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
- 15
- 16
- 17
Chapter 16 - Bloom
The obsidian card felt cool and endless in Pansy’s palm, a universe of possibilities contained in a sliver of jet. A slow, wicked smile spread across her lips. Daphne, peering over her shoulder, let out a soft, appreciative hum.
“A week,” Pansy breathed, her voice a low purr of anticipation. “Somewhere no one would think to look for the great Harry Potter and his… entourage.”
Daphne’s elegant finger traced a line in the air, conjuring a shimmering, three-dimensional map. “Somewhere with ancient wards. Old magic to muffled our… celebrations.” Her gaze swept the room, landing on the still-prone form of Hermione, who watched them with heavy-lidded, blissful eyes. “And plenty of space for rituals.”
The destination they chose was perfect. A private island in the Ionian Sea, once a retreat for a reclusive sect of oracle priestesses. The air itself hummed with residual magic, a faint, electric buzz that intensified the senses. Their villa was a sprawling cascade of white stone and deep-blue pools that seemed to spill directly into the sea.
The first night was for acclimation, for Harry to walk the ancient ley lines and weave his own potent wards into the old ones. The second night was for the beginning.
The ritual chamber was in a cavern beneath the villa, accessible only through a hidden passage. Torches flickered, casting dancing shadows on walls inscribed with faded, primal runes. The air was cool and carried the scent of salt, stone, and the heady aroma of belladonna and nightshade burning in a brass brazier.
Harry stood at the center, clad only in dark linen trousers, the torchlight casting a golden sheen across his toned chest. The cavern’s air was thick with the smoky fragrance of belladonna and nightshade, mingling with the faint briny tang of the sea. A low, resonant hum emanated from the ancient runes etched into the walls, vibrating through the chamber like a silent chant.
Hermione and Ginny knelt on either side of him, their roles as his senior wives, his priestesses, unmistakable. Hermione wore a skimpy bikini of deep crimson, the fabric clinging to her curves, while Ginny’s emerald green two-piece shimmered in the firelight, accentuating her lithe frame. Their skin glistened faintly, as if kissed by the ocean breeze they’d left behind.
Opposite them, Pansy, Daphne, and Luna knelt in a line, their postures expectant, their eyes glowing with anticipation. Pansy’s black lace bikini exuded a predatory elegance, while Daphne’s sapphire swimsuit clung to her like liquid silk. Luna, ever the enigma, wore a diaphanous, pearlescent piece that seemed to shift colors with the flickering flames. The tension in the room was palpable, crackling like static before a storm, as they awaited Harry’s command.
“The bonds we have are strong,” Harry’s voice echoed in the chamber, layered with a power that seemed to vibrate from the stone itself. “But tonight, we forge them in a fresh fire. We will go beyond devotion. We will achieve unison.”
He nodded to Hermione and Ginny. They rose and moved behind the kneeling trio. Ginny’s hands, strong and sure, came to rest on Pansy’s shoulders, holding her firmly. Hermione’s fingers, gentle and precise, settled on Daphne’s temples.
“You have offered me your minds, your bodies, your loyalty,” Harry continued, his green eyes fixed on the three before him. “Now, you will offer me your surrender. Not as a choice, but as your nature. You will not just obey me. You will be my will.”
He began to speak, his voice dropping into that impossible, resonant frequency that bypassed the ear and spoke directly to the soul. It was a language of pure intent, woven with threads of ancient magic from the island. The runes on the walls began to glow with a soft, phosphorescent light.
Ginny’s grip on Pansy tightened, not to hurt, but to anchor her as Harry’s words washed over her. Pansy’s sharp features softened, her defiant chin lowering, a deep, shuddering sigh escaping her as something inside her clicked into a new, permanent alignment. Yes. This. This is what I was always meant for.
Hermione’s thumbs stroked Daphne’s temples, her own brilliant mind acting as a conduit, amplifying Harry’s signal, focusing it into a laser beam of compulsion. Daphne’s elegant poise didn’t break; it deepened, becoming an utter, flawless stillness. The last vestiges of societal expectation, the final whispers of her pure-blood upbringing, evaporated like mist. Only the core remained: a perfect, waiting vessel for his command.
Luna, who needed no physical anchor, simply looked up at him, her dreamy eyes wide and unblinking. She was not being broken and remade; she was finally being recognized. The strange, wonderful world she had always seen now had its center, its god, and she flowed into her assigned orbit with a serenity that was terrifying in its completeness.
The psychic feedback filled the chamber, a silent roar of submission that made the torch flames bend and sway. Harry’s voice rose to a crescendo, a single, thrumming note of power that seemed to last for an eternity before cutting off abruptly.
The silence that followed was absolute, and utterly transformed.
Pansy, Daphne, and Luna’s heads were bowed, not in prayer, but in possession. Their breaths were synchronized. When they looked up at him, their gazes were identical: deep pools of adoring, placid stillness. The final conditioning was complete. They were his. Not just in mind, but in soul.
“Rise,” Harry commanded softly.
They rose as one, a single entity with five beautiful faces.
The next three days were a blur of sun-drenched hedonism. They were his living art, his beloved pets, his perfect wives. They pleasured him on sun-warmed rocks by the sea, in the shade of olive groves, on silken sheets in rooms open to the stars. The new depth of Pansy, Daphne, and Luna’s submission was a constant, thrilling discovery. They anticipated his desires before he voiced them, their every touch a worshipful act, their pleasure found solely in his.
On the fifth night, a restlessness took hold. The private worship was sublime, but the intoxicating memory of their public performance at the Ministry ball lingered.
“They should see,” Harry murmured, his fingers tracing the line of Hermione’s spine as they lay tangled by the pool. “They should see what true happiness looks like.”
The nearby beach town was a riot of color and sound, a Muggle resort blissfully unaware of the deities in its midst. Harry led his wives through the throng of tourists and revelers. They were a shockwave of beauty and presence. Hermione in a sleek, backless black dress. Ginny in a short, fiery red number that showcased her powerful legs. Pansy and Daphne in matching silver sheaths that clung to their every curve. Luna in a diaphanous gown the color of moonlight, through which her lithe form was tantalizingly visible.
They danced. Not with the townspeople, but for him, around him, a orbiting galaxy of desire. Hips swayed to the pulsing music, backs arched, laughter and whispered promises were sent his way through the crowd. They were a spectacle, a fantasy, and the unaware Muggles simply absorbed the energy, feeling luckier, more alive, not knowing why.
But for his wives, the public display was a tantalizing torture. The brush of strangers, the loud music, the alien eyes—it was all a barrier. Their arousal, stoked to a fever pitch by their dancing, was a live wire with no ground. It was for him, and it demanded his sole attention.
The walk back to the villa was charged with a silent, desperate energy. The moment the heavy villa door closed, sealing them in their private world, the performance melted away.
Harry didn’t need to give a command. They moved as one, a coordinated surge of need. Hands, frantic and sure, pulled at his clothes. Lips found his skin—his neck, his chest, his hands—covering him in a frenzy of worship.
He let them undress him, standing tall as they unveiled their god. Then he guided them down, not to the bedrooms, but back to the sunken living area with its vast rugs and low divans.
“Show me,” he growled, his voice rough with his own unleashed need. “Show me what that dance was for.”
It was not a gentle communion. It was a claiming. Hermione’s mouth was on him, taking his length with a deep, grateful sigh of homecoming. Ginny was there, her tongue laving his stones, her fingers digging into his thighs. Pansy and Daphne attended to his chest, his neck, his mouth, their kisses fierce and possessive. Luna curled herself around his leg, nuzzling, kissing, her ethereal presence a constant, gentle pressure.
He let the sensations wash over him, a symphony of their devotion. His hands were everywhere, gripping hair, stroking cheeks, guiding heads, a conductor of their pleasure. The room filled with the wet, slick sounds of their worship, their muffled moans, his own guttural praises.
“That’s it. Take all of me. Your god is here. Your god provides.”
He didn’t last long. The sight, the feel, the utter totality of their fivefold submission was too potent. With a roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the ancient villa, he spent himself down Hermione’s grateful throat, his release triggering a cascade of their own silent, shuddering peaks against his legs, his hands, his skin.
They stayed like that for long moments, a tangled, panting heap of glistening skin at his feet, connected by touch and breath.
Slowly, Harry extricated himself. He looked down at the beautiful wreckage of his wives. Their eyes were glazed, their smiles soft and utterly sated. The frantic energy from the club was gone, replaced by the deep, thrumming contentment of a completed circuit.
He ran a hand through his hair, a slow, satisfied smile touching his lips as he looked at each of them in turn.
"Now," Harry murmured, his voice a low promise in the quiet room. The word hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning, as his wives lay at his feet, their chests rising and falling in sync with the rhythm of their shared euphoria. The room was steeped in the warm afterglow of their devotion, a tangible energy that seemed to cling to every surface, every breath. His gaze swept over them—Hermione’s lips still parted, Ginny’s fiery hair splayed across the rug, Pansy and Daphne’s entangled limbs, and Luna’s ethereal presence curled like a cat against his leg. Each of them, a masterpiece of surrender, waiting for his next command.
He knelt beside them, his fingers trailing lightly over Hermione’s flushed cheek. "You’ve done so well," he said, his voice softening into something almost tender, though laced with the unmistakable edge of possession. Her eyes fluttered open, meeting his with a depth of adoration that made his chest tighten. Ginny shifted closer, her hand reaching instinctively for his thigh, while Pansy and Daphne exchanged a glance, their silent communication a testament to their shared devotion. Luna, ever the enigma, simply smiled up at him, her expression one of serene contentment.
"Tomorrow," Harry continued, his tone shifting into a deliberate cadence that commanded their full attention, "we return to the world. But tonight…" He paused, letting the anticipation build, watching as their eyes widened slightly, their breaths hitched. "Tonight is ours alone. No distractions. No boundaries. Just us." The words were a declaration, a reaffirmation of the bond they had forged in the depths of ritual and fire. He could see the way they clung to every syllable, their bodies still trembling faintly from the intensity of their worship.
He stood, extending a hand to Hermione, who took it without hesitation, her touch warm and trusting. One by one, he helped them to their feet, their movements fluid and unhurried, as if time itself had bent to his will. They gathered around him, a circle of radiant devotion, their bodies pressing close in a silent acknowledgment of their shared purpose. Harry’s hands moved to Hermione’s waist, guiding her gently into position as the others followed suit, instinctively forming a constellation around him.
"Let me remind you," he whispered, his voice dropping to a low, hypnotic murmur, "who you belong to." His hands traced the curve of Hermione’s hip, feeling the way she shivered under his touch. Ginny leaned in, her lips brushing against his shoulder, while Pansy and Daphne’s hands found their place on his back, their touch possessive and reverent. Luna’s breath ghosted against his neck, her presence a constant reminder of the depth of her devotion. In that moment, there was no question, no doubt—they were his, utterly and completely.
The room seemed to hum with the force of their connection, the air thick with the scent of salt, sweat, and the lingering traces of magic. Harry’s smile widened, a slow, satisfied curve of his lips as he leaned down to capture Hermione’s mouth in a kiss that was both commanding and tender. Around him, the others followed suit, their touches growing bolder, their whispers more urgent. It was a symphony of devotion, a perfect harmony of need and surrender. And as the night stretched on, they lost themselves in it once more, bound together by the unbreakable chains of their love and submission.
*
EPILOGUE
The morning sun streamed through the panoramic windows of the new manor, illuminating the grand chamber that served as their shared sanctuary. The air smelled of polished mahogany, sea salt from the distant cliffs, and the faint, intoxicating scent of their mingled arousal—a permanent perfume in their home. It was a fortress of their own making, financed by their pooled dowries and professional salaries, a physical manifestation of their shared devotion. Every polished stone, every enchanted tapestry, whispered of their surrender.
Harry stood at the head of the room, watching his five wives. They were arranged on the vast, sapphire-hued rug, not in the stiff postures of ritual, but in languid, sun-drenched poses of contented ownership. This was their epilogue, their earned peace.
Hermione was the first to speak, her voice a soft, reverent murmur that carried in the quiet room. “I was reading the financial ledgers this morning, Master. The investments from the clinic and our combined assets… they’ve generated more than enough. The manor is not just paid for. It’s thriving.” She didn’t sound like the brilliant bureaucrat reporting to a superior; she sounded like a high priestess recounting a miracle. “It’s your wealth. We are merely its stewards.”
“It’s our dream,” Ginny corrected gently, stretching her athletic form like a contented cat, her fiery hair a splash of brilliance against the dark rug. “The one we built for you. For our god.” Her freckled skin glowed in the sunlight, and she turned her head to press a kiss against Harry’s bare ankle where he stood near her.
Pansy, sleek and dark-haired, traced a pattern on the rug with a manicured finger. “A dream with excellent taste. The wards on this place are stronger than Gringotts. No one whispers here but us.” Her sharp features softened as she looked up at him, a silent acknowledgment of the safety he provided, the freedom to be utterly, completely his.
Daphne, elegant even in her repose, nodded in agreement. “It is a fitting temple. A testament.” Her gaze, however, was fixed on Harry, not the opulent surroundings. The grandeur was irrelevant; he was the only true splendor that mattered.
Luna simply smiled, her dreamy eyes reflecting the morning light. “The Nargles are very impressed. They say the love here is so bright it creates its own sun.”
Harry moved then, a slow, deliberate orbit around his planets. His hand came to rest on Hermione’s hair, fingers sliding through the curls. “You’ve all given me everything. Your minds. Your wills. Your lives.” His voice was a low thrum, a vibration they felt in their bones. “This…” He gestured around them. “…is my gift in return. A throne for my queens. A haven for my most precious possessions.”
He knelt, his presence drawing them in until they were a tight circle around him, a living constellation of devotion. “But a throne is not enough. A haven is not enough.” He looked at each of them, his green eyes burning with a possessive warmth. “You have given me a silent, secret vow. I wish to hear it shouted from the highest peak. I want to give you a ceremony. A wedding. Not one. Five.”
A collective, sharp intake of breath echoed in the room. Their eyes, all so different, identical in their absolute fixation, widened.
“A… a wedding?” Hermione whispered, the concept so vast, so beautifully mundane and utterly profane at once, it momentarily short-circuited her conditioned serenity. “A public declaration?”
“The only public that matters,” Harry clarified, his thumb stroking her cheek. “Ourselves. We will write the vows. We will design the rites. Each of you will have your own day. Your own ceremony. Your own night of celebration.” His words painted a picture of endless devotion, a cycle of worship that would never cease.
The gratitude that washed over them was a physical force. It was a different flavour of submission, deeper than the frantic need on the island, more profound than the silent obedience of the ritual chamber. This was the quiet, devastating joy of being seen, known, and cherished by the center of their universe.
It manifested instantly as a shift in the atmosphere. The musky scent of their arousal intensified, thickening the sunlit air. Ginny was the first to move, shifting to her knees and pressing her face against the coarse linen of his trousers, her breath hot even through the fabric. Pansy and Daphne shared a glance, a silent agreement passing between them before they leaned forward, their mouths seeking his hands, kissing his palms, his wrists, the pulse that beat there.
Hermione, ever his good girl, asked the practical question, though her voice was already drenched with need. “How… how shall we begin the planning, Master?”
Harry’s smile was wicked. “Later.” The word was a dismissal of all things outside this room, this moment. “First, I want to feel your gratitude. I want to taste it.”
He reclined against a mound of silk cushions, and they descended upon him not as separate women, but as a single entity with a singular purpose. Their hands were a flurry of gentle urgency, divesting him of his simple clothes until he lay naked before them, bathed in sunlight, a living idol.
Hermione took her place at his hip, her mouth tracing the sharp line of his pelvis, her tongue a hot, wet brand of worship. Ginny settled between his legs, her strong Quidditch arms wrapping around his thighs, her mouth enveloping him in a single, smooth, grateful motion that drew a guttural groan from his throat. Pansy and Daphne attended to his chest, his neck, his lips—Pansy’s kisses were sharp and demanding, Daphne’s were slow and reverent. Luna curled around his head, her slender fingers carding through his hair, her lips whispering secrets of love and devotion against his temple.
He was the axis of their world, and they were the planets in ecstatic, orbiting perfection. Their mouths and hands worshipped every inch of him, not with the desperate frenzy of the villa, but with the deep, knowing reverence of wives tending to their god. The room filled with the soft, wet sounds of their adoration, a symphony of blissful service.
Harry let his head fall back, surrendering to the sensation, a king accepting his due. His hands roamed over them—gripping Ginny’s fiery hair, cupping Hermione’s cheek, squeezing Daphne’s breast, tracing the line of Pansy’s spine. He was both passive recipient and active conductor of their pleasure.
“You are my life,” Hermione murmured against his skin, her breath hitching as her own need crested simply from the act of serving him.
“My purpose,” Ginny gasped, coming up for air, her lips swollen and glistening, before diving down again with a hungry moan.
The pleasure built, a slow, inexorable tide within him, fed by the river of their devotion. He could feel the tension coiling, a spring wound tight by five pairs of hands, five seeking mouths, five hearts beating in time with his. He opened his eyes, looking down at the beautiful, desperate faces of his wives, their eyes glazed with a need that was entirely for him.
He didn’t need to shout. His voice was a low, commanding rasp that cut through the symphony of their worship, a single word that was both a promise and a verdict, a trigger wired into the very core of their beings.
“Bloom.”
END.
- 15
- 16
- 17
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Healer Potter's Perfect Wives