Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Baker Does Them
By : gee25
Category: Harry Potter > Threesomes/Moresomes
Views: 545 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. This is AI Generated.
Chapter List
- 3
- 4
The subtle scent of cinnamon and lust still hung in the bakery’s air the next morning, a ghost of Ginny’s visit. Harry moved through the familiar space, the memory of her pliant body on his counter a persistent, thrilling ache. The guilt had been scrubbed away, leaving only a raw, hungry anticipation for what—or who—was next.
A crisp, official-looking envelope lay on the floor, slipped under the door. It was addressed in a precise, unmistakable cursive. Hermione Granger, Department of Magical Law Enforcement. His heart gave a curious lurch. This wasn’t his doing. Not yet.
He tore it open. The letter was brief, professional, yet it sent a jolt straight to his groin.
Harry, I’ve been hearing the most intriguing things about your new culinary ventures. I’d be very interested in a private tasting. My flat, tonight at eight. —H.G.
A private tasting. The words seemed to pulse on the parchment. He could almost feel Lilitha’s approving smile before he heard her voice.
“The clever one comes to the spider of her own volition,” she purred, materializing from the deepening shadows of the pantry. She looked more substantial today, her dark skin glowing with a soft, inner light, her form wrapped in ethereal silks that hinted at everything and concealed nothing. “She seeks knowledge. Let us give her an education.”
She gestured, and the ancient cookbook slammed open on the counter, pages whirling until they settled. The new recipe seemed to bleed up from the parchment: ‘The Obsidian Macarons of Uninhibited Desire’.
“These will not make her worship you, my baker,” Lilitha explained, her finger tracing the ingredients: crushed obsidian sand, a sigh of a succubus, the captured gasp of a first orgasm. “They will simply erase every inhibition, every learned behavior. They will make her need so fiercely that she will forget everything but the primal urge to satiate herself. She will believe it is the most natural thing in the world to touch herself, to peak, right in front of you.”
Harry’s mouth went dry. The image was instant, vivid, and devastatingly arousing: Hermione, the brightest witch of their age, lost in a frenzy of self-pleasure, her intelligent eyes glazed with mindless need.
“And this,” Lilitha said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as the page turned seemingly of its own accord. A new title glimmered: ‘Milk of Submission’. “You will prepare this for her to drink. It is the key. The macarons will make her burn. The milk will ensure the fire is only quenched by you. It will not wear off, her pleasure will not break, until you find your release inside her.”
The instructions were simple, the ingredients decadent and dark: cream from a nightmare’s dream, a drop of liquid submission, a mother’s murmured lullaby. He brewed it in a small silver saucepan, the mixture swirling from pearlescent white to a deep, hypnotic violet. The air filled with a soothing, creamy scent that promised absolute surrender.
He prepared the macarons with a focused, magical intensity, each shell a perfect, glossy black dome. He piped the filling, a shimmering lavender cream that held the captured, frantic energy of a thousand stifled desires.
At precisely eight o’clock, he stood outside Hermione’s door, a small box of macarons in one hand and a delicate glass bottle of the iridescent milk in the other. His knock was answered immediately.
Hermione stood there, a vision of curated casualness. She wore fitted, black muggle trousers and a simple sapphire blue sweater that hugged her curves. Her wild curls were tamed into a loose bun, a few strands framing her face. Her expression was one of keen intellectual curiosity, but he saw the flicker of something else in her bright eyes—a hidden hunger, a suppressed thrill at this clandestine meeting.
“Harry, come in,” she said, stepping aside. Her flat was exactly as he’d imagined: shelves overflowing with books, organized chaos, and the warm scent of old parchment and tea. “I have to admit, I’m fascinated. Ginny was… effusive about your brownies, though rather vague on the details.”
“I’ve been… experimenting,” Harry said, setting his offerings on her coffee table. He uncorked the bottle of milk. The soothing, creamy scent bloomed, and Hermione’s nostrils flared slightly. “This is a new pairing. The macarons are rich. The milk is meant to complement them. You should have both together.”
Her curiosity overrode any caution. She took the bottle, her fingers brushing his, and took a sip. Her eyes widened in surprise. “It’s… incredibly soothing. Like a warm blanket.” She took a longer drink, a faint, relaxed smile touching her lips. Then, she selected a macaron.
She bit into it with a soft crunch. For a second, nothing. She finished it, licking a trace of lavender cream from her thumb. “The texture is perfect, Harry. The flavor is so unique, it’s almost—” She stopped. Her body went very still.
The change wasn’t one of devotion, like Ginny. It was a sudden, overwhelming urgency. The intellectual light in her eyes didn’t dim; it refocused, sharpening on a single, all-consuming objective. A deep flush spread from her chest up her neck. Her breath hitched.
“Merlin,” she whispered, not to him, but to herself. Her hand fluttered to the collar of her sweater. “It’s… so warm in here all of a sudden.”
She tugged at the neckline, a restless, needy movement. Her gaze, now dark and unfocused, landed on Harry, but she didn’t really see him. She saw an object in the room. A witness. Her fingers, which had been fidgeting with her sweater, stilled. A look of pure, unadulterated revelation dawned on her face.
Of course, her expression said. It’s the only thing that makes sense.
Without a word of explanation, without a shred of her characteristic hesitation, she sank onto the plush rug in front of her fireplace. Her movements were not sloppy, but possessed of a graceful, undeniable purpose. She lay back, her head resting on a cushion, her eyes locked on some point on the ceiling as if seeing the very equations of pleasure written there.
Her hands went to the fastening of her trousers. She undid the button and zip with quick, efficient motions, pushing them down her hips along with her knickers, exposing herself to the warm room air—and to him. A soft, desperate sigh escaped her lips. This is right. This is natural.
Harry could only watch, his own arousal a hard, painful throb, as Hermione Granger, the woman of logic and reason, gave herself over to pure instinct. Her fingers, clever and precise, found her core without an ounce of shyness. She was already glistening, wet and ready. Her back arched off the floor as she touched herself, a low, guttural moan tearing from her throat that was so unlike her usual voice it was electrifying.
“Oh… yes…” she breathed, her eyes screwing shut.
Her hips began to move in a slow, undulating rhythm against her own hand. She was not just masturbating; she was performing the act with a focused intensity, lost in a world of sensation only she could see. Two of her fingers plunged inside herself, and her free hand came up to knead her breast through her sweater, pinching her nipple hard through the fabric.
“So good… so… necessary…” she chanted, her voice rising in pitch. Her legs fell further apart, an open, wanton invitation to the empty air. The slick, rhythmic sound of her fingers working her own flesh filled the quiet room, a filthy, beautiful counterpoint to her ragged breaths. She was chasing it, her body tensing, every muscle taut with the effort, a sheen of sweat making her skin glow in the firelight.
But the peak wouldn’t come. She’d climb, and climb, her moans becoming frantic, desperate cries, only to fall back, the unbearable tension unbroken. The Milk of Submission held her on the edge, a cruel and exquisite torment.
Her eyes flew open, wild and pleading, finally truly seeing him. “Harry… it won’t… I can’t… please.” The word was a sob of frustration. “I need… something else. I need you.”
She didn’t wait for him to move. In a surge of frantic strength, she pushed herself up and crossed the space between them, her trousers still tangled around her ankles. Her hands were on his belt, fumbling, desperate. “Please, Harry. You have to. You have to finish it. Finish me.” Her voice was raw, stripped of all pretense, containing only a bottomless, aching need. I can’t break without you.
Her plea hung in the air, a raw, vibrating thing. Hermione’s eyes, usually so sharp and analytical, were now wide pools of pure, undiluted need. The intelligent witch was gone, replaced by a creature of exquisite sensation, and she was staring at Harry as if he held the only key to her sanity.
Her fingers, still slick from her own frantic touches, clawed at his belt. “Please,” she sobbed again, the sound tearing at something primal within him.
He didn’t make her wait. His own control was a frayed thread. He undid his trousers, freeing his aching cock. Hermione’s gasp was one of reverence and desperation. She didn’t guide him; she simply fell back onto the plush rug, pulling him down on top of her, her legs wrapping around his waist with surprising strength, locking him to her.
He positioned himself at her entrance, the head of his cock nudging against her incredible wet heat. She was soaked, her body already clenching around nothing, begging for fulfillment.
“Look at me,” he rasped, his voice thick with a desire he no longer tried to name.
Her eyes, glazed with unshed tears of frustration, found his. In their depths, he saw not just blind need, but a flicker of her—the fierce, brilliant woman he knew. The potion hadn’t erased her; it had just stripped away every wall, every fear, leaving only her deepest, most hidden truth exposed.
“I need to feel you, Harry,” she whispered, her voice a ragged, intimate sound. “All of you. I need you to fill me.”
He thrust forward, burying himself inside her in one smooth, deep stroke.
Hermione’s cry was not of surprise, but of profound relief. Her head fell back, exposing the long line of her throat as her body arched, taking him in completely. She was so tight, so impossibly hot and wet around him, a silken fist clenching him, welcoming him home. He held himself still for a moment, savoring the feel of her inner muscles fluttering around his length, the sheer perfection of their connection.
“Yes…” she moaned, her hips making tiny, involuntary circles, urging him on. “Oh, Merlin, yes… just like that.”
He began to move, setting a slow, deep rhythm. This was not the frantic, counter-slamming pace he’d used with Ginny. This was something else entirely. This was a rediscovery. Each withdrawal was agonizingly slow, each thrust back in a deliberate, soul-reaching plunge. The sound was different too—a soft, wet, rhythmic glide that was infinitely more intimate.
Hermione’s hands came up to frame his face, her thumbs stroking his cheeks. Her eyes were locked on his, seeing every flicker of sensation that crossed his face. “You feel… so good,” she breathed, her voice hitching with every inward stroke. “I’ve… I’ve imagined this. In the quiet times. After the war. When everything was too loud and too quiet all at once… I imagined you.”
Her confession, whispered between ragged breaths, sent a fresh wave of heat through him. He leaned down, capturing her mouth in a searing kiss. It was deep and searching, a mirror of their bodies’ joining. She kissed him back with a hungry passion, her tongue tangling with his, tasting of the unique, addictive flavor that was purely Hermione.
He shifted his angle slightly, and her reaction was immediate and electrifying. Her eyes flew wide, a sharp, surprised gasp breaking their kiss. “There! Right there, Harry! Oh, please, don’t stop…” Her whisper was a direct line to his core. He focused on that spot, grinding against it with every deep thrust, and her coherence began to shatter.
Her whispers became a stream of consciousness, a raw unveiling of her soul. “I used to… watch you… in the common room…,” she panted, her nails digging into his shoulders. “The way you’d push your glasses up… the way you’d chew your lip when you were thinking… it made my stomach flutter. I told myself it was… was just friendship. But it wasn’t. It was this. It was this ache… this need to be… possessed by you.”
Her words were more potent than any magic. He felt a possessiveness swell in his chest, a fierce, protective need to brand himself upon her very soul. He drove into her harder, still maintaining that deep, grinding rhythm that was making her see stars.
“Tell me,” he commanded softly, his lips against her ear. “Tell me what you want.”
She cried out, her body bowing off the rug. “I want to feel you… lose control for me,” she begged, her voice cracking. “I want to know I can make the great Harry Potter… forget everything… forget every battle… every spell… and just… feel. I want to be the reason you fall apart.”
Her honesty was a weapon, dismantling him piece by piece. He slid a hand between their sweat-slicked bodies, his fingers finding her clit. She was swollen, hypersensitive, and the moment he touched her, she let out a shattered scream, her entire body seizing up.
“I’m close… so close… Harry, please… with me… come with me…” she chanted, her hips meeting his thrusts with frantic urgency.
He could feel her climax gathering, a tidal wave of sensation building at the base of his spine. The room seemed to pulse with the energy of it. In the periphery of his vision, the shadows in the corner of Hermione’s book-lined room deepened, and he knew Lilitha was there, a silent spectator feasting on the symphony of their pleasure.
“Look at me, Hermione,” he groaned, his own control splintering. “I want to see you.”
Her eyes, dark and drowning in ecstasy, locked on his. He felt her inner muscles clamp down on him in a series of violent, exquisite spasms. Her mouth opened in a silent scream as her orgasm ripped through her, a cataclysm of feeling that seemed to last an eternity.
The sight of her coming undone, the feel of her pulsing around him, the raw power of her whispered desires still echoing in his ears—it was too much. With a guttural groan that was ripped from the depths of his soul, Harry followed her over the edge. His release was a blinding, white-hot flood, pouring into her as he thrusted through his own climax, each pulse wringing another tremulous aftershock from her ravaged body.
He collapsed onto her, spent, his face buried in the fragrant curve of her neck. They lay there, tangled together, hearts hammering a frantic, synchronized rhythm against each other’s chests. The only sound was their ragged, panting breaths and the soft, satisfied hum of energy that seemed to vibrate through the room before gently fading away.
After a long, languid moment, Hermione’s hand came up, her fingers gently carding through his sweat-damp hair. Her voice, when she spoke, was husky and sated, but clear, her own again.
“That was…” she began, but seemed to lack the word. She simply held him tighter.
- 3
- 4
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Baker Does Them	By : gee25 Category: Harry Potter > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 545 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. This is AI Generated.

Baker Does Them