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
- 3
- 4
- 5
The digital clock on Harry’s bedside table glowed 2:17 a.m. He was awake, had been for twenty minutes, his fist wrapped tight around his cock, stroking with a slow, relentless rhythm that made his whole body hum.
It wasn’t a choice. It was a compulsion.
The memory of Hermione’s voice was a physical thing in the dark room. It wrapped around him, a warm, velvet command. You’ll stroke your cock, Harry. You’ll think of how good my voice makes you feel. He could hear the exact cadence, the soft, firm tone that left no room for argument. He wasn’t thinking about the war. He wasn’t thinking about anything at all. His mind was a blank, pleasant space filled only with the echo of her words and the building, torturous pleasure in his groin.
His thumb swiped over the slick head, spreading the wetness down his shaft. Fuck. It felt so much better than it ever had. Every pull of his hand wasn’t just friction; it was a wave of that deep, heavy goodness she’d planted in him. It was peace. It was obedience. And it was hers.
He bit his lip, his hips lifting off the mattress to push into his own grip. His breath came in short, sharp puffs. He was close. So close. The heat was coiling, tight and desperate, at the base of his spine.
But you will not let yourself orgasm. Not yet.
The thought sliced through the haze, clear as a bell. Hermione’s voice again, a gentle chiding. A rule.
A whimper escaped him. He slowed his hand, easing the pressure, letting the urgent need recede just enough to keep him balanced on that razor’s edge. The denial was its own kind of pleasure—a sweet, aching emptiness that somehow felt even more intense than release. He was hard, throbbing, leaking against his stomach, but he didn’t come. He just stayed there, riding the feeling, reminiscing just as she’d told him to.
Eventually, the frantic edge softened into a warm, satisfied glow. His hand stilled. He was spent, but not satisfied. The need was quieter now, a persistent hum under his skin. He wiped his hand on the sheet, rolled onto his side, and fell back into a deep, dreamless sleep within seconds.
*
The dream, when it came, had no clear beginning.
He was in her consulting room, but the lights were lower. Warmer. Hermione stood before him, but she wasn’t holding her maple rod. She was just watching him, a small, knowing smile on her lips. He was on his knees. He didn’t remember kneeling. It just felt… right.
“Look at your mistress,” she said, and his eyes flew open, though in the dream, they’d never been closed.
He looked up at her. Her curls were a dark halo. Her intelligent eyes held his, and in them, he saw no judgment, only a calm, absolute authority. A shiver ran through him—not of fear, but of profound relief.
“Good boy,” she murmured.
The words went straight to his cock, which was already hard and aching in the dream. He wanted to say thank you. He wanted to beg. He just stayed silent, waiting.
She took a single step forward. The toe of her shoe came to rest just between his splayed knees. “This is where you belong, Harry. When you’re with me. On your knees. Needing my voice. Needing my permission.”
He nodded, a frantic, eager motion. “Yes.”
“You would do anything for me, wouldn’t you?”
“Anything.” The answer was immediate, torn from a place deeper than thought.
Her smile widened. “I know.”
He woke with a gasp, the sheet tented over his raging erection. The room was grey with pre-dawn light. His heart hammered against his ribs. The dream felt more real than the room around him. The submission. The want. It clung to him, a ghost of a feeling that left him trembling.
He didn’t touch himself again. He just lay there, aching, counting the hours until three p.m.
*
“You’re in a deep, deep trance, Harry. Deeper than you’ve ever been. You are safe. You are relaxed. You are mine.”
Hermione’s voice was a liquid cascade, pouring into the silent, receptive vessel of his mind. He was under in less than a minute, his body a limp, heavy weight in the plush chair. The silver spiral had barely needed to pulse before his consciousness slid away, leaving only obedient, empty stillness.
She set the rod aside. She didn’t need it now.
“Now, Harry,” she said, leaning close. Her breath ghosted over his face. “Look at your mistress.”
His eyelids lifted. His green eyes were blank, glassy, but they fixed on her instantly. There was no life in that gaze, only a void waiting to be filled. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
She smiled, gentle and possessive. “Hello, Harry.”
A soft, sighing breath left his parted lips.
“You’re going to stay right there, looking at me, deep in your trance, while we do something important,” she whispered, her voice dropping to an intimate, hushed tone. “You’re going to touch yourself for me. You’re going to wrap your hand around your beautiful, hard cock and stroke it. Slowly. Just like you did last night. And while you do, my voice is going to give your subconscious mind some new truths. They will sink in, deep and permanent. You will not remember the words. You will only remember how incredibly, perfectly good you felt while hearing them. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” A whisper.
“Good. Begin.”
His hand moved, clumsy with trance, fumbling with the button of his trousers. He got it open, pushed the fabric down his hips. His cock sprang free, already fully erect, the head flushed a dark, needy red. A bead of moisture gleamed at the tip. Hermione’s own breath caught at the sight. He was magnificent.
His fingers closed around his shaft. He gave a slow, tentative pull.
“That’s it,” she purred. She leaned closer, her lips almost brushing his ear, and began to whisper, her voice a hypnotic, rhythmic stream.
“I feel good whenever I obey Hermione.” His hand stroked, a little firmer. A low groan rattled in his chest.
“I feel aroused whenever I hear and obey Hermione.” His hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk. Pre-come welled, slicking his path.
“I feel horny whenever I think of Hermione.” His pace picked up. The sound of skin on skin, wet and steady, filled the quiet room.
Hermione’s eyes were locked on his face, watching every flicker of pleasure that crossed his blank features. Her own core was a tight, dripping ache. She kept whispering, each statement a stone dropped into the still pool of his mind.
“I will do anything for Hermione.”
His stroking became urgent, frantic.
“I touch myself to thoughts of submission to Hermione.”
A full-body shudder wracked him. His free hand gripped the armrest, knuckles white.
“Hermione keeps my best interests at heart.” She let the irony lace the words, a secret thrill.
“I cannot think for myself, so I need Hermione.”
His mouth fell open in a silent cry. He was panting, lost to the sensations, her voice the only anchor.
“Hermione is the center of my life.” She said it with finality.
“Hermione is my mistress and goddess.”
That did it. His back arched violently off the chair. A ragged, broken sound tore from his throat. “Hermione…” he gasped, not in question, but in worship.
“Come,” she commanded, her voice sharp and clear.
He erupted, stripes of white shooting over his fist, his stomach, spattering the fabric of the chair. It was a brutal, uncontrolled release, his body convulsing under the force of it. She watched, mesmerized, as every last drop was wrung from him by her words, by his own obedient hand.
When he was spent, collapsing back into the chair, his cock still twitching in his slack grip, she finally leaned back.
“Very good, my perfect boy,” she murmured, brushing a sweaty lock of hair from his forehead. “Now, sleep. And forget the words. Just remember the feeling.”
His eyes slid shut. His breathing evened out, deep and peaceful.
She looked at the mess on his stomach, on her chair. A mark of her absolute control. Her pulse hammered in her throat, a frantic, hungry beat.
The session wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
- 3
- 4
- 5
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Come to Play