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
- 4
- 5
- 6
Chapter 5 - The Promise of Peace
The polished oak door to Harry’s consulting room clicked shut with a sound of finality. Pansy Parkinson stood just inside, her sharp eyes doing a quick, dismissive inventory of the space. Her gaze swept over the deep leather chairs, the shelves of impressive books, the low-burning fire, and finally settled on Harry himself.
“Potter,” she said, her voice a blend of polished pure-blood drawl and underlying tension. “This is… not what I expected. I was told you were the best for… recalibrating one’s focus. For achieving goals.”
“I am,” Harry replied, not rising from his chair. He gestured to the seat opposite. His green eyes held hers, not with the hostility of their schooldays, but with a calm, appraising intensity that was far more disquieting. “Please. Sit.”
Pansy smoothed her perfectly tailored charcoal grey robes and sat, her posture ramrod straight, her ankles crossed precisely. She was a collection of sharp angles and controlled energy. “My goals require a certain… removal of distraction. A clarity of purpose. I understand you have a unique method for achieving that.”
“I do.” Harry leaned forward, the firelight catching the silver chain around his neck. The obsidian pendant remained hidden beneath his shirt. “It’s about accessing the mind’s deeper currents. The parts that are free from doubt, from hesitation. The parts that know exactly what they want and how to get it.”
A flicker of interest, avaricious and cold, shone in Pansy’s dark eyes. “That sounds precisely like what I need.”
“It requires absolute trust,” Harry said, his voice dropping into that velvety, resonant register that seemed to vibrate in the very air between them. “And absolute honesty. Your mind must be an open book for me to… edit.”
Pansy’s chin lifted a fraction. “I am not a woman who trusts easily, Potter.”
“Then consider this a test of your commitment to your own ambition.” He held her gaze, a silent challenge. “The first step is relaxation. A state of profound peace. Will you allow me to guide you there?”
She hesitated for only a second, her ambition warring with her ingrained suspicion. The former won. She gave a single, sharp nod.
“Good.” Harry didn’t reach for his pendulum. Instead, he nodded toward a blank section of the wall. “Just watch the wall. Focus on your breathing. In… and out.”
Pansy’s eyes narrowed slightly, a skeptic to her core, but she complied. She focused on the smooth plaster, her chest rising and falling in a controlled rhythm.
Harry began to speak, his voice a soft, hypnotic cadence that wrapped around her. “You feel the weight of your own expectations, Pansy. The pressure to be sharper, smarter, more cunning than anyone else in the room. It’s a heavy burden to carry alone. Doesn’t it feel good… to imagine setting it down?”
A tiny line of tension between her eyebrows eased. Her shoulders, held so rigidly, dropped a millimeter.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Just let it go. The world outside this room doesn’t exist. There is no past, no future. Only this moment. Only my voice. Your eyelids are growing heavy. So very heavy. The sound of my voice is the only thing holding you up.”
Pansy’s blinks became longer, slower. The shrewd calculation in her eyes was softening, clouding over. Her breathing deepened, syncing with the slow, rhythmic tempo of his speech.
“You’re doing so well,” he praised, and a faint, unexpected flush bloomed on her cheeks. The hunger in her—for success, for validation—was a easy lever to pull. “Such a quick study. Your mind is so powerful, so eager to please when given the right direction. You want to please me, don’t you, Pansy? You want to show me how good you can be.”
A soft, nearly inaudible “Yes” sighed from her lips.
“Nod if you can feel the peace settling into your bones. If you can feel yourself surrendering to this perfect, empty calm.”
Her head dipped in a slow, dreamy nod. The proud, haughty pure-blood was melting away, leaving behind a pliant, receptive vessel. Her hands lay limp in her lap.
Harry rose and moved to stand behind her chair. He placed his hands on her shoulders. She jolted slightly at the contact, then melted into it with a soft murmur.
“This tension you carry…” he said, his thumbs working into the tight muscles of her shoulders. “…it’s a barrier. It must be released. The body must be as open as the mind.” His hands slid down, over the front of her robes, his palms skimming the sides of her breasts. He felt the sudden hitch in her breath, the rigid surprise that was quickly dissolving back into trance-like acceptance. “You can feel my touch even through the layers, can’t you? It’s not just my hands. It’s my will. My attention. And it feels good to be the focus of such intense attention.”
“Y-yes…” Her voice was a thready whisper.
“Stand up.”
She rose, her movements fluid and graceful, a sleepwalker’s ballet.
His fingers went to the clasp of her robes. She didn’t flinch. The heavy fabric whispered to the floor, pooling at her feet. She stood before him in a sleek, expensive slip of black silk and lace. Her skin was pale as moonlight.
“So beautiful,” he said, and the clinical detachment in his tone made the compliment feel like a command. “A body built for pleasure. For power. But you keep it locked away. Not anymore.” His fingers traced the line of her spine through the silk. “Remove it.”
Her hands, moving with that same dreamy slowness, reached back and found the tie of her slip. She loosened it. The silk slid down her body, catching on her hips for a moment before she pushed it down, letting it join the robes on the floor. She stood naked, her skin pebbling in the warm air, her arms hanging loosely at her sides. Her small, pert breasts rose and fell with her steady, trance-deep breathing.
“Look at you,” Harry whispered, circling her now, his gaze a physical caress. “No more barriers. No more defenses. Just… perfect openness.” He stopped in front of her. “Now, Pansy, I want you to feel something new. A direct line from my voice to your pleasure. My words will become physical sensations. My commands will be the source of your deepest satisfaction. Do you understand?”
“Understand,” she echoed, her glassy eyes fixed on some point beyond his shoulder.
“When I say the word ‘blossom’, you will feel a wave of intense, hot pleasure centered on your clit. It will be sudden. It will be overwhelming. It will be a gift from me. The word is ‘blossom’. Blossom.”
The effect was instantaneous and violent. Pansy’s entire body stiffened. A choked, guttural sound was ripped from her throat, part shock, part raw ecstasy. Her back arched, her head snapping back as a tremor wracked her frame. Her hands flew to her own breasts, squeezing roughly, as if the sensation there was too much to bear alone. The pleasure-pain of it showed on her face, her mouth a wide ‘O’ of stunned surrender.
As the wave began to recede, leaving her shuddering and gasping, Harry stepped close. “And when I say ‘still’,” he murmured, his lips near her ear, “it will stop. Completely. Still.”
The pleasure vanished, leaving a cold, aching void in its place. A desperate, whimpering cry escaped her. Her hips gave a frantic, involuntary thrust against the empty air, seeking the lost sensation.
“You see?” he said, his voice calm, instructional. “On. Off. My control. Your pleasure. It’s the ultimate clarity, isn’t it? No guesswork. No games. Just simple, perfect cause and effect. Obedience and reward.”
He guided her stumbling form away from the chair, toward a different door, one that blended into the wall paneling. He opened it. Beyond was a smaller, windowless room, lit only by the pulsing, swirling colors of a large magical screen. A complex, repeating spiral dominated the display, its colors shifting from deep indigo to hot pink, and within its patterns, subtle, subliminal images flickered: a curving spine, a parted mouth, a glistening, beckoning flower.
A low, resonant hum filled the space, a sound that seemed to vibrate in the teeth and bones.
And on plush divans arranged before the screen knelt two other women. Hermione and Ginny. Both were naked, their eyes glazed and fixed on the pulsating colors. Their hands moved between their own legs in a slow, synchronized rhythm, their lips moving in a silent, continuous recitation of their mantras. They did not look up as Harry entered with his new charge. They were entranced, lost in the screen’s relentless, subjugating rhythm.
“Your classmates are already learning the deeper lessons,” Harry said, guiding a mesmerized Pansy to her knees on a vacant cushion. “The screen and the hum… they help the mantras sink in. They rewire the mind for its true purpose. Which is service.”
Pansy knelt, her head tilting up to the hypnotic display. The swirling colors reflected in her wide, unblinking eyes. The hum seemed to soak into her skin.
“Watch the spiral, Pansy,” Harry commanded, his voice blending seamlessly with the room’s frequency. “Let the colors pull you down deeper. Let the hum empty you out. Your only thoughts will be the ones I give you. Your only pleasure will be the one I allow.”
He knelt behind her, his body framing hers. His hands came around to cup her small breasts, his thumbs flicking over her nipples. She jolted, a gasp escaping her as twin bolts of sensation shot through her.
“Blossom,” he whispered into her ear.
Another devastating wave of pleasure crashed over her, this one amplified by his touch, by the hypnotic visuals, by the all-consuming hum. She cried out, her body bowing back against his chest, her hands scrabbling at his thighs. The pleasure was a live wire, sizzling through every nerve ending.
“Still.”
It vanished. The sob that wrenched from her this time was one of pure, agonized frustration.
“This is your new clarity, Pansy,” he growled, one of his hands sliding down her flat stomach, through the neat triangle of dark hair, his fingers finding her sopping wetness. He didn’t touch her clit. He just held his fingers there, a teasing, maddening promise. “This is the removal of all distraction. Your entire world is this room. My voice. My touch. Your need. Blossom.”
He said it as his middle finger slid inside her, curling upwards.
Pansy screamed. The internal command and the physical invasion merged into one cataclysmic event. Her inner muscles clamped down around his finger as the artificial pleasure lit up her system. Her hips pistoned against his hand, fucking herself on his finger with a frantic, mindless desperation. Her head thrashed from side to side, her carefully styled hair coming undone.
“Still!”
The withdrawal of the sensation and the sudden emptiness was a physical agony. She whimpered, her body convulsing with the loss.
Harry held his glistening finger before her eyes. “This is your focus now. This wetness. This ache. This is the only ambition that matters. The ambition to be filled. To be used. To be my good girl.”
He turned her head, forcing her to look at Hermione and Ginny, who continued their silent, masturbatory worship, their bodies glistening with sweat under the pulsating light.
“They already know their purpose,” he said, his voice softening into a cruel parody of tenderness. “They’ve found their peace. Now it’s your turn. Blossom.”
The pleasure hit her again, a searing bolt of ecstasy that tore through her like wildfire. Pansy’s body convulsed violently, her back arching as if trying to escape the unbearable intensity, only to collapse forward again, her hands clawing at the plush cushion beneath her. A broken, shuddering moan escaped her lips, raw and unfiltered, betraying every shred of dignity she had ever possessed. Her thighs quivered, her muscles spasming as the artificial pleasure forced her into a state of helpless surrender. She tried to speak, to protest, but no words came—only gasps and whimpers, fragmented sounds that dissolved into the resonant hum of the room.
“Good girl,” Harry murmured, his voice a velvet purr that slithered into her ear. His fingers trailed down her spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake, and she shuddered under his touch, unable to resist the electric warmth that followed. “Your body knows what it was made for now. It knows its purpose. To obey. To feel. To crave.” His hand cupped her chin, tilting her head back so she was forced to meet his gaze. Her eyes were glazed, pupils dilated, her lips parted in a silent plea for more. “Say it, Pansy. Say you’re mine.”
“I… I’m yours,” she managed to choke out, her voice trembling but unequivocal. The admission sparked another wave of pleasure, softer this time, but no less overwhelming. Her hips rocked involuntarily, seeking friction, seeking relief, but finding only the tantalizing emptiness that Harry’s command had left in its wake. She felt exposed, stripped bare not just of her clothes but of every defense she had ever built around herself. The proud, cunning Slytherin was gone, replaced by a trembling, needy creature who could think of nothing but the next command, the next wave of sensation.
Harry’s hand moved lower, brushing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, and she gasped, her body jerking as if struck by a live wire. “You’ll do anything for me, won’t you?” he whispered, his breath hot against her ear. “Anything to feel this again.” His fingers teased her entrance, slick with her own arousal, and she whimpered, her hips lifting instinctively toward his touch. But he didn’t give her what she craved—not yet. He simply hovered there, letting the anticipation coil tighter and tighter inside her until she thought she might burst.
“Please…” The word slipped out before she could stop it, a desperate plea that echoed in the charged air of the room. Her pride was gone now, shattered by the relentless waves of pleasure and the crushing weight of her need. “Please, Master…”
Harry smiled, a slow, satisfied curve of his lips that sent a shiver down her spine. “That’s my good girl,” he crooned, his voice dripping with approval. “Blossom.”
The ecstasy crashed over her again, harder this time, merciless and all-consuming. Pansy’s cry was swallowed by the hum of the room as her body buckled under the force of it, collapsing into Harry’s waiting arms. She was lost now, adrift in a sea of sensation where only his voice could guide her. And guiding her it was, deeper and deeper into the abyss of her own submission.
*
The scent of old parchment and dust was a familiar comfort, a scent that normally signaled focus and intellectual pursuit. Today, it was a thin veneer over a simmering, illicit reality. Hermione Granger sat at a long oak table in the Ministry’s main magical library, a heavy tome on ancient wizarding laws open before her. A few tables over, Ginny Weasley pretended to study a glossy brochure on the latest Nimbus racing broom.
Neither was wearing knickers.
Beneath Hermione’s sensible, knee-length tweed skirt and Ginny’s casual sunflower-print sundress, a secret hummed to life. It was a low, insistent vibration, a magical device charmed to pulse against their most sensitive flesh. Harry’s latest ‘assignment’ was a test of control, a deliciously cruel exercise in public composure.
The vibration intensified.
Hermione’s pen stilled over her notepad. A soft, almost imperceptible sigh escaped her lips before she could stifle it. Her thighs trembled under the table, a subtle tremor she fought to control. The vibration wasn’t constant; it was a wicked, unpredictable thing. It would lull her into a false sense of manageable sensation before surging into a focused, buzzing point right against her clit.
“Find anything useful yet?” Ginny’s voice was a tad too bright, a slight strain at the edges. She shifted in her seat, the wicker of the library chair creaking under her movement.
Hermione cleared her throat, her own voice feeling tight. “A few leads on archaic property transfer laws. Pre-Gamp era. It’s… dense reading.” And my body is on fire. The last thought was a silent scream in her mind as the device pulsed again, a sharp, rhythmic thrum that made her want to grind down against the hard wood of her seat. She pressed her thighs together tightly, a feeble attempt to amplify the sensation or stifle it—she wasn’t sure which.
Ginny bit her lower lip, her eyes glazing over for a second. “Merlin, it’s warm in here, isn’t it?” She fanned herself with the brochure, a flush creeping up her neck. The vibration for her was centered differently, a deep, internal thrum that resonated in her core, making her feel incredibly full and achingly empty all at once. Every few minutes, it would shift, stroking a spot inside her that made her see stars. She had to lock her muscles to keep from crying out.
A severe-looking witch at a nearby table glanced up from her scrolls and shushed them gently.
Hermione offered a tight, apologetic smile and bent her head back over her book. The words blurred. ‘…wherein the witch, upon sworn fealty, relinquishes all temporal claims to her former life, her magic thus becoming a channel for her Master’s…’ She swallowed hard. Her nipples were hard peaks against the rough fabric of her blouse, another layer of relentless stimulation. Every rustle of a page, every whisper from another scholar, was a cacophony competing with the insistent, humming demand between her legs.
She was wet. Soaked, really. The slickness was a secret shame that thrilled her. She could feel it, a hot, slick evidence of her body’s betrayal, its eager response to his remote control. He’s watching, she thought, the idea sending another jolt through her. He’s somewhere, knowing exactly what this feels like. Knowing how close we are to breaking.
Ginny let out a tiny, muffled whimper, quickly disguising it as a cough. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the edge of the table. The vibration inside her had just performed a slow, curling motion, a magical mimicry of a tongue that left her dizzy and desperate. She squeezed her eyes shut, focusing on the mantra Harry had woven into her mind. My pleasure is his to give. My need is a song for him.
After what felt like an eternity of exquisite torture, Hermione’s finger landed on a passage. Her breath, already shallow, caught. “Ginny,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “I found it.”
The ‘it’ was a sub-chapter on ‘Volitional Thralldom and the Magico-Legal Conduits of the Seventeenth Century.’ It was exactly what Harry had sent them to find.
“Thank Morgana,” Ginny breathed, the words laced with relief and a different kind of anticipation. The assignment was over. Now came the report.
They gathered their things with trembling hands, their movements slightly uncoordinated. The walk out of the library and through the Ministry’s bustling corridors was a special kind of hell. Every step sent a fresh wave of sensation through them. The vibrators never ceased their work, a constant reminder of their purpose and their Master’s pervasive control. They didn’t speak, simply exchanging a look of shared, breathless agony.
Harry’s office door swung open before they could knock. He stood there, leaning against the frame, a faint, knowing smile on his face. His green eyes scanned them both, missing nothing: the flushed skin, the dilated pupils, the slight unsteadiness in their stance.
“Did you have a productive afternoon at the library, ladies?” he asked, his voice like dark honey.
“Yes, Master,” they chorused, their voices overlapping.
“Come in. Show me.”
They moved into the familiar room, the door shutting with a soft click that sounded like a verdict. The vibrators’ intensity didn’t lessen. If anything, the proximity to him seemed to amplify their effect. Hermione’s knees felt dangerously weak.
“The text, Master,” Hermione began, her words coming in soft pants. “The Seningham Codex… it outlines a… a ah!… a permanent magical covenant.” The device chose that moment to spike, a sudden, intense vibration that stole her breath. She swayed, clutching the book to her chest like a shield.
Harry’s smile widened. He was enjoying this. “Go on, Hermione.”
“It… it requires a dual invocation,” she continued, forcing the words out through the pleasure haze. “The Master’s intent… and the slave’s… oh, gods… utter, verbal surrender.” A small shudder ran through her. “The magic then… rewrites her very… magical core to be dependent… nngh… on his.”
“Excellent,” Harry purred. He turned his gaze to Ginny. “And you, my fiery seeker? What did you learn?”
Ginny was biting her lip so hard she feared she’d draw blood. The internal pulsing was a relentless, throbbing demand. “It’s… irreversible, Master. Once the conduit is open… the slave’s magic… it can’t function on its own. It needs his… his focus… his command to… to please!” Her words dissolved into a strangled moan as the sensation within her shifted, coiling tightly around a deep, hidden spot.
Harry stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. He smelled of sandalwood and raw power. “And do you think you could perform this ritual? Could you open a witch so completely? Could you make her yours, forever?”
“Y-yes, Master,” Ginny gasped.
“Yes, Master,” Hermione echoed, her own need a roaring fire in her veins.
“Good.” He finally reached into his pocket and withdrew a small, obsidian control stone. He didn’t turn the devices off. Instead, his thumb stroked over its surface. “Now, I want you to report again. Tell me everything you learned. But this time…” He looked from one to the other, his eyes gleaming with dark promise. “Do not stop. No matter what.”
His thumb pressed down.
The gentle, maddening hum erupted into a screaming, relentless buzz. It was no longer a suggestion; it was a command written directly onto their nerves.
Hermione cried out, the book tumbling from her nerveless fingers as her back arched. The vibration was a brutal, focused assault on her clit, a sensation so intense it bordered on pain, yet pitched perfectly to tip into mind-shattering pleasure. Her hands flew to the edge of his desk, gripping it for support.
Ginny doubled over with a gasp, then straightened up, her head thrown back. The deep, internal pulse became a violent, throbbing pounding against her g-spot, a rapid-fire simulation of a claiming that left her seeing white flashes behind her eyelids. “The… the c-covenant!” she stammered, trying to obey, her body jerking with the force of the vibrations. “It requires a… a blood oath!”
“Very good, Ginny,” Harry murmured, his voice dark with approval. He increased the power another fraction.
A guttural moan was torn from Hermione’s throat. Her hips began to move of their own accord, making small, frantic circles against the empty air, seeking friction, seeking release that wasn’t coming. “And the… the slave’s magical signature… oh, Merlin!… is… is absorbed… it becomes a part of his!” The words were almost sobbed, each one a struggle against the tidal wave of sensation.
Harry watched them, his own arousal evident. He circled them like a satisfied predator. “Louder. I want to hear your understanding. I want to hear your devotion over the sound of your pleasure.”
“It’s—it’s eternal!” Ginny shouted, her body trembling violently, her hands clutching her own stomach. “The binding is for life! Her magic… her self… belongs to him… forever!” Her legs buckled, and she sank to her knees, the sundress pooling around her, her thighs slick with her own arousal.
Hermione followed her down, collapsing onto the rich Persian rug. The vibrations were everywhere, consuming her. She was so close to the edge, a screaming tension coiling in her very soul. “She… she can never leave… never disobey… her very magic would… would unmake her without him!” The confession was ripped from her, a truth that was both horrifying and electrifying.
Harry knelt between them, the control stone held loosely in his hand. Their reports had devolved into ragged pants and helpless whimpers. Their bodies were glistening with sweat, trembling on the brutal, exquisite precipice he had built for them.
“Such brilliant, obedient girls,” he crooned, his free hand stroking Hermione’s hair, then trailing down to cup Ginny’s heated cheek. “You found exactly what I needed. You deserve a reward for your excellent work, don’t you?”
Their eyes, wide and desperate, fixed on him. They managed weak, eager nods.
He smiled, a slow, wicked curl of his lips.
“But not yet.”
Simultaneously, his thumb swiped across the stone.
The vibrations didn’t stop. They didn’t lessen.
They simply… changed.
The intense, focused stimulation vanished, replaced by a low, deep, resonant thrum that settled into their bones. It was the sensation of being on the very brink, the peak held eternally at bay. It was pleasure frozen in time, a constant, aching need that offered no hope of release. It was the most devastating denial imaginable.
Twin cries of shattered anticipation filled the room. Ginny’s head dropped forward, a sob catching in her throat. Hermione whimpered, her body still thrumming with frustrated, unconsummated energy.
Harry stood, looking down at his two perfect, tortured slaves. “You’ll maintain that state until I say otherwise. A reminder of who holds your pleasure. Who holds you.” He tucked the control stone back into his pocket. “Now, get up. We have a guest for tea.”
*
The clink of fine china was a delicate countermelody to the dull, throbbing ache between Pansy Parkinson’s legs. She sat in a sun-drenched solarium at the Parkinson estate, surrounded by the tinkling laughter and mild complaints of her pure-blood circle. Daphne Greengrass, Millicent Bulstrode, and a few other witches were discussing the tedium of managing their family estates and the pressures of securing ‘suitable’ marriages.
Pansy sipped her Earl Grey, the warmth of the cup doing nothing to soothe the deeper, internal heat that was her constant companion since her session with Harry. The memory of his voice—blossom—was a ghost that caressed her spine. The relentless, submerged hum of the device he’d secretly charmed onto her—a twin to the ones Hermione and Ginny endured—was a grounding wire to his will.
“…and the Wizengamot seat is just a nightmare of bureaucracy,” Daphne was sighing. “I have a constant headache from parsing the legalese.”
“Tell me about it,” Millicent grumbled. “I’d give anything for a bit of quiet. My mind is constantly racing.”
Pansy set her cup down with a soft click. The words left her lips without conscious thought, smooth and persuasive, a new instinct rising from her conditioned depths. “You know, I’ve found the most remarkable solution for that.”
All eyes turned to her. Pansy’s reputation for cutting-edge, if slightly unconventional, solutions was well-known.
“Oh?” Daphne leaned forward, intrigued. “Do share, Pansy. Is it a new potion? Those Pepper-Up variants are so common.”
“Something far more effective,” Pansy said, a serene, knowing smile gracing her features. It was the smile of someone who had discovered a glorious secret. “It’s a therapist, actually. A healer. Harry Potter.”
A ripple of surprised murmurs went around the table. “Potter? The Auror?” Millicent asked, her brow furrowed.
“He’s moved on to more… refined practices,” Pansy explained, her voice dropping to a confidential murmur. “His methods are… revolutionary. Non-invasive. He doesn’t just treat the symptom; he recalibrates the entire system. He finds the source of the noise, the stress, the ambition… and he just…” She paused, her eyes taking on a distant, blissful glaze as the hidden vibrator gave a particularly deep, approving throb. She suppressed a shiver of pleasure. “…he just makes it all go quiet. He gives you such perfect, utter clarity. It’s like finally coming home.”
She looked at her friends, their faces a mixture of curiosity and skepticism, and felt a thrill of devotion to her Master’s cause. She was fishing, and she knew it. And she was using the most tantalizing bait imaginable: the promise of peace.
“His practice is exclusive, of course,” she added, her tone lightly dismissive, as if it were a mere afterthought. “But I could perhaps put in a word for you both. If you’re truly serious about finally finding some quiet.”
She picked up her teacup again, the picture of pure-blood poise, even as the secret rhythm of her Master’s control played its constant, hypnotic tune against her very core, a siren song only she could hear.
- 4
- 5
- 6
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Healer Potter's Perfect Wives