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
- 3
- 4
- 5
Chapter 4 - My mind is quiet
The slick, rhythmic sound of Hermione’s tongue against Ginny’s clit was the only music in the room, a wet, intimate counterpoint to Harry’s calm, measured voice. Ginny’s keening whine had dissolved into a continuous, broken stream of moans, her hips making tiny, involuntary circles against Hermione’s mouth. Her fingers were still tangled in Hermione’s hair, but the grip had changed from shock to demand, holding her in place, begging for more.
Harry watched, a sculptor observing two of his finest works intertwining. He knelt behind Ginny, his chest pressing against her back, his lips close to her ear. His voice was a low, resonant stream that bypassed her ears and flowed directly into the open channels of her mind.
“You feel that warmth, Ginevra?” he murmured, his breath stirring the fine hairs at her temple. “That deep, spreading calm? That is the feeling of a burden being lifted. The weight of your will is so heavy. Let me carry it for you.”
Ginny’s head lolled back against his shoulder, her eyes glazed, fixed on the ceiling. “H-harry…”
“Shhh. Just listen. Your mind is so open now. So ready to learn. It wants new truths. Simple truths. Repeat them for me.” He nipped her earlobe, a tiny spark of pain that made her jolt and gasp. “My mind is quiet for my Master.”
A shudder wracked Ginny’s frame. Her voice was a thready, distant echo. “My… my mind is quiet for my Master.”
“Again.”
“My mind is quiet for my Master.” This time, the words came easier, smoother, as if a groove was being carved for them in her consciousness.
Hermione’s tongue swirled, firm and practiced, and Ginny’s sentence ended in a sharp cry. Hermione felt the tremor that ran through Ginny’s thighs, tasted the fresh rush of her arousal, and a corresponding pulse of pure, undiluted satisfaction throbbed deep within her own core. Pleasing him is my purpose, she thought, the mantra now as natural as breathing. His satisfaction is my reward.
Harry’s hand slid from Ginny’s shoulder down to her breast, palming it, his thumb brushing over her nipple. “My body serves my Master’s pleasure,” he whispered, his voice layering over Hermione’s relentless, licking rhythm.
Ginny choked on the words, her body arching. “My body—ah!—serves my Master’s pleasure.”
“Again. Make it your only thought.”
“My body serves my Master’s pleasure!” she cried out, the declaration mixing with a sob of building ecstasy.
Hermione looked up, her chin glistening, her eyes finding Harry’s over Ginny’s heaving stomach. The devotion in her gaze was absolute. A new, different ache was building between her own legs, a desperate, empty feeling that begged for friction. Her free hand, the one not steadying herself on Ginny’s hip, crept to her own thigh, her fingers itching to touch.
“Master,” Hermione’s voice was husky, strained from her efforts. She never stopped her work on Ginny, her tongue laving strokes that were now fast and insistent. “Please… may I touch?”
Harry’s green eyes gleamed with dark fire. He smiled, a slow, possessive curl of his lips that made Hermione’s insides clench with want. “Yes, my perfect slut, you may.” The permission was like a key turning in a lock, and her fingers immediately dove into her own wetness, a choked gasp of relief escaping her as she found her clit. “But,” he continued, his voice dropping to a wicked promise, “you will only find your finish when Ginevra here admits her submission. When she tells us who she belongs to.”
The new rule electrified the air. Hermione’s circling fingers became a frantic, desperate dance. Her need was no longer just her own; it was tethered to Ginny’s surrender. She doubled her efforts on her friend, her mouth sealing over Ginny’s core, sucking gently while her tongue flicked over the swollen nub with relentless precision.
Ginny was unraveling, the twin assaults on her body and her will driving her to a fever pitch. Harry held her tight, his voice a relentless drumbeat in her ear.
“Who does this pleasure come from, Ginny?” he asked, his own arousal evident in the gruffness of his tone. He could feel her heart hammering against his arm. “Who owns the mouth that’s making you feel this way? Who owns the voice guiding you toward your peace?”
“I—I can’t—” she sobbed, teetering on a precipice so high it induced vertigo.
“You can. The words are right there. They’re the truest thing you’ve ever said.” He bit down on her shoulder, not hard, but enough to make her cry out. “Say it.”
Hermione’s fingers worked in furious circles on herself, her own breaths coming in ragged pants. She was so close, the coil wound impossibly tight, but held firmly in check by his command. She needed this. She needed to hear it.
“Ginny, please,” Hermione moaned against her, the vibration wringing another shudder from Ginny’s body. “Please, just say it. Let me come.”
That plea, from her once-proud, brilliant friend, seemed to shatter the last of Ginny’s resistance. The confession burst from her, raw and real and utterly surrendered.
“Yours!” she screamed, her body bowing violently. “I’m yours, Master! I’m yours!”
The effect was instantaneous. Permission granted. The dam broke.
Hermione’s orgasm slammed into her with the force of a Bludger. A silent, seizing cry locked in her throat as her body convulsed, her fingers pressing hard against her clit, milking the devastating waves of pleasure that roared through her.
At the same moment, with the words of surrender hanging in the air, Ginny’s own climax was unleashed. It tore through her with a violence that was all the more intense for being held back, a raw, endless scream ripped from her lungs as she shook apart in Harry’s arms.
Harry held her through the storm, his own groan of triumph lost in their cries. He watched Hermione ride out her own release, her body trembling, her face a mask of ecstatic devotion. As Ginny’s screams subsided into whimpering shakes, he smoothed the hair back from her damp forehead.
“Good girl,” he murmured into her ear, the praise now the only thing she could comprehend. “My good, submissive girl.” His eyes met Hermione’s over Ginny’s shuddering form. “And you… my exquisite instrument. You may now come for me, again. For being so patient. For being so perfectly obedient.”
He didn’t need to grant it twice. A second, sharper orgasm ripped through Hermione, shorter but no less intense, and she cried out, her body slumping forward against Ginny’s leg as the sensations claimed her.
The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by their ragged breathing. The two women lay tangled and spent, one lost in the aftermath of surrender, the other glowing with the fulfillment of command. Harry rose, looking down at his collection.
Harry stood tall, his shadow cast long and commanding over the two women sprawled before him. His green eyes burned with a quiet intensity, the kind that seemed to pierce through the air itself. He waited, letting the silence stretch, letting them feel the weight of his gaze. “Now,” he began, his voice a velvet murmur that carried an edge of steel, “let’s try the mantras again. I want to hear how well they’ve settled into that pretty, empty head.” His tone was soft, almost tender, but it brooked no resistance. The power in his words was undeniable, a force that wrapped around them like a shroud.
He stepped closer, his bare feet whispering against the cool floor, and nudged Ginny’s thigh with his foot. The contact was light, but it sent a jolt through her, pulling her back from the haze of satisfaction that had claimed her. “Who do you belong to?” he asked, his voice low and steady, each syllable deliberate. "Say it clearly this time. Let me hear the truth in your voice."
Ginny stirred, her body still trembling faintly from the aftershocks of her orgasm. Her lips parted, but the words seemed to stick in her throat as if she were testing the weight of them for the first time. Harry knelt beside her, his hand brushing her cheek with a gentleness that belied the iron grip he held on her mind. “Don’t think,” he murmured, his breath ghosting over her skin. “Just feel. The truth is already there, Ginevra. All you have to do is let it out.”
Hermione watched from where she lay, her body still humming with the echoes of her own release. She didn’t dare move, didn’t dare interrupt. Her fingers twitched against the floor as if craving something to hold onto, but her focus remained locked on Harry. This is how it should be, she thought, the thought so ingrained in her now that it felt like a mantra of its own. His voice is the only thing that matters. His words are the only truth.
Ginny took a shuddering breath, her chest rising and falling as if she were summoning the courage to speak. Finally, in a voice barely above a whisper but filled with a quiet certainty, she said, “I belong to you, Master.” The words spilled out like a confession, like a prayer, and the moment they left her lips, she felt a strange sense of relief, as if a heavy chain had finally been unbound.
Harry smiled, a slow, satisfied curve of his lips that sent a shiver down Hermione’s spine. “Good girl,” he praised, his hand sliding down to cup Ginny’s chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. “And what does that mean, Ginevra? What does it mean to belong to me?”
Ginny’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, her mind reaching for the answers he had planted there so carefully. When she opened them again, the clarity in her gaze was unmistakable. “It means my body is yours,” she replied, her voice growing stronger with each word. “My mind is yours. My pleasure exists only for you.”
Harry’s smile deepened, and his gaze shifted to Hermione. “And you, my perfect slut? Do you understand your place?”
Hermione didn’t hesitate. “Yes, Master,” she breathed, her voice thick with devotion. “I live to serve you. To please you. Without you, I am nothing.”
The room seemed to hum with the intensity of their words, the air thick with submission and power. Harry stood once more, surveying his work with a pride that bordered on reverence. “Good,” he said softly, his voice wrapping around them like a warm blanket. “Let’s make sure you never forget it.” And with that, he began to guide them once more into the depths of their conditioning, his voice a steady anchor in the storm of their surrender.
*
The morning sun cut across the Quidditch pitch, glinting off the polished handle of Ginny Weasley’s broom. She hovered, a statuesque sentinel against the bright blue sky, her gaze locked on the Chaser weaving toward the goal hoops fifty yards away. The Quaffle was a blur of red in the player’s hands. A feint left. A juke right. The movement was good, designed to throw her off balance.
It didn’t.
Her body moved without conscious thought, a seamless extension of the broom. She shifted her weight minutely, reading the subtle tension in the Chaser’s shoulders, the almost imperceptible shift of their eyes toward the left hoop. A thought, clear and cool, surfaced in the quiet of her mind: He’ll go left.
The Chaser pulled his arm back for the throw. In that fraction of a second, Ginny didn’t just see the move; she felt it. Her own muscles coiled in anticipation, a perfect mirror. The world narrowed to the space between them, the leather of the Quaffle, the whisper of the wind. A different whisper echoed from a deeper place, a velvet murmur that had nothing to do with the game. Obedience is peace. Your body knows what to do.
She launched herself, not at the feint, but at the true trajectory. Her fingers closed around the Quaffle an inch from the iron ring, snatching the shot from certain victory. The crowd roared. Her teammates cheered. Ginny just shrugged, tossing the ball to her Keeper. The move felt inevitable. Effortless. It felt like his will flowing through her, a current of perfect certainty. She carried on with the game, a phantom smile touching her lips.
*
Steam curled in the air, thick with the scent of lavender and bergamot. Under the hot spray of the shower, Hermione Granger’s hands moved over her body with a practiced, worshipful rhythm. Soap slid over her breasts, her thumbs circling her nipples until they peaked into hard, sensitive buds. The water sluiced over her skin, but her mind was elsewhere.
It was on the feel of a Persian rug against her back. On the sound of a low, commanding voice. On the searing, perfect agony of release being denied, denied, denied until a single word—“Now.”—shattered her completely.
Her right hand drifted lower, through the dark curls, finding the swollen, aching center of her need. Her fingers were not her own. They were instruments. His instruments. A low moan escaped her as she began to stroke, her hips rolling into the touch. My mind is quiet for my Master, she thought, the mantra rising from the depths of her conditioning. My body serves my Master’s pleasure.
Her breathing grew ragged, syncing with the circling pressure of her fingertips. The images came faster, more vivid: the intense green of his eyes watching her, the feel of his hands on her skin, the taste of him on her tongue. The coil inside her wound tighter, a spring of pure, desperate sensation. “You’re my masterpiece,” his voice whispered in her memory. The words tipped her over the edge.
Her climax crashed through her, a silent, convulsive wave that stole her breath and buckled her knees. She braced herself against the tiled wall, shuddering as the pulses rocked her. And then… nothing. A blissful, empty silence. The details of the fantasy evaporated like the steam around her, leaving only a profound, bone-deep satisfaction and the lingering echo of a mantra she couldn’t quite recall.
She finished her shower, drying herself with a soft towel. At her vanity, she studied her reflection. Her skin was flushed, her eyes bright. She reached for her makeup, applying it with a precision that felt newly important. A little more definition to the eyes. A deeper shade on her lips. This is how he wants to see me, she thought, the notion arriving fully formed and unquestioned. Presentable. Perfect.
She dressed for the day in a tailored skirt and blouse, her movements efficient and calm. She did not notice the absent whisper of silk against her bare skin beneath the skirt. The forgotten knickers lay discarded on the bathroom floor. She Apparated to the Ministry, her demeanor more patient, more professional, more relaxed than it had been in years. The frantic energy that had once defined her was gone, replaced by a serene, unshakable certainty.
*
The silence in Harry’s study was a living thing, broken only by the soft rustle of parchment and the gentle pop of the hearth. He sat at his desk, a heavy, leather-bound tome open before him. His finger traced an illustration of a twisted, thorny circlet—the Diadem of Sanguine Clarity, a Dark artifact purportedly used by ancient warlocks to syphon the will of entire courts. His green eyes, sharp and hungry, absorbed every detail.
This was the real work. The healing practice was merely the vehicle, the respectable façade that granted him access. His true pursuit lay in these forgotten, forbidden texts, in unlocking deeper magicks to bind and control. The power was not in the brute force of the Killing Curse, but in this—the sublime art of making someone want to kneel.
A soft chime echoed in the room. His appointment ledger, a sleek, black book, shimmered and flipped open of its own accord. A new line of elegant script inscribed itself onto the next available line, the ink a shimmering, deep purple.
He looked down.
Thursday, 2:00 PM: Pansy Parkinson.
A slow, predatory smile spread across Harry’s face. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. Parkinson. Ambitious, sharp-tongued, and notoriously difficult to please. The perfect candidate. A woman whose submission would be a true prize.
He could already imagine her, seated primly in the chair across from him, her dark eyes full of skeptical, calculating pride. He could almost feel the satisfying crunch it would make as he dismantled that pride, piece by piece, and reassembled it into something far more useful. Far more beautiful.
A warmth stirred in his groin, a familiar, demanding thrum of anticipation. He let his hand drift down, palming the growing hardness through his trousers. His gaze returned to the ledger, to that name.
Pansy Parkinson.
“Well, now,” he murmured to the silent, firelit room.
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Healer Potter's Perfect Wives