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Harry wakes without knowing why.
He blinks in the dark, disoriented for a moment before he remembers where he is. Not at Privet Drive, not at the Burrow, not at Grimmauld either. He's not lying on any proper mattress but rather on a thin slab of compact foam. The walls around him are fabric, and the chill of the night air is creeping into the tent. Any comfort level is minimal, which delighted Mr Weasley.
"We'll be camping like real Muggles!" he excitedly declared as they struggled to set up the tents.
Harry's been looking forward to it. He's already spent half the summer at the Burrow, cooped up with the entire Weasley family, and while he loves them all, it sometimes gets a little too crowded. Plus, he needed a distraction after the harrowing events of the school year. He still has nightmares about the fight at the Ministry and Sirius nearly dying.
Here, in the wild, Harry feels at peace.
He's sharing his tent with Ron, while Hermione and Ginny share one as well, and Mr Weasley, Sirius and Bill got the largest tent of the three. It's their first night, from a planned total of four. They walked all day and Harry pretty much dropped fast asleep the moment he set his head on the pillow.
So why is he awake?
Blinking blearily, he turns his head to look at Ron. He can't see anything—it's too dark—but he does hear him, a slow steady breathing that indicates his friend is asleep.
He waits a moment, then closes his eyes again.
He drifts off… sleep snagging at him, his mind sinking into deep waters, where nothing can hurt him and there's no Voldemort…
Something shifts behind him.
Cool air hits his back, his bare legs, and he gives a confused groan. What happened to his sleeping bag? He's about to blindly reach backwards when heat suffuses his body from behind. He sighs, the sensation pleasant, and melts back into the foam mattress. It's fine, he'll sleep like this, then...
Fingers.
Trailing up his legs, a light, tickling contact.
They slip under the soft flannel of his shorts, heading higher, and Harry mindlessly rolls his hips. Heat pools between his legs, a sticky, honeyed warmth. Oh, it's that kind of dream…
The fingers grow bolder. They reach the apex of his thighs, stretching the fabric of his shorts, gliding over his underwear. A large palm cups his mound from behind.
There's a pause.
Maybe the dream man was expecting to find a cock. Instead Harry's got a pussy down there, onethat's already clenching in anticipation. The man shifts closer. Large thighs bracket Harry's legs, and that palm presses up, rocking into him. Harry rocks back. A shiver of heat unfurls in his cunt, and when the man slips two fingers beneath his underwear to stroke his folds, Harry shudders and bites his lips.
A finger traces along his slit. It dips in, shallowly, gathering slick and spreading it around, and then it slides in, to the first knuckle. And it's thick, that finger. Thicker than Harry's own fingers. It belongs to a man.
It's always a man in Harry's dreams, a tall, faceless man, but it has never felt that real.
Maybe it's not a dream.
Harry grips his pillow as the finger probes deeper. His cunt gives a flutter and his thighs tremble. Something pulls at his insides, a hot, heavy coil settling in his stomach. The finger retreats, only to ease back in, gliding in his cunt. It rubs at a sensitive spot inside, rubs rubs rubs, and Harry swallows back a keen.
He has to be silent.
Any undue noise might wake up Ron, and then what will happen?
The very idea of Ron waking up to witness Harry being fingered from behind by some stranger sends a raw spike of heat through his guts. It's mortifying—shameful, thrilling and terrible all at once.
The fingers curl inside him. Fingers, plural. Harry is pretty sure there's two of them now, gliding in, probing along his walls in smooth strokes. They stretch him more than he's ever stretched himself. There's a latent ache between his legs, almost but not quite pain, the sensation edged with hints of pleasure. It's good. But mainly Harry wants more.
The man touches him slow and lazy. As if he has all the time in the world. As if he's not worried he might be seen, or interrupted. Does he think Harry is asleep? Or does he know Harry's lying there trembling and holding back moans, waiting for a proper finger-fucking?
His cunt throbs as those thick fingers move in and out of him. They explore, testing what he can take. They press against the spongy spot near his entrance, and pleasure slices through him in a series of brutal pulses that steal his breath. Yes, yes, yes, that's what he wants. Fuck, it never feels like that when he touches himself. He stops himself from squeezing his thighs together to trap the man's hand there. If the man believes Harry's asleep, then he'll play that role.
Wet noises echo around the tent. Filthy noises, and Harry feels dirty, letting some unknown man do this to him. He's dripping slick all over those pumping fingers, making it wetter and filthier every passing second. He's never been this wet either, god.
The fingers twist inside him. They're hilt deep, stuffing him, and they scrape and turn, doing something to his nerves, striking a spark, igniting a fire in his pussy. Harry tenses, muffling a groan in the pillow. Blood rushes to his ears. His hips roll, instinctively, trying to fuck himself on those fingers. His body moves without his control, governed by the most primal part of his brain—the animal one, the one that wants to hump that hand and impales his hole on those fingers. His cunt squeezes around them as if aiming to keep them in there.
And just like that, he's there, right there, fuck, he's going to—
No.
The fingers retreat just as Harry is about to tip headfirst into orgasm. His empty cunt flutters, muscles spasming deep in him, the delicious pressure of his impending climax fading in a blink. A small keening huff leaves his lips.
Next to him, Ron makes a sleepy sound and rolls over. Harry freezes. Behind him, the man waits.
There's a beat of silence. Then another, then another…
Harry prays the man won't leave. He prays he'll continue doing this, touching him, no matter the risk. Isn't Harry worth it? Isn't this why the man crept in there in the dead of night, because he had to get his hands on him? Because Harry was so tempting he couldn't wait…
And no obstacle would stop him.
Ron doesn't move again. The man shifts behind Harry. Hands land on his hips, and Harry very nearly sobs in relief. The stranger isn't leaving. He'll give Harry his fingers again, he'll make him come, please, please…
Harry's shorts are pulled down. The man yanks his underwear out of the way, just enough to bare his cunt, the fabric cutting into the soft flesh of his thighs. There's the quiet click of a belt, then a rustle. More heat at Harry's back as the man crowds closer. Something hot and rigid presses against his thigh. A hand skims over the curve of his arse to settle at the small of his back.
Harry gulps air in a shaky inhale.
His pulse trips when he feels pressure against his hole. Hot, blunt pressure, and then it pushes right there between his legs, inching in, and fuck, that's a cock.
A cock breaching him.
It's big, Harry's senses relay to him. Big, thick, and inching deeper into him in a slow, relentless glide. Harry squeezes his eyes shut as the man sinks into him. He must be confident his fingers sufficiently prepared Harry because he just goes for it. Thrusts in, his cock a hard iron length of unyielding heat, carving a path in Harry, opening him up.
Making him a sheath for the man's cock.
The slick friction curls his toes. Heat blazes at his cheeks, his entire face flaming. He's being fucked. His first time, and he's belly down on a cheap foam mattress, getting filled from behind by a stranger.
The cock keeps pushing in—keeps making room for itself inside him, where he didn't even known there was room. It's not stopping. It's not stopping, and fuck, who has a cock that size? Did the man use a spell or something? It can't be natural, there's no way—
It feels like the cock has reached into Harry's stomach when finally the man's hips meet his rump.
It's so much.
Harry can barely breathe. Every drag of air makes him more aware of the thing inside him, the monstrous cock the man must be packing. His insides twitch and flutter around the thick girth, his body sending him alert signals.
He barely has time to get used to the sensation. Already the man is moving. A slow slide out, a lazy glide in, the motions accompanied by wet suctions noises. He grinds into Harry's pussy. They're not real thrusts but rather point-blank rolls of his hips, as if he means to plumb Harry's depths with his cockhead, the blunt tip pressing against his cervix again and again.
Harry squirms. He can't help it, his cunt stuffed too full, his nerves alight. His hips twitch back and forth, reacting to every move from the man, and he thinks that could happen if he were asleep, too. His body would respond to stimulation, would contract around that cock, would shudder and tense and tremble.
The man pauses, fully sheathed in Harry. Strong hips pressed against his arse, heat suffusing his back, and Harry clenches down and moves, the cock sliding half out of him then pressing back in as he impales himself on it. He does it a couple of times, pretty much humping the stranger.
Large hands land on his hips. They pin him to the floor, stopping him. He gives a huff while his cunt pulses, begging for more in its own way. The man makes a sound in return, a soft clicking of his tongue.
Like he's telling Harry to stay still.
Telling Harry he'll get what he wants, but he has to be patient.
But how can Harry be patient when he feels just how much better it could be? There's such vast potential for pleasure inside him, a low smoldering heat ready to flare up and consume him. If only that cock would move. He needs it pounding into him, splitting him wide. He needs it rearranging his insides.
"She'll be feeling me for days," Seamus had once said, bragging about fucking his girlfriend.
Harry wants that too.
He wants to feel that cock tomorrow, and the day after, and after.He wants to carry the memory of his little cunt forced open by that fat prick for the rest of the summer.
He might be a slut.
Surely no normal person would react like this to someone sneaking into their tent at night to stuff them full of cock. Surely he should fight off the stranger, scream for help, protest. Do anything but spread his legs wider and offer up his cunt.
But then again, Harry has never been normal.
The man moves behind him.
He's finally decided to fuck Harry properly. His hips snap forward. That enormous cock pumps into him in long, smooth strokes, spearing his needy pussy. Harry keens, breathless and wide-eyed. Oh fuck, fuck, that's a lot. His cunt clings to the fat shaft, fitting around it like a too-tight glove. His rim is stretched and spasming, a constant flutter around the thick base of the cock stuffing him.
There's a soft squelch on every inward drive.
Shlick.
The cock plunges into him.
Shlick.
He's taking it, taking thatthick cock in his tight virgin hole. Well, not so virgin anymore.
Does the man know it's his first time? Did he guess it when his fingers prodded at Harry's pussy?
Shlick, shlick, shlick.
The man is speeding up. He settles into a hard pace, his rhythmic strokes jostling Harry, hips smacking firmly against his rump. Harry can feel the flex of firm muscles as the man moves, strong, burning thighs pressing against his. The man runs hot. His cock is a searing brand inside Harry, his larger body a furnace above him.
Muffled whimpers pour from Harry's lips, paired with rough breathing from the man. Harry clutches his pillow, face pressed into the fabric, and prays the noise they're making won't wake Ron.
He prays the stranger will keep fucking him.
He prays the man will make Harry come on his glorious cock.
Pleasure scorches his insides, burning sharper and sharper. He tenses up every time the man goes balls deep, which makes him feel bigger, makes every thrust better. Blood pounds in his ears. The rigid heat of the man's heavy cock spreads him open over and over. His chest trembles from it—his entire body, buzzing with bliss.
The man is giving quiet grunts every time he hilts inside Harry. His balls slap his slit, and that's filthy too, a wet punctuation to each thrust.
Harry thinks the stranger might not pull out, that he might spill inside him, raw and hot and dangerous.
One more thrust and Harry's coming. It's unexpected, a violent ripple of pleasure that tears through his belly. He jerks, muffles a long moan into the pillow, the world turning white and streaked with lightning. His insides clenchfitfully around the man's cock, his pussy trying to do what it was meant for—to milk the man's cock.
The hands shift at his hips. The man adds more weight onto Harry, braced against him now. His thrusts turn shallower, quicker, his breathing audibly ragged. Harry shivers, cunt spasming weakly.
The man is close.
He's so close, pumping his last thrusts inside Harry, fucking him hard and fast, all rhythm gone. Harry is pinned down, impaled as the stranger chases his pleasure in him. He's just a hole now, a hot tight cunt to be used.
To be filled.
The man shudders. He lets out a low grunt, and with one long slide of cock all the way inside Harry, he comes. He pumps spurts of cum into him, a scorching flood in his well-fucked cunt. Harry couldn't stop him even if he wanted to. The man's cock throbs and throbs, balls flexing as he empties his entire load into Harry.
Perhaps that was always his goal.
To spill into Harry's tight cunt, to brand him forever, claim him in the most primal way possible.
He grinds into Harry as his cock finishes twitching. A few sloppy thrusts to fuck his cum deeper, and then he pulls out. Harry moans. He can't speak, can't tell the man how much he liked it, but he lets out an appreciative sound, low and breathy. The man palms his cunt. He rubs at Harry's leaking slit, as if checking to make sure he's filled him up. Two fingers slides in with the most obscene squelch, and Harry moans again. It takes him a moment to realize the man is scooping up the dribbles of cum that have escaped and pushing them back inside Harry's pussy.
Then the man gives him a pat on the bum.
There's a shuffle, the heat of the man's body disappearing. Harry hears the tent flap open and slip close.
He lies in the dark, out of breath, cunt dripping. A giddy smile on his lips. With a groan, he pulls his sleeping bag back in place and snuggles there, uncaring of the mess he's making. He'll clean up in the morning.
He closes his eyes.
Sleeps claims him moments later.
At breakfast the next morning, he sits gingerly. There's a lingering ache between his thighs, and every time he shifts on the log they're using as seats, he has to restrain from wincing. Everyone's talking around him, easy conversations flowing free. He's not really participating beyond a few words here and there.
He's scanning the faces of his fellow campers.
Whose cock was inside me last night?
Harry looks at Mr Weasley and frowns. No. It doesn't feel right. Mr Weasley is faithful to his wife, and besides, his hands are not calloused at all, not like the hands that held Harry's hips as the man pounded into him.
Bill? He has calluses, yeah, but Harry's shaken his hand enough time over the years to notice his fingers are always cold. Can't be him.
So that leaves...
Sirius.
Harry looks at his godfather. In the morning light, his handsome face appears luminous, his hair artfully disheveled in a way that makes him looks cool and uncaring, his eyes a very pale gray. Harry meets his gaze. Sirius smiles at him, a slight smirk that tugs at his lips. Something tightens up inside Harry. The memory of that huge cock drilling into him floods his brain.
His godfather's cock.
His godfather's cum inside him, fuck.
Sirius' smile seem to grow, as if he knows what Harry is thinking. As if he knows Harry can still feel him in his cunt. Blushing, Harry ducks his head and crosses his legs.
"You slept alright, Harry?" Sirius says lightly, like everything's normal, like he didn't plough into Harry like a man possessed last night.
"Y-yeah. The mattress was a bit hard, but the rest was fine."
"Fine," Sirius repeats, and somehow the word sounds filthy in his mouth. "That's your assessment of your first night camping in the wild?"
"Yep. I hope the second night is pretty much the same," he says.
Sirius' gaze darkens. Heat cramps Harry's insides in the most delicious, perverted way. Everyone's still talking around them, and none of them have any clue of what went down last night in Harry's tent.
"You know," Sirius says, his eyes lazily roaming over Harry, "I rather think it will be."
Harry can't fucking wait.