Sex friends - A Harry Potter tale

The rain hadn’t just fallen—it had shattered the afternoon, a sudden violent downpour that sent people scrambling like ants under a boot. Harry had been halfway to the subway when the sky opened up, and in his blind dash for the nearest overhang, he’d collided with a soft, warm body already sheltering there. A muffled “oof” escaped her, and he stammered an apology, stepping back to give her space while water streamed from his hair into his eyes.

 

It was only after a moment, as he wiped his face, that he noticed the smirks. A couple hurrying past, sharing a knowing glance. An older man waiting under a shop awning across the street, grinning openly. Harry followed their gaze to the neon sign above the entrance he’d ducked under—a soft pink heart, the words “Paradise Hour” in looping cursive, and beneath it, smaller but unmistakable: Love Hotel. Hourly Rates.

 

Heat flooded his cheeks. He risked a glance at the girl beside him. She was brushing droplets from her slender arms, her profile sharp and elegant against the gray sheet of rain. She must have noticed the sign too, because when she turned, her blue eyes—huge, crystalline, the color of a tropical lagoon—met his with a flicker of amusement.

 

“Quite the storm,” she said, her voice a smooth alto. She nodded toward the street, where rain now bounced knee-high off the pavement. “We might be here a while.”

 

Harry mumbled agreement. The awkwardness thickened, fed by every new arrival who glanced at them, a young man and a stunning blonde standing shoulder-to-shoulder under the glowing heart, and drew the obvious conclusion. Her cream-colored summer dress was already damp, clinging to the gentle curve of her hips and the long, toned lines of her thighs. Her hair, the shade of ripe wheat, fell just between her shoulder blades, and when she tucked a strand behind her ear, he saw the delicate shell of it, the elegant line of her neck.

 

After five minutes of silent, agonizing proximity, she sighed. “Look, I’m getting splashed, and you’re drowning in secondhand embarrassment. They think we’re a couple here to rent a room. Why don’t we… make it true? Just to get out of the rain.”

 

Harry blinked. “What?”

 

“We go in, rent a room for an hour, wait out the storm in dry comfort. No one has to know we’re not… you know.” She gave a one-shouldered shrug, but a playful smirk touched her lips. “Unless you’re scared.”

 

Pride, foolish and male, straightened his spine. “I’m not scared. It’s just… practical.”

 

“Very practical,” she agreed, and pushed the glass door open.

 

The lobby was dim, lit by violet sconces, with plush carpet that swallowed sound. A discreet clerk behind frosted glass took Harry’s cash without eye contact, slid a keycard across the counter, and murmured, “Room 307. Elevator to your left.”

 

The room was exactly what he feared and, in a secret, shameful corner of his mind, hoped it would be. A large circular bed dominated the space, covered in black satin sheets. A mirrored ceiling reflected the whole scene back at them. A low hum of air conditioning couldn’t mask the faint, sweet scent of disinfectant and something else—something musky, primal.

 

“Home sweet home,” the girl said dryly, dropping her small purse on a velvet chair. She walked to the window, peering through the blinds at the relentless rain. “This might take longer than an hour.”

 

Harry stood frozen just inside the door, his mind a riot. Nothing was going to happen. Of course not. They were strangers. But God, she was beautiful. And this room, with its very purpose hanging in the air like incense, was making his blood thrum. He imagined those long legs wrapped around his waist, that blonde hair fanned out on the black satin, her back arching as he—

 

“Hey.”

 

Her voice pulled him from the fantasy. She had turned from the window and was studying him, head tilted. Her gaze traveled over him—his broad shoulders strained against his wet shirt, his tousled dark hair, down to his jeans and back up. That smirk returned, fuller now, more knowing.

 

“Since we’re already here,” she said, taking a slow step toward him, “how about I repay your generosity for paying for this room for both of us?”

 

Before he could process the words, she closed the distance. Her hands came up to frame his face, cool and sure, and she kissed him.

 

It wasn’t tentative. It was a claiming. Her lips were soft but insistent, parting his with practiced ease, and her tongue swept into his mouth. The shock melted under a wave of pure, electric heat. Harry groaned into the kiss, his hands moving of their own volition to grip her waist, pulling her flush against him. He could feel every curve through the thin fabric of her dress, the swell of her breasts against his chest.

 

The kiss deepened, turned frantic. Hands began to roam, to tug, to pull. His shirt was yanked over his head and discarded. Her dress buttons proved a fumble, until she impatiently shimmied the whole thing down, letting it pool at her feet. She stood before him in only matching lace underwear—cream, like her skin—and Harry’s breath caught. Her breasts were perfect B-cups, high and round with nipples already peaked hard and pink against the lace. His mouth watered.

 

“Like what you see?” she breathed, her own eyes drinking him in. She traced the defined lines of his six-pack, her fingers skating lower, over the trail of hair leading down. When her palm cupped him through his jeans, she gasped softly. “Wow. You are already really hard.”

 

Harry’s face flamed. “O-Of course,” he stammered, trying for nonchalance and failing utterly. “Anyone would get hard after a kiss like that.”

 

She giggled, a low, husky sound, and pressed her hand more firmly. She began to knead him through the denim, her eyes widening with delight. “And what an amazing tool. I’m going to enjoy myself very much tonight.” She unbuckled his belt, popped the button, and dragged his jeans and boxers down in one motion. His cock sprang free, fully erect, thick and long and curving slightly upward. She stared, genuine awe on her face. “Now that I think about it,” she whispered, “I’ve never seen someone as big as you are.”

 

Prise, hot and fierce, burst in Harry’s chest. He swelled even further under her gaze.

 

Then she sank to her knees.

 

“Let me kiss your cock too,” she said, her voice gone smoky.

 

“Whoa! What?” Harry jolted, hands half-reaching to stop her. “You’re not… grossed out by it?”

 

His protest died as her lips, lush and warm, closed over the broad head. Her tongue darted out, licking a firm stripe along the sensitive underside of his crown. A bolt of pleasure shot straight to his spine. “Ooooh!” The moan was ripped from him. “You’re licking… the underside of my tip… aah!”

 

She hummed in approval, the vibration traveling through his entire length. She took him deeper, her mouth a wet, hot heaven, her tongue working eagerly as if he were the most delicious treat she’d ever tasted. Her hands cradled his balls, rolling them gently, then stroked the thick base of his shaft. She was an expert, moving with a confident rhythm that had his knees trembling.

 

With a sudden, surprising strength, she pushed him backward. He landed on the edge of the circular bed, and she climbed over him, straddling his hips. Still holding his gaze, she reached back, unhooked her bra, and let it fall. Her breasts swayed free, creamy and perfect. He wanted to devour them, to suck those pink nipples until she screamed.

 

But she wasn’t done. Still kneeling over him, she turned, presenting him with the breathtaking view of her back, the elegant dip of her spine, and the glorious, plump rounds of her ass, barely contained by her tiny lace panties. She hooked her thumbs in the sides and began to peel them down.

 

They were soaked. The pale lace was dark with her arousal, clinging to her folds as she pulled, revealing the glistening pink slit of her pussy. Juices had already slicked her inner thighs. The scent of her—musky, sweet, intensely female—hit him, and he groaned.

 

She looked over her shoulder, her blue eyes heavy-lidded. “If you think it looks good,” she purred, her voice a sinful promise, “wait until you taste and smell my pussy when I’m facesitting you.”

 

The image—her weight on his face, that wet heat smothering him—made his cock jerk violently. A bead of precum welled and spilled from his slit.

 

She moved swiftly, turning her body around and climbing up his torso. True to her word, she brought her plump ass and dripping pussy to his face, lowering herself until her folds hovered just above his mouth. Her arousal dripped onto his chin, his lips. He could see everything—the neat strip of blonde hair on her mound, the swollen, glistening lips of her pussy, the darker, puckered rose of her asshole just behind. It was obscene. It was magnificent.

 

He grabbed her thighs, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh, and pulled her down onto his waiting mouth.

 

This is my first time doing a 69, he thought deliriously, as her own head descended and she took his cock back into her throat. I’m looking at her pussy while she sucks me off. What a turn on!

 

He licked her like a starving man. A long, flat stroke from her perineum up through her soaked slit. She gasped around his cock, her body shuddering. He zeroed in on her clitoris, a hard little pearl peeking from its hood, and sucked it gently, then flicked it with the tip of his tongue.

 

“Mmmph!” The vibration around his shaft was incredible. She was sucking him with fierce dedication, bobbing her head, using her hands to stroke what she couldn’t fit into her mouth. She was milking him, the pressure building in his balls with terrifying speed. He was losing himself, about to be undone by her mouth alone.

 

Determined to reciprocate, he plunged two fingers inside her. She was so tight, so hot and silken. He crooked them, searching, scissoring them gently as he continued to lap at her clit. Her moans grew higher, more desperate. He felt a different texture inside—a rougher, ridged patch on her upper wall. He pressed the pads of his fingers against it.

 

“Aaaahn!” Her cry was muffled by his cock, but her entire body convulsed. A fresh gush of fluid coated his fingers and chin.

 

“It feels different in here…” Harry panted, withdrawing his fingers only to massage that spot again with a circling motion. “This must be your weak spot.”

 

“Nooooo, not there!” she wailed, but it was a plea for more, not less. Her hips ground against his face, riding his fingers and tongue. He kept the pressure steady, rubbing her G-spot in time with the suction of his mouth on her clit.

 

She shattered. A raw, guttural scream tore from her as her body bowed, then she collapsed forward, her pussy spasming wildly against his mouth. A hot jet of fluid—not just juices, but a true, pulsing squirt—hit his tongue and chin. The taste was salty, musky, profoundly erotic.

 

She rolled off him, boneless, panting on the black satin beside him. A deep blush painted her chest and cheeks. Her eyes were glazed, tears of pleasure clinging to her lashes. She looked utterly wrecked.

 

“No one,” she breathed, her voice hoarse, “has ever made me cum like that.” She turned her head to look at him, a soft, dazed smile on her lips. “You’ve earned the right to call me by my name. I’m Daphne.”

 

Daphne. The name suited her—mythical, beautiful, a little dangerous.

 

Emboldened, Harry moved over her. He spread her legs wide, gazing at the beautiful mess he’d made of her. Her pussy lips were flushed dark pink, swollen, still glistening and twitching. She lay with her arms above her head, sweat and his saliva drying on her skin, a portrait of debauched bliss.

 

He fumbled for his wallet, retrieved a condom, and sheathed himself with hands that shook. He was so hard it was almost painful.

 

“Oooh,” he groaned, positioning himself at her entrance. “Here I go, Daphne.”

 

He pushed in. The resistance was exquisite. She was unbelievably tight, her inner walls clamping around him like a velvet fist. He was not just long, but thick, and he felt every ridge and fold of her accommodate him, stretch for him. As the head of his cock passed over that rough patch inside her, she cried out.

 

“Oh God! It’s so big!” Her back arched off the bed. “Oooh! Aaaah!”

 

He sank deeper, inch by devastating inch, until he was fully sheathed, his hips pressed against her. She felt impossibly full, stretched to her limit. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open in a silent ‘O’ of shock.

 

“Oh God,” she whimpered, “there’s more?”

 

He began to move. Slow, deep pulls that dragged his entire length almost out, then slammed back home. The sound of flesh meeting flesh, wet and rhythmic, filled the room. Her ability to form words dissolved into a continuous stream of moans, grunts, and choked pleas. She clutched at his shoulders, her nails digging in.

 

“Oh crap! This pussy… Daphne, your insides are so tight!” Harry gritted out, the sensation overwhelming. “I can feel your walls squeezing me!”

 

“Oh, Harry, you feel… so good,” she managed between gasps. “I’ve never… had someone reach so deep… I can feel your cock kissing my cervix… it’s too much!” Her head thrashed side to side. “This is amazing! My insides are being pushed around… I’m being thoroughly fucked!”

 

He shifted her legs over his shoulders, driving even deeper. The angle changed, and with every thrust, the broad head of his cock hammered directly into her G-spot. Her cries became screams, sharp and ragged. He was a piston, a machine, fucking her with a single-minded intensity that bordered on violence, and she met every plunge with a desperate lift of her hips.

 

“Daphne, I’m at my limit,” he growled, sweat dripping from his brow onto her chest. “I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna plaster your insides white.”

 

In a final, dominant move, he flipped her onto her stomach, pulled her hips up, and mounted her in a deep mating press. This position allowed the deepest penetration possible. He drove into her, his balls slapping against her clit with each thrust.

 

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” she shrieked, her voice breaking. “Faster! Harder! I’m cumming too, Harry! Aaaaaah!”

 

Her internal muscles clamped down on him in a series of violent, rippling spasms. That was all it took. With a roar, Harry buried himself to the hilt and came, his vision whiting out as pulse after pulse of seed filled the condom trapped deep within her.

 

For a long minute, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant drum of rain.

 

“Haaa… haaa… that felt really good,” Daphne sighed, her voice muffled by the sheets.

 

Harry pulled out slowly, collapsing beside her. He looked at the condom, swollen with his release, then at her. Her pussy was visibly puffy, her asshole still winking from the aftershocks. She was beautifully, utterly used.

 

To his shock, she stirred, sat up, and gently removed the condom from him. Before he could protest, she took his softening—but still substantial—cock into her mouth, sucking and licking him clean with a tender thoroughness that made him twitch anew.

 

“Ooooh! But I just came!” he muttered, overwhelmed.

 

“Yeah,” she said, releasing him with a soft pop and a grin. “And you did such good work.”

 

The rain continued. So did they. For hours. Against the wall, her legs hooked over his arms. On the chair, her back to his chest. On her hands and knees, him pounding into her from behind while she screamed into a pillow. Each time was a new discovery, a new peak of sweat-slicked, animalistic pleasure. By the time the furious pounding on the windows softened to a patter, then silence, they were both exhausted, bruised, and soaked in each other.

 

“Aaah… that felt good,” Daphne commented, stretching like a cat as they stepped out of the “Paradise Hour” and into the washed-clean evening air. The streets shimmered under the streetlights, steam rising from the warm asphalt. Harry followed, his body humming with satisfaction, his mind in a pleasant fog. An embarrassed, proud smile tugged at his lips.

 

“The rain gave up,” Daphne observed, glancing at the clearing sky. “Just a summer rain, huh?”

 

While she talked, Harry’s thoughts raced ahead. We just fucked for hours. Incredible, mind-blowing hours. Before we even knew each other’s names. But this… this means something, right? This connection, this intensity… it can’t be just a random thing. This means I got a girlfriend now. A nervous, hopeful energy buzzed in his chest. He couldn’t let her just walk away.

 

“Eh, Daphne… uh,” he mumbled, stepping closer as they paused at a crosswalk.

 

She held up a finger. “Hang on a second… my boyfriend is calling me.” She pulled her phone from her purse, her face lighting up with a smile as she answered. “Hey, you! Yeah, sorry, the rain was insane…”

 

Harry felt the world drop out from under him. The pleasant fog evaporated, replaced by a cold, hard vacuum in his gut. Boyfriend. The word echoed, a sucker-punch to his diaphragm. She had a boyfriend. All along.

“Sorry,” she said, the embarrassed expression on her face looking almost genuine. “I guess I forgot to tell you.” She tucked a strand of that golden hair behind her ear, a gesture that now felt practiced, performative. “He canceled our date last minute, so I just… wandered around. And then it suddenly rained.” She shrugged, but her eyes held a glint of something harder than apology—a spark of defiant mischief. “And, you know, we haven’t been connecting much lately. I was just… looking for a little excitement in life. And well, that’s when you showed up!” A soft laugh escaped her. “I felt a little bad for him, but that sure was exciting, wasn’t it? I guess this is why people have affairs.”

 

Harry’s thoughts, which had been floating in a warm, satiated haze, crystallized into sharp, jagged shards. Boyfriend. She has a boyfriend. To think I was about to fall in love with her… The notion seemed absurd and pathetic now, crashing down around him. The hours of intimate, raw connection—the way she’d gasped his name, the look of vulnerable bliss after she came—it all curdled into something cheap, transactional. And from the looks of it, she’s treating this as a one-night stand. A random adventure. Damn it. A hot, possessive anger surged through him, mingling with the lingering thrum of desire. I should’ve gone all out. I should’ve fucked her until she couldn’t walk, until she forgot his name, until she was screaming only mine.

 

As if reading the turmoil on his face, her expression softened, but the smirk never fully left her lips. “But…” she began, stepping a little closer. The scent of her, of them—sex and hotel soap—still clung to her skin. “The sex with you felt really good. It would be a shame if we didn’t get to do it again… don’t you think?” Her blue eyes locked onto his, issuing a challenge, an invitation. “So, let’s meet again.”

 

So are we sex friends now? The term echoed coldly in his mind. The moral quandary—what about her boyfriend?—flared for a second before being smothered by a more primal, selfish logic. Whatever. This chance will never come by again. A girl like her… in my bed again? There’s only one answer.

 

“Sure,” Harry said, his voice tighter than he intended. He pulled out his phone. “Let’s exchange numbers.”

 

Her smirk widened into a victorious, knowing smile as she recited her digits. “Oh, right,” she added, her tone dropping to a conspiratorial purr as she leaned in. “Next time, you can really go all out on me. To make up for it.” Her gaze traveled down his body and back up, lingering. “You had such a serious, intense look in your eyes when we fucked. I liked it.”

 

Before Harry could formulate a response—whether to agree, to question, to confess the storm she’d unleashed inside him—a familiar voice cut through the humid evening air.

 

“Hmmm? Is that you, Harry?”

 

They turned in unison. A tall, amiably chubby man with a mop of light brown hair was waving from a few meters away, a friendly grin splitting his face. Beside him stood a girl who seemed to be trying to disappear into the pavement, her eyes cast down.

 

“Hey! Haven’t seen you in a while. What a coincidence!” the man boomed, closing the distance with a few long strides.

 

The recognition was instant, a jarring splash of normalcy. “Neville,” Harry said, forcing his social muscles to engage. His eyes shifted to the girl. She was stunning in a quiet, starkly contrasting way to Daphne. Long, fiery red hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing a face with delicate features and a shy, hesitant smile. Her figure was lush—a tight waist flaring into hips that promised an ass of legendary proportions, and the soft swell of her chest strained against her simple cotton top. “It’s been a while, Susan!”

 

Susan’s eyes flickered up, a blush already staining her cheeks. “Hello,” she murmured, her voice so soft it was almost carried away by the distant traffic. Harry was always struck by the disconnect—such breathtaking beauty paired with a shyness so profound it seemed to physically pain her. Neville had introduced her as his girlfriend at their last class reunion, a pairing that had raised a few eyebrows but seemed to genuinely work.

 

“So you guys didn’t bring an umbrella either, huh?” Neville chuckled, gesturing at the damp sheen on everyone’s clothes.

 

“Haha, yeah,” Harry replied, running a hand through his still-damp hair. “We forgot.”

 

“Okay, okay,” Neville said, his jovial demeanor unwavering. He clapped Harry on the shoulder, then his attention, bright and curious, landed squarely on Daphne. “But Harry, before we talk any further, shouldn’t you introduce this cute girl to me?” He said it with a laughing tone, a nudge-wink kind of comment meant among friends.

 

It had an immediate effect. Susan’s shy demeanor hardened. She didn’t say a word, but her spine straightened, and she shot Neville a look from the corner of her eye—a searing, dirty side-look that spoke volumes of quiet fury.

 

Harry opened his mouth, his mind blanking. What was she? His hookup? His affair partner? His—

 

“I’m Harry’s girlfriend,” Daphne announced smoothly, slipping her arm through Harry’s with a natural, possessive ease. Her smile was bright, charming, perfectly calibrated.

 

Harry stiffened, shooting her a questioning glance. She squeezed his arm and rose on her toes, her whisper a warm breath against his ear. “It’s okay. Let me pretend. It’s easier.”

 

Meanwhile, Neville had already pivoted, his hands raised in placating surrender to Susan. “I was just kidding, babe! Of course she’s his girlfriend. Don’t give me that look!”

 

“Well, I didn’t find it funny at all,” Susan replied, her voice still quiet but now edged with frost. She crossed her arms, a defensive gesture that only accentuated the generous curve of her breasts.

 

Neville beamed, clearly finding her jealousy adorable. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her stiff form against his side. “Oh, are you feeling jealous? Don’t worry,” he cooed, planting a loud kiss on her temple. “You are my one and only true love.” Susan did not melt; she remained a beautiful, rigid statue in his embrace.

 

Neville turned his attention back to Harry and Daphne, seamlessly moving on. “Oh, right! We live just around the corner. You should come by! Come to my house, let’s catch up a little. Have a drink, dry off properly.”

 

It was an offer made in typical, overwhelming Neville fashion—more a statement than a question. Harry looked at Daphne, who gave a slight, imperceptible nod, her “girlfriend” mask firmly in place.

 

“Yeah, alright,” Harry said. “That sounds good.”

 

“Excellent!” Neville declared, already steering Susan down the sidewalk. “It’s just this way. Follow us!”

 

And so they fell into step behind them—Harry and Daphne, the new and fraudulent couple, following Neville and Susan, the established and currently strained one. The silence between the two pairs was filled with the echo of their footsteps on the wet concrete and a thick, unspoken tension. Harry was acutely aware of Daphne’s arm linked through his, the phantom heat of her body from hours of intimacy now a confusing brand. He watched Susan’s proud, resentful posture ahead of them, the sway of her red hair, and Neville’s oblivious, cheerful chatter.

 

The ordinary residential street, with its neat hedges and glowing porch lights, felt like a surreal dreamscape after the mirrored, neon-soaked fantasy of the love hotel. The night, it seemed, was far from over.