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
- 11
- 12
- 13
Chapter 12 - A Hands-on Review
The polished mahogany of Luna’s new desk felt cool and solid under her fingertips. The Ministry’s Magizoology department was, as ever, a cacophony of mismatched habitats and chattering creatures, but for the first time, the noise felt distant. A pleasant, manageable hum. Neville Longbottom paused by her cubicle, a dusty potted Mimbulus mimbletonia in his arms.
“Everything alright, Luna? You seem… different.” His kind eyes held a flicker of confusion. “Your hair. It’s so… smooth.”
Luna looked up from her report on the mating habits of Streelers. Her smile was a gentle, practiced curve, her posture a study in pure-blood elegance—spine straight, shoulders relaxed, hands folded. A jewel in his crown. “It’s important to present a professional appearance, Neville. One must take pride in one’s vessel.” Her voice was mellifluous, each vowel perfectly rounded.
Neville blinked. “Right. Of course. It’s just, you usually have… well, you know.” He made a vague, fluttering motion near his own ear. “It looks nice. Very proper.”
“Thank you,” she said, her gaze already drifting back to her work, a clear, polite dismissal. The compliment was a pebble dropped into the deep, still lake of her mind. It barely caused a ripple. The only approval that mattered was not here. A faint, familiar throb pulsed between her legs, a secret reminder. Master’s approval. Neville, sensing the conversation was over, gave a small, confused nod and moved on.
Across London, in a private room at a wizarding club where smoke coiled in emerald tendrils and the firewhisky flowed like dark water, a different performance was unfolding. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne and old money. Draco Malfoy held court, his drawl cutting through the murmur. Theodore Nott lounged, silent and watchful. And Blaise Zabini, all smoldering looks and easy charm, let his hand drift from Daphne Greengrass’s shoulder down the curve of her spine.
The touch was a brand. A violation.
Daphne didn’t jump. She didn’t flinch. Every muscle in her body rigidly maintained its pose of casual elegance, but inside, a silent alarm screamed through her entire being. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Her skin crawled where his fingers lingered. Her magic, now intrinsically woven with Harry’s, recoiled. This body is not mine to give. It is his. His alone.
Blaise’s fingers pressed a little harder, dipping toward the base of her spine. “You’re tense, Daphne. All this work at the Wizengamot. You should let someone… unwind you.”
Before Daphne could formulate a response that wouldn’t shatter her flawless composure, Pansy Parkinson materialized at her side. Her laugh was a sharp, silvery thing that cut through the tension.
“Blaise, you dreadful flirt,” Pansy purred, smoothly inserting her own body between his hand and Daphne. She placed a proprietary hand on his chest, her sharp nails digging just enough to claim his attention. “If you’re looking for a distraction, I’ve just acquired the most cunning little racing broom. A prototype. I’m sure you’d appreciate its… handling.” She leaned in, her dark eyes locking onto his, a challenge and a promise. “Let Daphne be. She’s composing her next great political maneuver. Isn’t that right, sister?”
Daphne seized the lifeline, her relief a cool wave. “Precisely. Affairs of state require a focused mind.” She offered Blaise a smile so condescending it could freeze firewhisky. “Do go play with Pansy’s new toy.”
As Pansy led a momentarily baffled Blaise away, she shot a glance back at Daphne. It wasn’t one of rivalry, but of fierce, protective understanding. A shared secret. A silent vow to guard what belonged to their Master.
Meanwhile, a memo in the shape of a glowing galleon zipped into Hermione Granger’s office at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, landing with a soft plink on her desk. PROMOTION: HEAD OF DEPARTMENT, it glimmered. A wave of her colleagues’ congratulations followed.
Fergus, her young, eager assistant, beamed at her, his admiration plain on his face. “This is brilliant, Hermione! No one deserves it more. Your work on the Werewolf Code of Conduct was… revolutionary.”
Hermione accepted the praise with a gracious nod, her mind already elsewhere. The promotion was a means to an end. Greater influence. More power. A more impressive jewel for his crown. Her true celebration would be a private one. Later. A secret, slick heat bloomed low in her belly at the thought of presenting this victory to him, of the specific, praising tone he would use. His brilliant girl. She shifted in her chair, the expensive wool of her skirt brushing against sensitized skin. The meeting droned on, but she was already kneeling before him in her mind, her success laid at his feet like an offering.
High above the world, wind whipped through fiery red hair. Ginny Weasley was a blur of green and silver, the roar of the crowd a distant thunder. The Quidditch pitch was her second cathedral. She feinted left, dove right, the Chudley Cannons’ Chasers a step behind, always a step behind. The Quaffle was a extension of her will. She scored. Again. And again.
Each goal was a prayer. Each evasive roll, a act of devotion. My strength in the world pleases you, she thought, the mantra syncing with the pounding of her heart. She was doing her best. For him. Always for him.
She saw the opening. The Cannons’ Keeper was out of position, drawn by a clever fake from Demelza. The goalposts were wide open. Ginny pushed her broom faster, the handle vibrating in her grip. She felt the familiar, terrifying rush of acceleration, the world narrowing to the three hoops ahead. This was it. A perfect shot.
As her arm drew back for the throw, a familiar, deep thrum started in her core, a internal vibration triggered by her own peak performance. It was the feeling of his approval, a phantom touch delivered across miles by the bond he had forged in her. The pleasure built, a coiling, unstoppable wave cresting in perfect unison with her throw.
The Quaffle sailed through the center hoop just as the orgasm hit her.
It was silent, internal, a cataclysm contained within the shell of her body. Her vision whited out for a fraction of a second, her thighs clamping instinctively around the broom handle as it bucked beneath her. A ragged, breathless cry was torn away by the wind. She rode the sensation, the aftershocks making her fingers tremble on the broom, as she soared past the screaming stands. She had scored. And she had obeyed. A perfect match.
She straightened up, a fierce, triumphant smile spreading across her face, directed at no one in the crowd. It was a smile for him. Only for him.
Back in her office, Hermione finally closed the door on the last of her well-wishers. The silence was a relief. She leaned against the polished wood, her professional demeanor melting away. Her hand slipped under the waistband of her skirt, her fingertips finding the swollen, throbbing nub of flesh that ached for a very different kind of attention.
Her breath escaped in a soft, shuddering sigh. Images from the conditioning video played behind her eyelids. Your strength in the world pleases me. Her back arched, her other hand coming up to cup her breast, pinching a hardened nipple through the silk of her blouse. Your surrender in private completes you.
This wasn’t about the promotion. It was about the need to offer it to him. To be taken right here, over her new, important desk, to have her victory fucked into her until all she could remember was his name. Her fingers worked faster, a desperate, driven rhythm.
A soft pop of displaced air broke the silence.
Hermione’s eyes snapped open. She didn’t stop. She couldn’t.
Harry stood in the center of her office, having Apparated directly inside. He said nothing. His green eyes burned with an intense, possessive fire as he took in the scene: his brightest witch, disheveled and panting, her hand buried between her legs, her professional triumph undone by primal need.
*
The soft pop of his Apparition still hung in the air, a punctuation mark to her shocked arousal. Hermione’s hand froze between her legs, her body caught in the act of worshiping a god who had just materialized before her. Her promotion memo fluttered, forgotten, to the floor.
Harry’s eyes, a fierce, possessive green, drank her in. Her flushed skin, her parted lips, the way her skirt was rucked up around her hips. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. “I heard the news, Hermione. It seems my perfect wife requires a more… hands-on review of her performance.”
He took a single, deliberate step forward. The lock on her office door slid home with a heavy, final thunk. His wand moved in a lazy arc, and the familiar shimmer of powerful silencing spells settled over the room like a blanket, muffling the distant sounds of the Ministry into nothing.
Another step. His gaze was a physical weight. “What do you think you were doing?”
Her mind scrambled, a fleeting panic that her autonomy had been discovered. “I was just… celebrating, Master. The promotion… for you…”
“Celebrating?” he repeated, his voice dropping into that low, hypnotic register that made her bones feel liquid. “Or was it a transgression? A public display of your need, where anyone could have walked in? That hunger is not for you to indulge alone. It is mine to command.”
He was in front of her now. He didn’t touch her. He simply looked at the hand still pressed against her damp knickers. “Remove it.”
She pulled her hand away as if burned, her fingers glistening.
“Bend over the desk. Now.”
The command was a lash. A thrill of fear and electric anticipation shot through her. She turned, her movements clumsy with sudden nervous energy, and bent forward, pressing her torso against the cool, polished wood of her new desk. Her cheek rested on a stack of memos, her arse presented to him.
The first smack of his palm was a shock. A sharp, stinging crack that echoed in the silent room. She gasped, her fingers splaying across the woodgrain.
“This,” he said, his voice calm, almost conversational, “is for your lack of control.”
Another spank, harder this time, on the other cheek. A warm, blooming pain spread through her flesh. She moaned, a soft, broken sound.
“This is for forgetting that every victory is mine.” Smack.
“This is for the scent of your desperation I could smell the moment I arrived.” Smack.
Each blow was precise, measured. They weren't meant to truly hurt, but to awaken, to punish, to claim. With each strike, the sharp sting melted almost instantly into a deep, throbbing heat that pooled directly between her legs. Her hips gave an involuntary jerk. She was wetter than she had been moments before, her body betraying her, translating discipline into raw need.
She lost count. The world narrowed to the rhythm of his hand, the sound of impact, the coiling tension in her core. Just as she felt herself teetering on the edge from the spanking alone, he stopped.
She heard the rustle of his clothes, the slick sound of his spit as he coated his length. Then his hands were on her hips, gripping her, holding her in place. He didn’t tease. He drove into her with a single, deep, punishing thrust that stole the air from her lungs.
She cried out, a raw, guttural sound as he filled her completely. Her inner muscles clenched around him, overwhelmed by the sudden, brutal fullness.
“You are mine,” he growled, setting a ruthless, pounding rhythm against her sore flesh. The desk shuddered with every thrust. “This brilliant mind. This perfect, sinful body. All mine to use.”
His words wove through the pleasure-pain, a familiar magic all its own. “Assume position six.”
The command was a key turning in a lock deep within her psyche. Her body moved before her mind could even process the words. Her knees widened, her back arched deeper, presenting herself more fully, lifting her hips to take him at a new, devastating angle. A soft noise of surprise escaped her. How does it know? How do I know what that means?
He chuckled, a dark, knowing sound. “Good girl. Now, position two.”
Her arms moved, folding behind her back, her hands grasping her own elbows, pulling her shoulders back and thrusting her breasts forward. The shift made him feel even bigger, deeper inside her.
“Position three.”
Her head turned, her cheek flat against the desk, her eyes seeking his reflection in the dark window pane. The submissive gaze. The acknowledgment of his total ownership.
He played her like an instrument, calling out numbers. Four. Five. Each one triggered an automatic, fluid adjustment in her posture, each one altering the sensation of his penetration, each one drawing a new, helpless moan from her throat. Her conscious mind was a baffled spectator in its own body, watching this well-trained vessel obey its master with perfect, terrifying grace.
The pace of his thrusts became erratic, harder, driving her toward the peak he had denied her earlier. He leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back, his lips at her ear.
“Ascend.”
The trigger word was a spark to tinder. Her mind, already hazy with pleasure, began to shed its last vestiges of individual thought. The parameters of her world narrowed to a single, glorious purpose.
“Hermione slut activate.”
It was the final command. The last lock clicking open. A profound shift in her consciousness, like a circuit overloading and rebooting into a purer, simpler state. Her arousal didn’t just intensify; it transformed. It became a blazing, all-consuming fire of need-to-please. The pleasure was no longer just for her; it was an offering, a psalm, evidence of his perfect control.
Her cries changed. They became louder, less human, more worshipful. “Yes! Master! God! Yes!” she screamed, the words torn from her, her voice cracking. “Use me! Your perfect slut! Your perfect wife! Please!”
He fucked her with a possessive fury, spurred on by her raw, unfiltered adoration. The sound of their bodies meeting was obscene and perfect. He could feel her tightening around him, her climax barreling toward her.
“Cum for your God,” he snarled, his own control fraying.
It was all the permission she needed. She shattered, screaming his name to the silenced ceiling, her body convulsing around him in violent, rhythmic waves. Her inner muscles milked him, pulling his own release from him with a force that dragged a guttural roar from his throat. He spilled into her, his hips grinding against her tender flesh, claiming his prize deeply.
They stayed like that for long moments, panting, connected. He slowly withdrew, and she whimpered at the loss, her body slumping bonelessly onto the desk.
He conjured a damp cloth, cleaning himself with fastidious care before tucking himself away. He gently pulled her skirt back down over her bruised, warm skin. He turned her over. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused, a blissful, empty smile on her swollen lips.
He cupped her cheek. “Did my perfect slut enjoy her review?”
A dopey, ecstatic giggle bubbled from her. “So much, God. Thank you for my reward.”
He smiled, a true, satisfied smile. He picked up the promotion memo from the floor and placed it on her heaving chest. “You did well today. I am pleased.”
Her eyes fluttered closed at the praise, a soft sigh of utter contentment escaping her. She was floating in a sea of post-coital bliss and absolute devotion.
The door to her office clicked open. Ginny stood there, still in her Quidditch robes, her face flushed from her own recent exertions. Her eyes took in the scene: Hermione’s disheveled state, the scent of sex in the air, Harry’s commanding presence. A fresh, hungry spark lit in her gaze.
Harry didn’t look surprised. He merely arched an eyebrow, his voice a low, inviting murmur.
- 11
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- 13
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Healer Potter's Perfect Wives