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
- 17
- 18
- 19
Hermione’s breath caught as his fingertips circled that new, devastating spot. A fresh, sharp jolt of pleasure shot through her, making her twitch against him. She was still stretched around his softening cock, still dripping with his come and her own, but the sensation was entirely different. Specific. Expert.
“You see?” Harry murmured, his voice a low, confident rasp she’d never heard before. The dazed submission was still there, but layered over it was a new, focused knowledge. “The magic… it showed me. This spot, right here, just to the left of your clit. It’s like a secret switch. When I touch it while I’m inside you…” He flexed his hips subtly, his half-hard cock shifting within her, and pressed the spot again.
“Ah!” Her cry was punched out, involuntary. Her inner muscles clenched around him, squeezing a soft groan from his throat. “Fuck, Harry.”
“That’s it,” he said, his green eyes dark with possessive satisfaction. “That’s the spot. The magic learned it. It’s part of me now. I can feel it… a map of your pleasure, drawn right onto my brain.” His other hand came up to cup her breast, his thumb brushing over her nipple with perfect, maddening pressure. “Tell me what you want, Mistress. Do you want me to make you come again? Like this? I can. I know exactly how.”
The shift in power was subtle, intoxicating. He was still hers, utterly, but now he was a tool honed to a lethal edge. Her tool. She nodded, words failing her for a moment.
“Show me,” she finally breathed. “Show me what my gift taught you.”
He didn’t need more encouragement. With a strength that made her gasp, he rolled them over, pinning her beneath him on the thick rug. The firelight danced over the sweat-slick planes of his back. His cock, which had begun to soften, thickened again with startling speed, nudging at her wet entrance. The obsidian spindle lay forgotten beside them, its magic now a living thread woven into his very being.
He didn’t just push into her. He placed himself. The broad head of his cock pressed against her, and then he slid in with a slow, deliberate angle that made her eyes roll back. He was hitting places, adjusting, based on a knowledge that wasn’t his own.
“The magic says you like it deep,” he growled against her ear, his hips meeting hers fully. “But not just deep. You like it when I grind, right here, against the front wall of your pussy.” He demonstrated, a shallow, rolling thrust that created a delicious, full friction. “And you like my hands on your throat. Not to choke. Just to hold. To feel my claim.”
His large, warm hand settled against the column of her throat, his thumb resting in the hollow. The possessiveness of the gesture, combined with the perfect angle of his thrusts, made her whimper.
“Yes,” she sobbed. “Fuck, yes, just like that.”
He began to move in earnest, a rhythm that was both relentless and nuanced. Each thrust was a lesson applied. He’d drive deep, then change the angle slightly, brushing over a cluster of nerves that sparked white behind her eyelids. He kept the pressure of his thumb on that secret spot beside her clit, circling it in time with his hips.
“I can feel you getting tighter,” he panted, his breath hot on her skin. “I can feel the exact moment your pussy starts to flutter. It’s like a vibration… right here, under the head of my cock. The magic is translating it for me. Telling me to go harder. Telling me to fuck you just like this.”
His words were filthy, precise, and they poured gasoline on the fire in her belly. She was unraveling, her hands scrabbling at his shoulders, his back.
“Tell me, Hermione,” he demanded, his pace becoming punishing. “Tell me what you’re feeling. I want to hear it. I want to know if the magic got it right.”
“It’s right!” she cried out, her hips meeting his thrust for thrust. “You’re hitting everything… you’re fucking me so deep… I can feel you in my stomach, Harry! That spot… don’t stop circling it… oh god…”
“This is for you,” he chanted, his voice guttural. “This cock is yours. This fuck is for you. Every nerve in my body is screaming her name. Your pussy is so perfect… so hot and wet and greedy… taking every inch of me… fuck… I’m going to fill you up again, Mistress. I’m going to pump my come so deep inside you it’ll never leave.”
The vulgar promise tipped her over the edge. Her orgasm seized her, violent and all-consuming. She screamed, her back arching off the rug, her vision whiting out. Her channel clamped down on him, rippling in intense, successive waves.
His control shattered. With a roar that echoed in the room, he drove into her one last, brutal time and held there. She felt the hot, pulsing jets of his release flooding her, exactly where he’d promised. The sensation was magnified, each spurt feeling like a brand, a claim stamped into her very core by the magic’s enhancing touch.
He collapsed on top of her, his weight a delicious anchor. For a long time, the only sounds were the crackling fire and their ragged, mingled breaths. The magic hummed contentedly beneath their skin, a settled, warm presence.
Eventually, he shifted, sliding out of her. He immediately moved down her body, ignoring her soft murmur of protest. Before she could ask what he was doing, she felt his mouth between her legs, his tongue licking through the mess of their combined release.
She jolted. “Harry… you don’t have to…”
“I want to,” he said, his voice muffled against her flesh. “The magic wants me to. It’s part of the devotion. Cleaning my Mistress. Tasting our pleasure.” His tongue was expert, thorough, lapping up every drop from her slit, her thighs. It was shockingly intimate, more possessive than anything that had come before. He was claiming every part of the experience, leaving nothing behind.
When he was done, he kissed his way back up her body and settled beside her, pulling her into his arms. His skin was still fever-hot. He nuzzled into her hair.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“For what?”
“For the gift. For letting me learn. For letting me be this for you.” His hand stroked down her side, possessive and gentle. “I feel… complete. Like every part of me has a purpose, and that purpose is you.”
Hermione turned her head to look at him. His eyes were clear, sated, and held a depth of understanding that stole her breath. The spindle hadn’t just taught him technique. It had deepened the core programming, the devotion. It had made his submission intelligent, active.
She traced his lower lip with her finger. “Do you feel any different? In your mind?”
He thought for a moment. “It’s quiet. The old noise… the bad memories… they’re far away. Faded. All I can feel is you. The map of you. The need for you. It’s a clean, pure space. And in that space, there are… instructions.”
“Instructions?”
A slow, wicked smile touched his lips. “For next time. The magic is already thinking about next time. It’s showing me images… of you on your knees. Of me taking you from behind, my hand in your hair. Of how to touch you to make you scream for a third time.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “It really, really wants to make you scream again, Mistress.”
A fresh, hungry pulse throbbed between Hermione’s legs. The exhaustion was gone, burned away by his words and the lingering hum of magic. She glanced at the spindle, dark and inert on the rug.
The wicked promise in his whisper went straight to her core, a fresh, slick heat gathering between her thighs. She felt raw, used, spectacularly fucked, and yet her body was already humming back to life, answering the call of the magic still thrumming under his skin—under hers.
“No,” Hermione agreed, her voice low and sure. “We shouldn’t wait.”
In a fluid motion, she pushed at his shoulder, rolling him onto his back once more. She straddled his hips, feeling the hard, insistent press of his renewed erection against her lower back. The firelight painted his chest in gold and shadow, his eyes gleaming with eager, knowledgeable devotion.
“The magic has instructions?” she asked, trailing a finger down his sternum. “Show me. Don’t tell me. Show me what it wants to do to me.”
A shiver of pure anticipation went through him. His hands came up to grip her waist, his thumbs stroking her hip bones. “It wants you on your knees,” he said, his gaze locked on hers. “Facing away. It wants me behind you. It wants me to see the curve of your back, the swell of your arse. It wants me to pull your hair and watch your face in the mirror over the mantle.”
Hermione’s breath caught. There was a large, ornate mirror above the fireplace. She hadn’t even considered it. The specificity was thrilling. “Then make it happen.”
He moved with a confident grace that was new. He didn’t scramble or rush. He guided her off him, stood, and pulled her to her feet. He turned her, his body a solid, hot wall at her back. His hands slid down her arms, then around to her stomach, pulling her firmly against him. She could feel his cock, a rigid brand against the cleft of her arse.
“On your knees, Mistress,” he murmured into her ear, his voice a rough caress. “Right here, on the rug. Present yourself for me.”
A tremor of pure submission—a willing, delicious surrender to his control, which was ultimately her control—went through her. She sank down, the thick pile of the rug soft beneath her knees and shins. She leaned forward, placing her hands flat on the rug, arching her back until her arse was high in the air, her wet, swollen sex exposed to the warm air and his hungry gaze.
“Fuck,” he breathed out, a sound of reverent awe. His hand smoothed over the curve of her buttock, possessive and rough. “Look up. Look at the mirror.”
She lifted her head. Their eyes met in the reflection. Her own were dark, pupils blown wide. His were fierce, green fire. She saw herself—disheveled, marked by his hands and mouth, kneeling in a posture of complete offering. She saw him behind her, tall and powerful, his cock jutting out, flushed and ready.
“The magic remembers how you clenched around me,” he said, his voice dropping to a growl as he positioned himself at her entrance. The broad head nudged against her, spreading her open. “It remembers the exact rhythm that made you scream. It’s feeding that back to my hips. I don’t have to think. I just have to fuck you.”
He pushed in.
It was a slow, devastating invasion, made more intense by the mirrored view. She watched his face contort with pleasure, watched her own mouth fall open in a silent cry as he filled her, inch by thick, perfect inch. He seated himself fully, his balls tight against her, his hands gripping her hips.
“See how you take me?” he rasped, his eyes glued to their reflection. “See how your beautiful cunt stretches for my cock? Look at it, Hermione. Look at how fucking owned you are.”
The vulgar command, the visual—it was overwhelming. She was stretched, impaled, and displayed. She moaned, the sound loud in the quiet room.
He began to move. And it was exactly as he’d said. There was no experimentation, no searching for the right angle. From the first withdraw and thrust, he was perfect. The length of him dragged against every sensitive place inside her, the head bumping that deep, perfect spot with every plunge. His pace was relentless, a steady, pounding rhythm that spoke of ancient, learned knowledge.
One hand left her hip. It tangled in the wild curls at the nape of her neck, fisting gently but firmly. He didn’t yank, just held, establishing a point of connection, of control. The slight pull arched her back further, changing the angle just enough to make her see stars.
“There,” he grunted, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper. “Right there. The magic is singing. It’s telling my cock exactly how to fuck this perfect, greedy pussy. You feel that? You feel how deep I am?”
“Y-yes!” she sobbed, her own hands fisting in the rug. Her breasts swayed with the force of his drives, a slick, slapping sound filling the air each time his hips met her arse. The visual in the mirror was obscene, beautiful—the powerful flex of his thighs, the jiggle of her flesh, the utterly rapturous expression on her own face.
“Tell me,” he demanded, his voice straining. “Tell me what you see.”
“I see… I see you fucking me!” she cried, the words torn from her. “I see your cock… oh god… I see it disappearing inside me! I see how hard you are… I see you owning me!”
“Fuck yes,” he snarled. His hand in her hair tightened a fraction. “And you love it. Your cunt is milking me. It’s trying to pull my come out of me already. I can feel it. The magic can feel it. It’s so fucking wet for this. For being used like this.”
He was right. She was drenched, each thrust making a filthy, wet sound. Pleasure coiled, tight and unbearable, deep in her belly. It was sharper than before, honed by the visual spectacle, by his filthy, precise words.
“I’m going to come,” she warned, her voice a high, desperate whine. “Harry, I’m going to…”
“Look at yourself,” he ordered, pounding into her with jackhammer force. “Look at your face when you break. Watch it happen. Come for me. Clench around my cock and let me see it.”
The command, the permission, the perfect, unerring friction—it shattered her. A scream ripped from her throat as the orgasm detonated, a white-hot nova of sensation that locked her muscles and blurred the mirror. She watched, dizzily, as her own eyes squeezed shut, her mouth opened in a silent scream, her body convulsing around the thick shaft pistoning into her.
Her climax triggered his. With a guttural roar that seemed to shake the room, he slammed into her one final time and held, his body rigid. She felt the hot, urgent pulse of his release, jet after jet flooding her depths, the magic amplifying each spurt until it felt like he was painting her insides with liquid fire. His grip on her hair was the only thing keeping her upright as she trembled through the aftershocks, feeling him empty himself into her with a possessive, groaning sigh.
Slowly, he softened inside her. His hand loosened in her hair, becoming a gentle stroke. He leaned over her, pressing a sweaty, open-mouthed kiss to the knob of her spine. His breath was ragged against her skin.
“The magic,” he panted, his voice thick with satisfaction, “is very happy with that.”
- 17
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- 19
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Come to Play