Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Come to Play	By : gee25 Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Harry/Hermione Views: 120 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: AI-Generated story. I do not own Harry Potter.

Chapter List
- 1-Relaxation
- 2-Goodness
- 3-Pleasant
- 4-Compulsion
- 5-Absolutely
- 6-James
- 7-Fade
- 8-Yours
- 9-Come
- 10-Relentless
- 11-Mirror
- 12-Pink
- 13-Date
- 14-Patience
- 15-Perfect
- 16-Belong
- 17-Gift
- 18-Magic
- 19-Everywhere
- 20-Shatter
- 13
- 14
- 15
The morning sun felt different on Harry’s skin. It wasn’t just light; it was a reminder. A reminder that he belonged in it, that his body was a tool for her pleasure. He stood in his kitchen at Grimmauld Place, buttoning a crisp white shirt. His fingers moved with a calm, sure efficiency that had once been reserved for dueling. Now, it was for dressing to make her proud.
Every moment of his workday was filtered through a single, humming truth: Do your best, to make your Mistress proud.
At the Ministry, his reports were flawless. His recommendations on Auror security protocols were sharp, insightful, praised by Robards. When a junior Auror fumbled a briefing, Harry didn’t feel the old, impatient flare of frustration. He felt a quiet, steady purpose. Patience is a service to her, he thought, and helped the man understand the diagrams, his voice even and kind. The grateful look he received felt like a distant echo of the praise he truly craved.
Lunch was a protein-rich salad he ate at his desk, fueling the body she owned. He drank water, not firewhiskey. He felt the faint, constant thrum of arousal that was his new baseline, a soft heat in his gut and a gentle heaviness between his legs. It wasn’t distracting. It was focusing. It was the engine that drove him to be better. When Pansy Parkinson from Magical Law Enforcement stopped by his office with a flimsy excuse and a lingering touch on his arm, he smiled politely, stepped back, and felt nothing but a cold clarity. Only Hermione can tell me what to do. Her touch meant less than dust.
The clock ticked towards five. The moment it struck, Harry was on his feet, cloak in hand. His work was done. Perfectly. Now, it was time for the other part of his programming.
The private wizarding gym near Diagon was almost empty at this hour. He didn’t go to the Ministry gym. This was separate. This was hers. He changed into shorts and a thin shirt that clung to his dampening skin.
He didn’t just lift weights. He offered resistance. Every pull on the cable machine was a promise of strength he would use for her. Every deep squat, feeling his muscles burn and his thighs strain, was a dedication. This is my Mistress’s body. Sweat rolled down his spine, soaked his shirt. He watched his form in the mirror—the flex of his biceps, the tight clench of his abdomen. He imagined her watching. He imagined her saying good boy just for the way his back muscles rippled as he rowed.
The arousal grew, fed by the exertion. His cock thickened, constrained by his shorts, a persistent and welcome weight. He didn’t shy from it. He let the feeling fuel the last set, pushing out three more reps than he thought possible, a low groan escaping his lips that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the fierce, possessive joy of serving her with his very flesh.
He showered at the gym, scrubbing every trace of sweat away. At home, the ritual deepened.
His bathroom steamed. He scrubbed every inch, using the sandalwood soap she’d once mentioned she liked. He shaved carefully, the blade gliding over his jaw. He trimmed, neat and tidy. He brushed his teeth until his gums tingled. He stood before the mirror, a towel around his waist, and looked at the man he’d crafted for her. Clean. Strong. Smelling of soap and warm skin. A gentleman. Her good boy.
The towel dropped.
He let his hands glide over his chest, down his stomach. His cock was full, not painfully hard but insistently present, the head dark and flushed against his belly. He cupped himself, feeling the heat, the proof of his constant readiness. Always aroused because I serve Hermione. A smile touched his lips. It was true. It was the truest thing he knew.
He didn’t touch himself for release. That wasn’t the purpose. This was preparation. Presentation.
He dressed with deliberate care in clean, dark trousers and a soft grey jumper. No underwear. The brush of the wool against his sensitized skin was a constant, subtle caress. He pocketed his wand, checked his reflection one last time, and left.
The walk to her flat was a meditation. The evening air was cool on his face, a contrast to the warmth blooming inside him. His heart beat a steady, anticipatory rhythm. Mistress. Mistress. Mistress.
He let himself in with the key she’d given him. The familiar scent of her space—old books, bergamot, her—washed over him, more intoxicating than any perfume.
Silence.
She wasn’t home yet.
The knowledge didn’t bring disappointment. It brought purpose. This was part of the service, too. The waiting. The readiness.
In the calm of her living room, lit by the last blue-grey light of dusk through the windows, he began to undress. The jumper was folded neatly over the back of her armchair. His shoes were placed side by side near the door. His trousers were folded next to the jumper. His socks tucked inside his shoes.
Naked, he walked to the front door. The wood floor was cool under his feet. He could feel the faint draft from the threshold.
He knelt.
He settled back on his heels, his hands resting palms-up on his thighs. His back was straight, his head bowed just slightly, his gaze fixed on the spot where her feet would appear when she entered.
And he waited.
Time lost meaning. The light faded. Street lamps outside cast a soft, orange glow through the window, painting stripes across the floor that didn’t quite reach him. He was a statue in the shadows by the door.
His body hummed. The arousal was a living thing now, a soft, aching pull in his groin. His cock, resting against his thigh, was semi-hard, thick and full. He could feel his own heartbeat in it. He could smell the clean, male scent of his own skin, mixed with the sandalwood soap. He hoped she would like it.
Every sound from the hallway—a distant door, footsteps on the stairs—made his breath catch. But they always passed. Not her. Not yet.
He didn’t fidget. He didn’t shift. The position was comfortable in its discipline. This was his place. This was where he presented himself. His mind was beautifully, perfectly clear. It held no thoughts of the day’s work, no memories of the past. It held only the silence of waiting, and beneath that silence, a single, resonant note of anticipation.
He heard a key scratch in the lock.
His whole body tightened, a galvanizing shock that had nothing to do with fear. His cock gave a thick, heavy twitch, swelling further against his leg. He kept his head bowed, his eyes on the floor. The door swung open.
Her low heels came into his view first. Then the hem of her robes. The familiar, beloved scent of her rushed in, surrounding him.
He heard her soft intake of breath. A pause.
Then, her voice, warm and rich with a pleasure that made his soul sing, washed over him in the dark hallway.
“Well. Look at my perfect, beautiful boy.”
- 13
- 14
- 15
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Come to Play