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
- 19
- 20
A soft afternoon light filtered through the windows of Hermione’s flat, catching the dust motes dancing in the air above the spotless coffee table. Harry stood in the center of the living room, a bottle of furniture polish in one hand and a soft cloth in the other. He was naked. He’d been naked for three days.
He hummed a tuneless, contented sound as he wiped the already-gleaming surface. The scent of lemon and beeswax filled his nostrils, pleasant and clean. His cock, half-hard and heavy between his legs, bobbed slightly with his movements. It was almost always like this now—a low, constant hum of arousal that threaded through every domestic task. It wasn’t a distraction. It was the point. The feeling was a reminder, a quiet pulse from the golden net woven into his mind, whispering that his purpose was here, in her space, preparing for her return.
He’d moved in with a single enchanted trunk. The process had been simple. He’d gone into a trance, her voice the only thing in the universe.
“What are you willing to do for your Mistress, Harry?”
“Anything, Mistress.” His own voice, flat and empty, echoed in his memory.
“You should move in with me. Get your things from Grimmauld Place, and move into my flat.”
“I should move in with you, get my things from Grimmauld Place.”
“Good boy.”
He’d woken on her sofa with no recollection of packing or leaving, only a deep, settled certainty that this was his home now. His duty.
The polishing done, he padded to the kitchen. His bare feet made no sound on the scrubbed floorboards. He’d spent the morning there already: preparing a rich beef bourguignon that now simmered in a heavy cast-iron pot, its savory, wine-laced aroma blending with the yeasty scent of the fresh bread he’d baked. The countertops were spotless. The sink was dry. He opened the refrigerator, his gaze sweeping over the organized shelves—fresh vegetables, chilled white wine, a bowl of whipped cream for the berry tarts he’d finished an hour ago. Everything was perfect.
A fresh wave of heat washed over him, settling in his groin. His cock filled out further, thickening against his thigh. He closed the fridge and leaned against the counter, letting his hand drift down. He wrapped his fingers around his shaft, giving it a slow, firm stroke. A soft groan escaped him. He wasn’t supposed to come. That was a rule, unspoken but understood. His pleasure was for her to give, or to take. But he could touch. He could feel the proof of his devotion, hard and eager.
He stroked himself slowly, his eyes closed, imagining her walking through the door. Imagining kneeling. Imagining her hand in his hair. He pumped his fist, the glide smooth from his own pre-come beading at the tip. Fuck, it felt good. But it was a shallow good, a preview. The real meal was her.
With a shuddering breath, he forced his hand away. He was leaking a little. He found a clean cloth, wiped himself down, then folded the cloth and set it in the laundry hamper. He checked the oven timer. Thirty minutes until she was due home.
He spent those minutes in her bedroom, gathering the clothes she’d left in the hamper that morning. He buried his face in a blouse, inhaling the scent of her perfume and her skin. His cock twitched, painfully hard now. He folded each item with meticulous care, then carried the stack to the enchanted washing cabinet. He added soap, set the charms, and watched as the gentle magic swirled through the fabrics.
As the final rinse cycle began, the key turned in the front door lock.
Every muscle in Harry’s body went taut with anticipation. The low hum of arousal spiked into a sharp, singing need. He walked to the entryway, his steps measured, and sank to his knees just as the door swung open.
Hermione stepped inside, looking every bit the powerful Mind Healer in her navy robes, a satchel slung over her shoulder. Her curly hair was a vibrant cloud around her head. She saw him immediately—naked, kneeling, his erection jutting proudly from his body, his green eyes wide and fixed on her.
A slow, pleased smile curved her lips. She dropped her satchel by the door and shrugged off her robes, hanging them neatly. She was wearing a simple knit dress beneath it. She approached him, stopping just before him. The toes of her flats were inches from his knees.
“Hello, Harry.”
“Welcome home, Mistress,” he said, his voice thick with reverence. “Your dinner is served.”
“Is it?” she murmured. She reached out and ran her fingers through his hair, scraping her nails lightly against his scalp. He leaned into the touch like a starving man. “And what about my other appetites?”
“I am yours to serve, Mistress. In all things.”
“Good boy.” Her hand left his hair and she walked past him, into the dining area. The table was set for one, with a lit candle, crystal glass, and silverware gleaming beside the steaming dish of bourguignon. The bread rested on a board, a knife beside it. She sat in her chair, smoothing her dress beneath her. She picked up her fork, scooped up a bite of the rich stew, and brought it to her mouth. She closed her eyes as she chewed, a soft, appreciative sound escaping her. “Exquisite, Harry.”
He had followed her on his knees, stopping a few feet from her chair. He watched her eat, his own hunger coiling in his gut, lower, much lower. The sight of her lips closing around the fork, the swallow in her throat, the way she licked a drop of sauce from her thumb—it was a slow, agonizing torture. Pre-come dripped from the tip of his cock onto the polished floor.
She ate slowly, savoring each bite, occasionally sipping from her wine glass. She didn’t speak to him again until her plate was nearly clean. Finally, she set her fork down with a soft click and leaned back in her chair. She looked at him, her brown eyes dark and knowing.
“You’ve worked so hard today,” she said. “You’ve kept my home perfect. You’ve cooked me a beautiful meal.” She spread her knees slowly, the fabric of her dress tightening across her thighs. “Come here. Service me.”
A tremor of pure, electric need shot through him. He crawled forward on his hands and knees until he was between her legs. The scent of her, musky and sweet, filled his senses. He nuzzled the inside of her thigh through the dress, breathing her in.
“The dress, Harry.”
His hands shook as he found the hem. He gathered the soft wool, lifting it up and over her hips, baring her to the waist. She wasn’t wearing knickers. Her cunt was a beautiful, glistening pink, her curls damp. He moaned, the sound torn from deep in his chest.
“Look at it,” she commanded, her voice dropping to a husky register. She hooked her fingers into the folds of her dress, holding it out of the way. “Look at how wet I am for you. That’s your reward. That’s all for you. Now clean your plate, boy.”
He needed no further invitation. He buried his face between her legs, his mouth finding her hot, wet flesh. His tongue swiped up her slit in one long, worshipful stroke, gathering her taste—salty, tangy, uniquely her. He groaned against her, the vibration making her jump.
“Fuck, yes,” she hissed, her hand coming down to tangle in his hair. “Just like that. Lap it up. Get every fucking drop.”
He feasted. His tongue became a dedicated, relentless instrument. He circled her clit, firm and focused, then flattened to lick broad strokes over her entire swollen sex. He fucked into her with his tongue, spearing deep, drinking her in. She was a river, and he was parched. His own hips jerked against empty air, his cock leaking steadily onto the floor.
“Use your fingers,” she panted, her grip on his hair tightening. “Two fingers. Curl them. Find it.”
He obeyed instantly. He slid two fingers inside her, the hot, silken clutch of her almost making him lose his rhythm. He curled them, searching, and brushed that secret, spongy spot high inside her. She cried out, her thighs clamping around his head.
“There! Right there, don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop!” Her words were a desperate chant.
He fucked her with his fingers, crooking them to press that spot with every thrust, while his tongue lashed her clit in a tight, rapid circle. He was lost in her, in the sounds she made, in the taste and the smell and the feel of her convulsing around his hand. His world narrowed to the apex of her thighs, to the single goal of her pleasure.
“I’m gonna come… I’m gonna come all over your face, you perfect, devoted… oh, god, HARRY!”
Her orgasm hit her like a thunderclap. Her back arched off the chair, a raw, guttural scream tearing from her throat. Her cunt flooded his mouth, her inner muscles clenching and fluttering around his fingers in a rhythmic, milking pulse. He drank her down, swallowing every drop, his tongue gentling to soft, soothing licks as she shuddered through the aftershocks.
Slowly, she slumped back in the chair, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her hand loosened in his hair, becoming a gentle stroke. He rested his forehead against her inner thigh, his own body trembling with unmet need.
“Look at me,” she whispered.
He lifted his head. His mouth and chin were slick with her release. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, sated, and full of possessive warmth.
“You did so well,” she said, her voice soft. “My perfect house husband. My beautiful, horny little servant.” She glanced down at his cock, which was rigid and flushed, a vein throbbing along its length. “You’re desperate to fuck, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Mistress,” he gasped. “Please.”
She smiled, a wicked, knowing curve of her lips. “Bring your dessert to the bedroom. The tarts. And the cream. I want to eat my dessert while you watch. And then… we’ll see about yours.”
He rose on unsteady legs, his cock a heavy, aching weight. He fetched the tray from the kitchen—the berry tarts glistening under a dusting of sugar, the bowl of whipped cream. He carried it into the bedroom, placing it on the bedside table, then knelt beside the bed, waiting.
Hermione strolled in after him, having taken her time. She’d removed her dress. She stood before him now, gloriously naked, her skin glowing in the low light. Her eyes swept over him, from his flushed face to his straining erection.
“Up on the bed,” she instructed, her voice a low command. “On your back. Hands above your head. Hold the headboard.”
He scrambled onto the soft duvet, lying back and gripping the carved wood of the headboard. The position arched his back, thrusting his hips up, making his cock stand rigid against his stomach. He was completely exposed.
Hermione picked up a tart, holding it delicately between her fingers. She climbed onto the bed, straddling his legs but not touching him. She took a slow, deliberate bite, her eyes locked on his. A drop of dark berry juice stained her lower lip. She licked it away with a slow swipe of her tongue.
“You want to be inside me, don’t you, Harry?” she asked, her mouth full.
“More than anything, Mistress,” he choked out, his knuckles white on the headboard.
“I know.” She took another bite, chewing slowly. “Your cock is so hard it looks painful. It’s leaking all over your stomach. Look at that.” She gestured with the tart. “Such a pretty, desperate mess.”
He whimpered, his hips giving a tiny, involuntary jerk. She smiled and picked up the bowl of whipped cream. She dipped two fingers into the fluffy white mound, then leaned forward. She didn’t touch his cock. Instead, she dragged her cream-covered fingers slowly down the center of his chest, over his abdomen, leaving cold, slick trails that made his muscles jump.
“Stay still,” she murmured, her breath warm against his skin. “This is my dessert. I eat it how I like.”
She lowered her head and licked a stripe up the path of cream on his chest. Her tongue was hot, rough. He gasped, his entire body tightening. She took her time, lapping up every bit, her mouth moving lower, following the trail. She avoided his cock, her lips brushing his hip bones, the crease of his thigh. Her wild hair tickled his sensitive skin, a maddening contrast to the hot suction of her mouth on his flesh.
“Fuck, Mistress… please…”
“Please what?” she asked innocently, dipping her fingers for more cream. She spread it over his lower belly, just above the base of his shaft.
“Please… touch me.”
“I am touching you.” She swirled her tongue in his navel, making him buck.
“My cock,” he begged, his voice breaking. “Please, let me feel your mouth on my cock. Just for a second.”
She lifted her head, her eyes dark. “Since you asked so nicely.” She didn’t use her mouth. She scooped a generous dollop of cream and smoothed it over the head of his cock, coating the flushed purple crown, mixing with the pre-come. The coolness was a shock, then an intense stimulus. He cried out. Then she lowered her head.
Her mouth was an inferno of wet, silken heat. She took just the cream-smeared head between her lips, her tongue swirling, licking it clean with agonizing slowness. The sensation was so acute, so focused, it blinded him. His legs trembled.
She pulled off with a soft pop. “Delicious.” She sat up, wiping her mouth. “But that’s all you get. For now.” She finished her tart, watching him suffer.
When the last crumb was gone, she moved. She swung one leg over his hips, kneeling over him. She positioned herself, the wet, hot lips of her pussy hovering just above the tip of his cock. He could feel her heat radiating down onto him.
“Look at me, Harry,” she said, her voice dropping into that hypnotic, commanding register she used only for the deepest triggers. His eyes snapped to hers, instantly glazing over, the green going soft and vacant. The golden net in his mind shimmered, awaiting her command. “You are going to fuck me now. You are going to give me every inch of that beautiful cock. But you will not come until I say the word ‘shatter’. Do you understand? The only thing that unlocks your orgasm is my voice saying ‘shatter’. Until then, you will hold back. You will last for me. Nod if you understand.”
He nodded, his expression blissfully blank.
“Good boy.” She sank down onto him.
It was a slow, devastating impalement. She took him inch by torturous inch, her inner muscles fluttering as they stretched around his thick girth. A moan tore from her throat as she settled fully, his pelvis pressed against her arse. She was so full, so stretched.
She began to move, rising up until just the head remained inside, then sliding back down in a smooth, rolling grind. She set a slow, deep rhythm, her hands braced on his chest.
Harry’s body was a instrument of pure obedience. His hips met her downward strokes with perfect, measured thrusts. His grip on the headboard was iron-strong, his arms corded with tension. His face was a mask of rapturous concentration, his eyes still fixed on hers but seeing only her command.
“That’s it,” Hermione panted, the friction building a delicious burn inside her. “Fuck me just like that. Your cock feels so good. So deep. I can feel you in my womb, Harry.”
He drove up into her, a little harder, a groan slipping from his lips. “Yes, Mistress. Your cunt… it’s so tight. It’s squeezing me… fuck…”
“It’s squeezing your cock because it wants your come,” she hissed, leaning forward to whisper in his ear, her pace quickening. “It wants to feel you pulse inside me. It wants to be filled. But you can’t, can you? Not until I tell you. You have to hold it all back. No matter how good my pussy feels.”
It was torture of the sweetest kind. Every slide, every clench, brought him closer to the edge. He could feel the pressure building at the base of his spine, a screaming need to erupt. But the command was a wall, holding the tide at bay. His thrusts became more frantic, his breathing ragged.
Hermione felt her own climax coiling, spurred by the sight of his desperate control. She reached between them, her fingers finding her clit. The added stimulation was electric.
“I’m close,” she gasped. “Oh, god, Harry, I’m so close. Your cock is hitting right there… don’t stop… fuck me!”
She was bouncing on him now, slamming down, taking him to the hilt with each stroke. The room filled with the wet, slapping sounds of their joining. Her orgasm gathered, a tight, hot knot about to burst.
“Now, Harry!” she screamed, her body bowing. “I want you to feel it with me! On my count! Three… two… one… SHATTER!”
The word was a detonation.
The command-wall in his mind vanished. The dam broke. With a raw, animal roar, Harry’s hips jackhammered up into her, slamming her down as he emptied himself in great, pumping spurts. The feeling of his hot release flooding her channel triggered her own climax instantly. She convulsed around him, her inner muscles milking him violently, her cries mingling with his.
It went on and on, wave after wave of shared, brutal ecstasy. His cock pulsed endlessly inside her, and she rode each jet of come with a desperate, grinding roll of her hips, squeezing out every last drop.
Finally, spent, she collapsed forward onto his chest. He was still thrusting weakly, his body shuddering through the aftershocks. His grip on the headboard loosened, his arms falling limp to his sides.
They lay there, a tangled, sweaty mess, his cock still nestled deep inside her, both of them panting.
Slowly, the vacant look faded from Harry’s eyes, replaced by a dazed, sated warmth. He blinked up at the ceiling, then turned his head to nuzzle her hair. “Mistress?” he whispered, his voice hoarse.
“Hmm?”
“Did I… did I please you?”
Hermione lifted her head, a slow, deeply satisfied smile spreading across her face. She shifted, feeling his softening cock slip from her with a gush of their mixed fluids. She leaned down and kissed him, deep and slow and possessive.
“You were perfect,” she murmured against his lips. “My perfect, obedient boy. You held back just for me.” She kissed him again, her hand sliding down to cradle his damp, spent balls. “And you gave me every last drop.”
He shivered under her touch, his eyes fluttering closed. “Always. Yours.”
“I know.” She settled back beside him, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his stomach. A new idea, wicked and delicious, began to form in her mind. The golden net. His absolute obedience. There were… possibilities. “Rest now. You’ve earned it.” She propped herself up on an elbow, looking down at him. “But when you wake up… I have a new game I want to play. It involves that pretty cock of yours, my favourite armchair, and you not being allowed to touch yourself for… oh, the next six hours.”
- 19
- 20
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Come to Play