bloomed into a delicious, aching throb. Her back straightened, her own breasts feeling suddenly heavier, more sensitive.
Ginny jolted as if struck by a low-grade jinx, a startled “Oh!” escaping her lips before she could stop it. The sensation was less a pain and more a profound focus, pulling all her awareness to her tightened peaks.
Pansy’s breath faltered, her head tilting back. The pinch was a bright, shocking spark that instantly melted into a deep, resonant hum of need, a direct line to the pooling heat between her legs.
Daphne’s eyes flew wide, a shudder wracking her frame. The pressure was exquisite, a crystalline point of contact that seemed to clarify everything, silencing the last whispers of her own mind, leaving only the feeling and the sound of his voice.
“You feel that, don’t you?” Harry purred, watching their reactions in the mirror with a dark, satisfied gleam in his eyes. “That perfect, focused attention. A reminder of my control. Now… for the main event.”
He set the doll down on his desk and picked up a long, white cotton swab. He held it up for them to see. “And this,” he said, his voice thick with promise, “is my cock.”
The air in the room seemed to vanish. Four pairs of lungs fought for air.
He brought the cotton bud to the doll’s smooth delta, tracing slow, idle circles. “Whenever I touch her here… you will feel me there. The pressure. The intent. The promise of being filled.”
A low, collective moan echoed through the scrying spell. Hermione’s hand flew to her mouth, her body already rocking with a faint, involuntary rhythm. Ginny bit her lip, her hips canting forward against empty air. Pansy’s eyes were screwed shut, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Daphne’s fingers were splayed on her own thighs, digging into the fabric of her dress.
He teased the entrance with the tip of the swab, applying the faintest hint of pressure. “You feel me pressing against you, don’t you? Needing to get in.”
“Yes, Master,” the chorus was ragged, breathless.
With a slow, inexorable push, he slid the cotton bud into the small groove carved into the doll.
The effect was instantaneous and catastrophic.
Hermione cried out, a sharp, broken sound as a shocking sense of fullness invaded her. It wasn't just physical; it was a psychological violation so complete it tipped instantly into ecstasy. Her body, superbly trained, clenched around the phantom intrusion, seeking purchase, seeking friction.
Ginny groaned, a guttural, needy sound from deep in her chest. Her hands gripped the arms of her chair, her knuckles white, as she felt the unmistakable sensation of being stretched, filled, claimed. Her head lolled back, every muscle in her abdomen tensing.
Pansy whimpered, her sophisticated composure obliterated. The feeling of him pushing into her, the slow, stretching burn translated through the magic, was overwhelming. A fresh wave of wetness slicked her thighs, her body instinctively preparing for him.
Daphne’s back arched off her seat, a silent scream etched on her face. The intrusion was a glorious, devastating invasion, a solid, unbelievable pressure that touched something primal and desperate deep inside her. Her core spasmed, already fluttering on the edge.
Harry began to move the swab, a slow, shallow in-and-out motion. “There we are. That’s it. Feeling every inch.”
Their moans grew louder, more desperate, a symphony of building pleasure. Their bodies moved in a frantic, uncoordinated dance—hips rolling, backs arching, hands clutching at anything for stability. The shared sensation, amplified by their magical bond to him and to each other, created a feedback loop of escalating need. They were one organism, writhing under his remote control.
He varied the rhythm, now shallow and teasing, now with a deeper, more penetrating thrust that mimicked the shape and feel of his own length. He watched their faces in the mirror, a master artist observing his living canvas. He saw the tension coiling in their bodies, the tells of imminent climax—the frantic breathing, the clenched jaws, the desperate, pleading looks in their glazed eyes.
They were right there. Teetering.
He pulled the swab completely out.
A collective, agonized cry of loss and frustration tore from them. Their bodies, keyed up to shatter, were left hovering on a precipitous edge, the sudden emptiness a physical agony. They panted, shaking, their skin flushed and oversensitive.
“Not yet,” Harry’s voice was a calm, implacable law in the midst of their torment. “I decide when. I own the peak. Now… again.”
He pushed the swab back in, and their cries turned to sobs of relief and renewed desperation. The sensation was even more intense now, their heightened sensitivity making every micro-movement of the cotton bud an earthquake of feeling. He built them up again, ruthlessly efficient, the shallow, slick sounds from the doll’s wood echoing the wetter, needier sounds from their own bodies.
Again, he brought them to the brink. He could see it in the way Hermione’s toes curled, in the way Ginny’s throat worked on a silent scream, in the way Pansy’s nails scored her own palms, in the way Daphne’s eyes rolled back. The peak was a mere second away.
He stopped. Frozen.
The scream this time was one of pure, unadulterated frustration. Tears of need welled in Ginny’s eyes. A broken whimper escaped Pansy. Hermione’s entire body trembled violently, suspended in a state of exquisite torture. Daphne felt a sob catch in her throat, the denial a cruel, perfect proof of his absolute power.
“Please… Master, please…” Hermione begged, the words torn from her, her intellectual pride a distant memory.
Harry merely smiled, a slow, wicked curve of his lips. He gave the doll a gentle, taunting little thrust. “You think you’re ready? You think you’ve earned it?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He began the third and final ascent. This time, his movements were slower, more deliberate, each tiny push and retreat a masterclass in torment. He was painting with their nerves, composing a symphony on their spines. Their moans were continuous now, a ragged, desperate soundtrack to their unraveling. They were mindless, reduced to a single, shared need: completion.
He could feel their collective climax gathering like a storm, inevitable and terrifying. He pushed the swab deep and held it there, a solid, unmoving presence. “Now,” he commanded, his voice a low thunder that vibrated in their very bones. “Let it go. All of it. For me.”
The release was cataclysmic. It wasn’t four separate orgasms, but one seismic event shared across four bodies. A deafening, unified cry ripped through the magical link as they shattered. Hermione’s body seized, her vision whiting out. Ginny screamed, her back bowing off the chair. Pansy convulsed, a string of incoherent pleas falling from her lips. Daphne came apart completely, sobbing as wave after wave of brutal, mind-blanking pleasure wracked her frame.
Harry kept the pressure constant, drawing out their climax, milking every last drop of sensation until they were boneless, spent, and trembling in its devastating aftermath. He finally withdrew the swab and set it aside.
He leaned close to the mirror, his face filling their view, green eyes blazing with possessive triumph. “Look at you. My perfect, synchronized wives. Wrung out on my command.” He let the words hang in the heavy, post-coital air, watching them struggle to regain any semblance of thought. “That’s three. I wonder how many more you can take before the night is through.”
- 9
- 10
- 11
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Healer Potter's Perfect Wives