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The Unfulfilled Wife - Chapter 03
🕑 Added 2025-03-25 23:53:52 +0000 UTCHarry sipped his tea, pretending to read the Daily Prophet while his mind replayed yesterday’s encounter with Molly. The way his fingers sank into the pillowy softness of her heavy breasts. The slick heat between them as his cock slid back and forth, her encouraging words that still made his cheeks burn.
The kitchen door swung open, startling him from his daydream. Molly entered, carrying a basket of fresh herbs from the garden. Her hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, curls of red framing her face. She wore a simple floral dress that accentuated her generous curves. Their eyes met, and the air charged instantly.
“Morning,” she said, her voice casual as she set the basket on the counter. “Sleep well?”
“Not really,” Harry admitted, watching her move about the kitchen. “Kept thinking about...things.”
A faint blush colored Molly’s cheeks, but her expression remained composed. “Breakfast?”
“Already ate, thanks.” He folded the newspaper. “Is there anything I can help with today?”
Molly glanced at the clock—Arthur’s hand pointed to “Work,” Ron and George to “Diagon Alley.” The house was empty again.
“Actually,” she said, her voice dropping, “I could use some help in the pantry. I need to check our supplies for the weekend.”
The pantry. A small, enclosed space away from prying eyes. Harry’s heart raced as he nodded, rising from his chair. “Lead the way.”
The walk across the kitchen felt endless. Molly opened the narrow pantry door, gesturing for Harry to enter first. The space was cramped and filled with shelves laden with dried goods. Bundles of herbs hung from hooks, and sacks of flour were stacked in corners. The smell of cinnamon, clove, and dried lavender saturated the cool air.
Harry turned as Molly followed him in, closing the door behind her. The click of the latch echoed in the confined space. Light filtered through a small window, casting dappled patterns across her face.
They stood for a moment, barely a foot apart, the air thick with possibility. Harry wondered if he should reach for her as he had yesterday, but something in Molly’s expression made him wait.
“I told myself this wouldn’t happen again,” she said quietly, her eyes searching his face. “That yesterday was a moment of weakness. A mistake.”
Harry’s stomach tightened. “Was it?”
Molly laughed softly. “It should be. You’re Ron’s best friend. Arthur trusts you like a son.” She shook her head. “I’m supposed to be the responsible one.”
“We’re both adults,” Harry countered. “I know what I want.”
“Do you?” Her gaze was penetrating. “This isn’t a game, Harry. It’s not one of those novels.”
“I never said it was.” He stepped closer, close enough to smell the soap on her skin and the faint floral scent of her shampoo. “I want you, Molly. Not as some fantasy, but as you are.”
The resistance in her expression melted, giving way to acceptance and relief. She reached up, tracing his jawline with gentle fingers. “You’ve always been different, haven’t you? So sweet with words.”
Harry leaned into her fingers and kissed her palm, a gesture somehow more intimate than everything they’d done yesterday. Her breath hitched, eyes darkening as they fixed on his lips.
“I’ve been thinking about yesterday,” she confessed, her voice dropping to a whisper. “All night. Things I shouldn’t have been thinking with Arthur sleeping beside me.” Her hand drifted down his chest, coming to rest against his stomach, just above his belt. “Things I want to do to you.”
Heat surged through Harry’s body, pooling low in his groin. “Like what?” he managed, his voice rough with desire.
Instead of answering, Molly pressed her hand flat against his chest, nudging him back until he bumped against a sturdy wooden shelf. Her eyes held his, dark with intent, as she sank slowly to her knees.
Harry’s breath caught in his throat. Molly Weasley—the woman who had fed him, cared for him, treated him like family—was kneeling at his feet, looking up with an expression that was anything but maternal. Her hands moved to his belt, fingers working the buckle with agonizing slowness.
“You don’t have to—“ he began, suddenly overwhelmed by the reality of what was happening.
“I want to,” she interrupted, her voice steady despite the flush in her cheeks. “I’ve been thinking about this since I saw how big you are. How that beastly thing felt between my breasts.” The buckle came loose in her hands. “I want to taste you, Harry.”
Her words sent a jolt of pure desire through him. He nodded, unable to formulate a coherent response as she unbuttoned his jeans and slowly lowered the zipper, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet pantry.
Molly tugged his jeans down his hips, leaving him in his boxers, the fabric tented by his hardening cock and wet from precum. She looked up at him, pupils dilated, eyes tinged with lust and desire. She looked younger, more alive than he’d ever seen her.
“I used to be quite good at this,” she murmured, fingers hooking into the waistband of his boxers. “Before seven children, before life became a routine.” She pulled the fabric down, freeing his erection. It sprang upward, veins prominent along the shaft, the head glistening with arousal. “Merlin’s beard,” she breathed, eyes widening. “You’re such a big boy.”
Harry felt a surge of pride at her admiration. His cock twitched under her heavy gaze.
“Arthur’s never been...” Molly began, then caught herself. “Well, let’s just say this is a rare treat.” She wrapped her hand around his shaft, unable to fully encircle his girth. “So thick,” she marveled, stroking experimentally. “And long. Merlin, Harry, you’re blessed. I don’t know what my daughter was thinking, leaving this behind.”
Her praise sent heat through him, his cock jerking in her grasp. He watched as she leaned forward, her breath hot against his sensitive skin. She extended her tongue, sweeping it over the head in a deliberate lick.
“Fuck,” Harry gasped, the sensation electric. His hands grasped the shelf behind him as Molly explored with her tongue, tracing his veins, swirling around the ridge of the engorged head.
“Language,” she scolded automatically, then laughed. “Actually, I rather like hearing you curse. It means I’m doing something right.”
Before he could respond, she took him into her mouth, her lips stretching wide to accommodate his girth. The wet heat enveloping his cock drew a groan from his chest. Her tongue worked against the underside of his shaft as she took more of it, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked.
Harry’s knees weakened. His experiences with Ginny had been limited to hurried kisses and clumsy touches—nothing like this skilled attention. Molly moved with confidence, one hand gripping his shaft where her mouth couldn’t reach, the other cupping his balls, applying just enough pressure to make him crumble.
“Fuck, Molly,” he breathed, gripping the shelf as he fought the urge to thrust deeper. “That feels amazing.”
She hummed in response, the vibration sending pleasure through his groin. Her eyes closed in concentration as she established a rhythm—drawing back until just the head remained between her lips, then descending, taking him deeper each time until he hit the back of her throat. Saliva coated his shaft, the wet sounds of her enthusiastic sucking filling the pantry.
Harry’s mouth was agape in awe. Molly Weasley on her knees, lips stretched around him, gagging on his cock. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he watched his length disappear repeatedly into her eager mouth.
After several minutes, Molly pulled back, gasping for breath. Her lips were swollen, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with a mixture of desire and triumph. A drop of sweat rolled down her neck, disappearing into her cleavage.
“Been years since I felt this alive,” she confessed, her voice shaking. She continued stroking his slick cock as she steadied her breath. “Years since I’ve taken someone in my mouth.”
The raw honesty in her voice made him dizzy. He reached down to brush a strand of hair from her face, a tenderness in the gesture that made her expression soften.
“What about Arthur?” he asked before he could stop himself.
A shadow crossed Molly’s face. “Arthur is...Arthur. He’s a good man, a wonderful father.” She continued stroking Harry’s shaft, her thumb circling the sensitive head. “But sometimes a woman needs something more than reliability. Sometimes she needs to feel desired. Pursued. To feel that fire again.”
She leaned forward and pressed a kiss on his stomach, then traced a path to the base of his cock. “He hasn’t looked at me the way you do in...I can’t remember how long.” Her lips trailed along his shaft, peppering him with tiny kisses. “Hasn’t wanted me this desperately. And he certainly doesn’t have anything like this,” she added, her fingers squeezing his girth.
Harry understood then: this wasn’t just about physical release. It was about feeling wanted, needed—emotions Molly had been starved of for years.
“I want you,” he said hoarsely, his hand cupping her cheek. “All of you.”
Molly’s eyes darkened. She took him in her mouth again, deeper this time, her throat relaxing to accept more of his length. Harry gasped as he felt the back of her throat again, fighting the instinct to thrust.
A floorboard creaked somewhere in the house.
They froze, Molly’s mouth still around him, Harry’s hand in her hair. For a heartbeat, neither moved, ears straining for further sounds. The Burrow settled back into silence—just the normal groan of an old house shifting in the morning sun.
“He’s not home,” Molly slurred, voice muffled by saliva and the thick cock in her mouth. But the moment of danger had added a new edge to their encounter, a reckless thrill that seemed to excite her. Her movements became more urgent, her mouth taking him deeper, sucking harder.
Harry’s fingers tightened in her hair, guiding her movements now as his control began to slip. The obscene sounds of her mouth working him, the sight of his cock stretching her, the knowledge that anyone could walk in—pushed him to the edge of madness.
“Molly,” he warned, his voice strained. “I’m close.”
She responded by increasing her pace, her hand working in concert with her mouth, eyes locked on his face as if memorizing his expression. The message was clear—she wanted this, wanted him to finish.
The pressure built swiftly, coiling tighter with each slide of her lips, each stroke of her expert hand. Harry’s breath came in ragged gasps, his hips jerking involuntarily as his climax approached. “Fuck, Molly, I’m going to—“
His warning died in his throat as pleasure exploded through him. His cock pulsed as he erupted in her mouth, sending thick globs of cum down her throat. Molly didn’t pull away, her eyes stuck to his as she swallowed every spurt, her throat working visibly. She continued to stroke him, coaxing every last drop from his body until he sagged against the shelf, spent.
When the tremors finally passed, Molly released him, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her lipstick was smeared, her hair disheveled, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. Despite her disarray, there was triumph in her expression. Pride at the state she’d reduced him to, and satisfaction at her skills.
“Well,” she said, her voice hoarse. “That was worth the effort.”
Harry struggled to form words. “That was...incredible.” He reached down to help her up. “But what about you? I want to return the favour.”
Molly smiled. “There’ll be time,” she assured him, straightening her dress and tucking the loose strands of hair back into place. Within moments, she was back to being the composed housewife. Only the flush in her cheeks and the smeared lipstick betrayed what had transpired.
Harry adjusted his clothing, tucking himself away and zipping his jeans. Reality settled in, and yet he felt no regret. Only a deepening fascination with this woman he’d thought he knew.
“We should probably...” Molly gestured toward the pantry door.
“Right,” Harry agreed, though neither moved immediately. In the narrow space, they stood close enough to feel each other’s warmth.
“Harry,” Molly said softly. “This is dangerous. What we’re doing.”
He nodded, understanding the deeper meaning behind her words. Dangerous for their familial relationships. Dangerous for her marriage. Dangerous for their hearts.
“I know.” He reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. “But I don’t want to stop.”
Relief flickered across her face, as if she’d feared his rejection now that his desire had been sated. “Neither do I,” she admitted. “Though I should. I should be stronger than this.”
“You’re the strongest person I know,” Harry said with conviction. “This doesn’t change that.”
She touched his cheek with tender fingers. “Such a good man you’ve become. Despite everything.” She sighed, her thumb tracing his lower lip. “We’ll figure this out as we go, I suppose. Just...be careful.”
The warning hung between them—be careful with her heart, with the family’s trust, with the secret they now shared.
“I will,” he promised.
Molly nodded, seeming satisfied. She turned to the shelves, selecting a jar of preserved peaches. “Take this,” she instructed, handing it to him. “In case anyone asks why we were in here.”
Harry accepted the jar, impressed by her foresight. “Always thinking ahead.”
“Someone has to,” she replied with a small smile, straightening her apron one final time. “I’ll go first. Count to twenty, then follow.”
With that, she opened the pantry door, light spilling in from the kitchen. She glanced back at him once more, her expression clouding momentarily, before slipping out and closing the door behind her.
Harry leaned against the shelf, jar clutched in his hands, counting silently as instructed. His mind raced with emotions—satisfaction, confusion, anticipation. The encounter had deepened something between them, pushed their connection beyond mere physical release into territory neither had anticipated.
Reaching twenty, he took a deep breath and opened the door, stepping back into the bright kitchen. Molly stood at the sink, washing herbs from the garden as if nothing had happened.
“Put the peaches on the counter,” she said without turning, her voice perfectly steady. “I’m thinking cobbler for dessert tonight.”
“Sounds delicious,” Harry replied, following her lead. He placed the jar on the counter, noticing the slight tremble in his own hands.
As he turned to leave, Molly added casually, “Oh, and Harry? Arthur’s working late again tomorrow. I might need help reorganizing the broom shed.”
Her tone was innocent, but when she glanced over her shoulder, her eyes held a promise that sent heat rushing through him once more.
“Happy to help,” he replied, the simple phrase now laden with meaning. “Whatever you need.”
