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The Unfulfilled Wife - Chapter 02
🕑 Added 2025-03-25 03:55:49 +0000 UTCThe Burrow’s kitchen was silent, save for the ticking clock on the wall. Late afternoon sun spilled through the windows, casting long shadows across the wooden table where Harry sat. A breeze fluttered the curtains, carrying the scent of wildflowers from the garden. He’d been writing to Hermione, or trying to. His mind constantly drifted to the morning’s encounter with Molly, to the way her eyes had lingered on him before Ron’s interruption.
The clock chimed. Harry glanced up at the family timepiece, its hands pointing to various locations. Arthur’s hand remained firmly on “Work,” where it had been since dawn. Ron had left for Diagon Alley, promising to return with news about George’s latest inventions. The house stood empty except for the two of them—a fact that thrilled and terrified him.
The sound of footsteps pulled him from his thoughts. Molly appeared in the doorway, a basket full of laundry balanced on her hip. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat, strands of auburn hair escaping her loose bun and curling against her neck. She wore a simple cotton dress, faded from countless washes, its thin fabric clinging to her curves in the humid air.
“Still at it?” she asked, setting the basket on a chair. “Hermione will think you’ve forgotten how to write.”
“I keep getting distracted,” Harry admitted, watching as she began sorting through socks. A drop of sweat traced her throat, disappearing under her dress. “It’s too hot to think straight.”
Molly smiled, glancing out the window. “Summer at the Burrow. The cooling charms never quite reach the whole house.” She wiped her brow. “Arthur could never fix them.”
“I could try,” Harry offered, setting down his quill. “I’m not bad with charms.”
“Always helpful,” she murmured, her eyes meeting his briefly before returning to her task. But something in that glance—a flicker of the morning’s tension—made his pulse quicken.
She pulled a shirt from the basket—his shirt—holding it up to examine a tear along the seam. “This needs mending. What happened?”
Harry rubbed his neck. “Got caught on the broom shed door. I was helping Ron clean it last week.”
“Stand up,” Molly instructed, reaching for her wand on the counter. “Let me measure you. I might as well adjust the fit while I’m at it. I remember it being tight across your shoulders.”
Harry rose, feeling self-conscious as she approached. She smelled of lavender soap and fresh bread, a scent so distinctly Molly that it made his chest ache with yearning—comfort, now tangled with forbidden desire.
“Arms out,” she directed.
He complied, standing still as she moved around him. Her wand traced invisible measurements, numbers appearing briefly in the air before dissolving into golden smoke. Her fingers occasionally brushed against him, his shoulder, his back, his chest. Each touch left a trail of heat under his skin.
“You’ve grown,” she observed, her voice softer than before. “Not the scrawny boy who couldn’t finish his breakfast anymore.”
“I can eat seconds now,” Harry replied, attempting humor when his mouth had gone dry. She stood before him now, so close he could see the faint freckles across her nose and the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. “Only when it’s your cooking.”
She smiled at that, but didn’t step away. Her eyes traveled over his face as if seeing him anew. “Harry,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper, “about this morning...”
The air between them thickened, charged by the sudden shift in topic.
“I’ve been thinking about it all day,” Harry admitted, surprising himself with his boldness. “About what I said.”
Molly’s cheeks darkened. “It was just teasing,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction. “We should forget it.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
The question hung between them. Molly’s eyes widened, her lips parting in surprise—or perhaps anticipation. She clutched his shirt, inadvertently pulling them closer.
“This isn’t—we can’t—“ she stammered, yet made no move to distance from him.
“Why not?” Harry asked, heart hammering against his chest. “I’m not a child, Molly.”
The use of her first name changed her expression. She studied him, conflict evident in her gaze. “No,” she agreed after a moment. “You’re not a child. But Harry, you’re young enough to be my son.”
“I’m not your son,” he countered, emboldened by her hesitation. “And I’ve seen the way you look at me. It’s the same way I look at you.”
Molly inhaled sharply, color rising to her face. “Harry Potter,” she said, attempting sternness despite her breathlessness, “you don’t know what you’re asking.”
It was a challenge, whether she meant it as one or not. Harry recognized it in the defiant tilt of her chin and the spark in her eyes.
“Try me,” he whispered.
For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then, with cautious slowness, Harry raised his hand and placed it over hers. Her skin was warm and soft despite years of household chores and cooking. He brushed a thumb over her knuckles and felt her tremble beneath his touch.
“Those books,” he continued, voice low. “I read one.”
Her eyes widened. “You didn’t.”
“The Potion Mistress’s Pleasure,” he confirmed, watching her reaction carefully. “I can’t stop thinking about it. About you.”
Molly’s breath caught. “That’s...inappropriate.”
“I know,” Harry agreed, his hand still covering hers. “That’s what makes it exciting. That’s why you read them.”
The silence stretched, taut with possibility. Outside, garden gnome chattered angrily, the sounds seemingly distant compared to the thundering of Harry’s heart. He’d pushed too far, said too much. Any moment now, she would step away, remind him of his place, and they would pretend this conversation never happened.
Instead, Molly shocked him by letting out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “You really have grown up, haven’t you?” she murmured, setting her wand on the table behind her. When she turned back, something had changed in her demeanor, a subtle shift to something predatory. “Tell me, Harry,” she said, her voice honey-warm, “what did you imagine while reading my book?”
The question sent heat pooling in his belly. This was it—the point of no return. “I imagined it was you,” he admitted, voice breaking. “Teaching me. Showing me things I’ve never experienced.”
Molly’s eyes darkened. “And what makes you think you could handle a woman like me?”
Harry swallowed hard. Ron’s face flashed in his mind, then Arthur’s—the guilt a distant warning. But as Molly stood before him, her chest rising and falling with quickened breath, the warning faded as quickly as it had appeared.
“I’m a fast learner,” he said simply.
Something flickered in Molly’s expression, doubt giving way to decision. She stepped closer, eliminating the last space between them. “Show me,” she breathed against his lips.
Time seemed to freeze. Heart hammering, blood rushing in his ears, Harry made his choice. With deliberate slowness, he raised his hand and cupped her breast through her dress.
Molly gasped but didn’t pull away. Encouraged, Harry squeezed gently, feeling the weight of her in his palm. She felt softer than he’d imagine. Her nipple hardened against his hand, a small peak pressing through layers of fabric.
“Is this okay?” he whispered, suddenly uncertain about his boldness.
In response, Molly covered his hand with her own, pressing it more firmly against her breast. “Yes,” she murmured, “but you’re being too gentle.”
She guided his movements, showing him how she liked to be touched—rougher than he’d dared, more possessive. Her other hand rose to his shoulder, steadying herself as she leaned into his touch. The thin cotton of her dress did little to disguise the magnificent size of her breasts and the prominent nipples now straining against the fabric.
“I've thought about this,” she confessed, her breath warm against his neck. “Merlin help me, I have. Ever since I saw you looking at me like that.”
Harry’s cock hardened in his jeans, throbbing with desire so intense it made him light-headed. Emboldened by her admission, he wrapped his other arm around her waist, drawing her closer until their bodies pressed together. She had to feel his arousal now, jutting against her soft belly.
“I want to make you feel good,” he murmured, dipping his head to brush his lips against her neck. Her skin was warm, fragrant with sweat and floral soap. “Teach me.”
Molly shivered beneath his touch, tilting her head to grant him better access. “It’s been so long,” she breathed. “So long since anyone’s touched me like this. Like they mean it.”
The confession unleashed something inside him—a surge of tenderness amidst the lust. He pressed his lips more firmly against her pulse point, feeling it flutter beneath his kiss. His hands grew bolder, one massaging her breast while the other slipped lower, following the curve of her hip to the swell of her generous backside.
A small whimper escaped her as he squeezed, and Harry felt a rush of power unlike anything he’d experienced before. This was Molly Weasley—fierce, strong, unshakable—trembling in his arms.
“Tell me what you want,” he asked against her skin. “I’ll do anything.”
Molly drew back, her eyes dark with desire, lips trembling as she reigned in her desire. “Not everything. Not yet,” she said, her tone regaining some of its familiar authority. “We need to be careful.”
Harry glanced at the family clock and nodded, understanding her fear. This was dangerous territory for both of them.
“But there are things...” she continued, a hint of mischief entering her expression. She glanced down at his chest, then lower, where his arousal strained against denim. “Things I’ve thought about. That we could try.”
She took his hand, leading him away from the table to the corner of the kitchen, a spot hidden from windows and prying eyes.
“I want to show you something,” she said, hands trembling as she reached for the buttons of her dress. “Something from those books you found so interesting.”
Harry watched, transfixed, as she unfastened the top three buttons, revealing ample breasts that spilled over the simple white bra, seemingly ready to burst out at any moment. The sight of her—Molly Weasley, revealing herself to him—sent a surge of blood to his groin so intense it made him dizzy.
“Your turn,” she instructed.
With fumbling fingers, Harry pulled his shirt over his head, dropping it on the counter. Molly’s eyes raked over his bare chest, appreciation evident in her gaze. He wasn’t heavily muscled, but Quidditch and battle had hardened him, eliminating the last traces of childhood from his frame.
“Beautiful,” she murmured, reaching out to trace a finger down his chest. “So young and strong.”
Before he could respond, she continued unbuttoning her dress, revealing more of herself. The white bra was practical, worn—nothing like the lacy things he’d imagined in his fantasies—but somehow that made it more erotic. This was the real Molly, not a fantasy.
She didn’t remove the dress entirely, exposing just enough to release her bra-covered breasts and the soft curves of her stomach. Harry’s mouth went dry at the sight. Her breasts were enormous, straining against the fabric that barely contained them, her cleavage deep and inviting, glistening with sweat.
“I’ve noticed you looking,” she said softly, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “At these.” She cupped her breasts, lifting them slightly. “They’re not what they once were, after seven children...”
“They’re perfect,” Harry interrupted, unable to tear his eyes away. “Can I...?”
Molly took his hands and placed them on her breasts, guiding him over the thin cotton of her bra. A soft gasp escaped her as his thumbs grazed her nipples, now prominently visible through the fabric.
“You really like that,” Harry observed, circling the hardened peaks with his thumbs.
“Yes,” she admitted, eyes fluttering closed. “It’s been...a while since they’ve had proper attention.”
Harry frowned slightly. “Arthur doesn’t—“
“Let’s not talk about Arthur,” Molly cut in, her eyes snapping open. “Not now. This is just us.”
Harry nodded, understanding this boundary. He returned his attention to her breasts, exploring their weight and softness. Even through her bra, he could tell her nipples were large, the areolas wide and dark, peeking near the edges of the fabric.
Molly watched his face, seeming to draw pleasure from his fascination. “Would you like to see them?” she asked, her voice husky.
Unable to form words, Harry nodded eagerly.
Without hesitation, Molly reached behind her back and unhooked her bra. The straps loosened, but she held the cups in place, teasing him with the delay. Sweat glistened in the valley between her breasts, a single droplet trailing down her stomach. Then, with a sly smile that made Harry’s cock throb, she lowered the bra, revealing herself fully.
Harry’s breath caught in his throat. Her breasts were magnificent—full and heavy, spilling forward once freed from their confines. They were enormous, far more substantial than he had imagined. Her nipples were long and dark, the size of thimbles, proudly erect atop wide areolas the color of cinnamon. The pale skin was scattered with freckles that matched those on her face, crisscrossed with faint silvery lines—the marks of motherhood that only enhanced their beauty. A fine sheen of perspiration made them glisten under the kitchen’s warm light.
“May I touch them?” he asked, amazed at his own restraint when every instinct screamed at him to grab and squeeze.
“Please,” she whispered, her chest rising and falling more rapidly.
Harry’s hands returned to her breasts, eager to sink into them. They were softer than he’d imagined, warm and yielding beneath his touch. So different from Ginny’s small, perky breasts that barely filled his palms. Molly’s were magnificent in comparison—heavy and full, spilling between his fingers when he tried to grasp them. While Ginny possessed a firm, athletic physique, Molly was the embodiment of softness, of generous curves you could yourself in for hours. The contrast was intoxicating. Her nipples hardened further as his fingers explored, drawing a soft moan from Molly’s lips when he gently pinched one between his thumb and forefinger.
“Harder,” she instructed, her voice tight. “They’re not fragile.”
Harry complied, increasing the pressure, watching in fascination as her eyes darkened with pleasure. Encouraged by her soft moans, he lowered his head and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently.
Molly’s reaction was immediate—a sharp intake of breath, her hand flying to the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair. “Yes,” she hissed, holding him against her. “Like that.”
Harry suckled more firmly, using his tongue to flick the hardened peak. His other hand continued to knead her free breast, occasionally pinching the nipple with just enough pressure to make her buckle. Molly’s whimpered, her body arching toward him.
After long moments of delicious exploration, Molly pushed him away, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her eyes were glazed with desire, lips swollen as if she’d been kissed, though their mouths had yet to meet.
“Harry,” she said, her voice a ragged whisper. “I want to try something. Something from that book you read.”
She glanced down meaningfully at his bulge. Harry’s cock throbbed in response, straining painfully against the confines of his jeans.
“Anything,” he managed, his own voice barely recognizable.
With steady hands, she reached for his belt, unfastening it with practiced ease. The button of his jeans followed, then the zipper, lowering with a sound that seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet kitchen. Harry held his breath as she pushed the denim down his hips, leaving him in just his boxers, his erection tenting the fabric obscenely.
Molly’s eyes widened as she took in the size of him, outlined clearly through the thin cotton. His considerable length strained against the fabric. “My goodness,” she murmured, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “I never realized you were so...gifted.” She swallowed visibly. “Arthur’s is...well, he’s a lovely man, but this is something else entirely.”
Before Harry could respond, she hooked her fingers in the waistband of his boxers and pulled them down, freeing his cock from its prison. It sprang upward, fully erect, head already glistening with precum.
“Oh,” Molly breathed, her expression a mixture of awe and hunger. “Look at you. So thick, so long.” Her fingers traced the prominent veins along his shaft with reverence. “I couldn’t do this with Arthur, you know,” she confessed, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Not properly. He’s too...modest in size. It’s why I’ve always fantasized about this particular act in those books.”
Harry fought the urge to cover himself, simultaneously proud and vulnerable under her appreciative scrutiny. Harry wasn’t one to compare himself to others, but brief glimpses in the locker room had told him he was larger than most. Ginny had never complained, and that was enough for him.
“Beautiful,” Molly said softly, reaching out to trace a finger along his length. His cock jerked in response, eager for more. Even that light touch was enough to drive him mad. “I want to show you something,” she continued, bringing her hands to her exposed breasts. “Something special.”
Understanding dawned on him as she pressed her massive breasts together with both hands, creating a deep, inviting channel between them.
“Have you ever had this before, Harry?” she asked, her voice low and sensual.
He shook his head, unable to speak as she guided herself forward, stopping right above the swollen head of his cock. The contact of his sensitive skin against her damp valley drew a guttural groan from deep within. The kitchen felt like a sauna now, the humid summer air making their skin stick together where they touched.
“Let me take care of you,” Molly whispered, her breath hot against his chest as she sank forward, pressing her breasts more firmly together. Her fingers dimpled the generous flesh as she squeezed. “Slide between them. Don’t hold back.”
Harry obeyed, pushing his hips forward. His cock, throbbing with need, disappeared into the soft, sweaty valley between her breasts. The sensation was beyond anything he’d experienced—the slick warmth of her flesh enveloping him, the exquisite friction as he moved, the obscenity of his thick rod vanishing and reappearing between her magnificent mounds. Thick beads of precum smeared against her chest with every thrust.
“That’s it,” Molly encouraged, her voice ragged as she held her breasts firmly together, creating the perfect channel for him. “Use them. Feel how wet they are for you. They’re yours now.”
The permission unleashed something primal in Harry. He began to move more forcefully, his hips snapping forward as he established a rhythm that sent waves of pleasure cascading through his body. Each thrust buried his cock between her slippery breasts, sweat and precum creating lewd squelching sounds that filled the kitchen. He grabbed her shoulders for leverage, fingers digging into her freckled skin as he drove himself forward.
“Fuck,” he grunted, a word he’d never used in front of her before. Sweat poured down his torso, dripping onto her chest and mingling with her own. His glasses slipped down his nose, fogged from the heat of their bodies. The sight of himself—his thick, veiny cock burried between Molly Weasley’s enormous tits—was almost as stimulating as the physical sensation itself.
“Does that feel good?” she asked, her voice a throaty purr. Her face was flushed scarlet, tendrils of auburn hair plastered to her cheeks and neck. Her massive breasts gleamed under the afternoon sun, the long nipples rigid and pointing upward as she compressed the soft flesh around his shaft.
“Incredible,” Harry managed between ragged breaths, his muscles clenching with each thrust. “So fucking soft. Your tits feel amazing.”
Molly’s cheeks deepened at the praise. Sweat dripped from her brow as she lowered her head, extending her tongue to flick against the swollen head of his cock every time it emerged from her cleavage. The wet heat of her mouth, even from the brief contact, sent violent shudders through Harry’s frame. Her tongue swirled over his sensitive tip, lapping at the precum that flowed freely now.
“Oh god,” he gasped, his rhythm growing erratic, his thighs trembling with the approaching climax. His balls tightened, drawing up close to his body. “Molly, I’m going to—“
“It’s alright,” she soothed, her voice raw with lust as she increased the pressure of her breasts around him, squeezing them together so tightly that her knuckles whitened. “Let go, Harry. Coat them with your seed. I want to see you come all over my tits.”
Her filthy words, coupled with the irresistible friction of her sweat-slicked breasts catapulted Harry over the edge. With a strangled cry he thrust forward once more and erupted. The first jet of cum shot with such force that it hit her chin. The next one painted Molly’s heaving chest and neck in thick, hot white strands of cum. She didn’t pull away, vigorously pumping her breasts around his pulsing shaft, milking every last drop from him with shameless enthusiasm.
“That’s it,” she coaxed. “Give it all to me.”
With one final spasm, Harry sagged forward, bracing himself on the counter behind her to keep from collapsing. His legs quivered like jelly, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath in the stifling kitchen air.
Molly still held his softening cock between her breasts, her skin flushed and glistening with a mixture of perspiration and his copious release. Cum dripped slowly from her chin onto her breast, trailing down to pool between her cleavage. There was nothing maternal in her gaze at all—nothing but wanton satisfaction and predatory hunger.
“Well,” she said after a moment, a smile curving her lips. “I’d say that’s one fantasy fulfilled.”
Reality returned as Harry’s heartbeat slowed. What had they done? What line had they crossed? Yet looking at Molly—flushed, disheveled, his seed marking her breast—he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.
“That was incredible,” he breathed, reaching out to caress her cheek. “But what about you? I want to make you feel good too.”
A shadow of vulnerability crossed Molly’s expression, quickly replaced by a warm smile. “There will be time,” she assured him, reaching for her wand on the counter. With a flick, the evidence of their affair vanished from her skin. “This was just the beginning.”
The words sent a thrill down Harry’s spine, reinvigorating his lust. The beginning. Not a one-time mistake, but the start of something.
Molly began righting her clothing, hooking her bra and buttoning her dress as if nothing had happened. Harry pulled up his boxers and jeans, suddenly feeling self-conscious about the whole thing.
“We should talk about this,” he said, reaching for his discarded t-shirt. “About what it means.”
“Later,” Molly replied, though not unkindly. She smoothed her hair, tucking stray strands back into her bun. “I need to start dinner before Ron returns. And you,” she added with a pointed look, “need to finish that letter to Hermione.”
Just like that, she slipped back into her motherly persona, the transformation so seamless it left Harry reeling. Had it not been for the lingering flush on her cheeks and the brightness in her eyes, he might have convinced himself he’d imagined the entire encounter.
As if reading his thoughts, Molly paused before leaving the kitchen. “Harry,” she said softly, her voice pitched for his ears alone. “Thank you. For making me feel desirable again.”
The simple honesty in her words settled the worry in Harry’s chest—a confirmation that this wasn’t just his fantasy, but something they’d created together. Something real, however forbidden.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asked, half-joking, half-hoping.
Molly’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Be careful what you wish for, Mr. Potter,” she warned, a smile playing at her lips. “Next time, I might not be so gentle.”
With that promise hanging in the air, she turned and left the kitchen, her steps lighter than they’d been in weeks. Harry watched her go, his mind racing with possibilities for their next encounter.
Behind him, the family clock ticked steadily, Arthur’s hand still firmly on “Work.”
