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Dominans ch.3

Zaktualizowano: 21 paź 2022

*Bam Bam!*

Daphne cracked her drowsy eyes open. Somebody was pounding on her bedroom door. But who would be doing that at...

Wait, what time was it?

“Daphne, you in there?” A girl’s voice called. Daphne’s congealing thoughts recognized it as coming from Tracey, one of her roommates. “Slytherin’s team won! The girls are throwing a party down at the house. Get that hot ass of yours in gear and let’s go!”

“B-be right there,” Daphne answered as she sat up in bed and stifled a huge yawn. She lifted her mirror from the nightstand: 9:45PM. Her stomach dropped. She had slept through the entire afternoon. Plus about a bazillion texts, apparently.

And she was... naked. She blinked. Since when did she nap in the nude? Was she sick? The last thing she remembered was this weird dream where she...

Her eyes alighted on the skirt and stockings lying on the floor, out of place among her usual piles of laundry. And right there, resting next to them: a pair of crinkled lace panties.

Oh no. It wasn’t a dream. It had all really happened. She had stripped and masturbated right in front of Master.

Wait, no. That wasn’t his name. It was was Harry. Right. Master’s name was Harry.

No! Daphne slapped the sides of her head. HARRY’S name was Harry? Why did that take so much effort?

What had he done to her?

Daphne willed her breathing to slow as the memories came rushing back. She remembered the challenge, the induction, and her utter defeat. She remembered him guiding her into her bed afterwards, leaving her barely coherent and conscious. Now she was awake again, soaking in post-trance shock: the stupefying cocktail of shame, humiliation, and giddy, overwhelming heat, all exacerbated by one undeniable fact:

Mast—Harry had beaten her. He had taken her sharp, defiant mind and dulled it into a slavish instrument of his own pleasure. Even as she tried to fight off his power, his voice had found the part of her that yearned for surrender, the part that craved to be tamed, to be broken and bound. All it took was a few honeyed words, and she had let him take control. No, worse, she had wanted him to do it—had counted on him to.

What she didn’t expect—what none of her scenarios had accounted for—was how far he would take it. The Harry she had planned around would’ve panicked the moment her clothing came off, ending the challenge as intended. But Master wanted more. He had taken her own body and turned it against her. Had made her to beg for permission to cum. Like a brainless bitch in heat.

And the worst part was... the worst part was...

Without even noticing it, Daphne’s hand had slid between her legs. God, she was wet again just thinking about it: about how horrified her family and friends would be if they knew; about how all her years of discipline and mental rigor had been laid to waste by a single, earth-shattering orgasm.

And about how utterly, stupidly HOT that was.

*Bam bam bam!*

“Tick-tock bitch, let’s go!” Tracey shouted through the door.

Shit. Daphne quickly withdrew her fingers and wiped them on her sheets. No time to drift off now. She still had a life waiting for her outside. Whatever had just transpired between her and Master, that wasn’t for her roommates. Nothing outside of the bedroom had changed: Daphne would go to the party, socialize like she always did, and try to have a good time. After all, she was still a Greengrass. One afternoon of mind-melting masturbation didn’t change that.



Harry lay panting in bed, his spent cock resting against his naked thigh. It had taken several goes, but the mad, pent up arousal he had been carrying since Daphne’s had finally been exhausted. Now maybe he could think straight.


He sat up, listening to the chattering and cheering of the pedestrians outside. For once, Harry welcomed the noise: a quidditch win meant he wouldn’t see his roommate for the rest of the night. No doubt Ron was out at a house party, trying desperately to work his way into some co-ed’s pants. If only he knew what Harry had been up to.

Harry’s cock stiffened as the image of Daphne’s dazed, naked form racing through his mind. He turned his gaze to the ceiling, willing himself to stay in the present. He couldn’t get swept up in his fantasies again. Hyperactive libido be damned. He had to think, had to try and understand this newly awakened power. If he didn’t gain control, the Potentia would eat him alive.

The Potentia.

That was what Harry had taken to calling it: the “other voice” lurking in the dark waters of his deepest desires. Even as he knew it was a part of him, he couldn’t help but think of it as something else, a force with a will of its own, conspiring against everything Harry wanted and believed.

Or, at least, everything he had been raised to want and believe.

Harry sighed, adjusting his persistent erection as he reclined back on the bed. The truth was, these fantasies didn’t start with Daphne. His interest in hypnotism was never a completely innocent one: the idea of mind control had always intrigued and aroused him, his imperius resistance, and his lessons on occlumency started it all. It was a part of him he was at once fascinated and repulsed by, an abnormal attraction he couldn’t help but explore. To take an unsuspecting woman and brainwash her into his devoted had been a secret dream of his for years.

But this wasn’t a dream. This was the real world: there were consequences for his actions. He had taken a girl’s agency and humiliated her. That was wrong—even if the Potentia purred with pleasure at the thought.

His cock pulsed with anticipation as those devious dreams came drifting back to him. He sighed, gliding a hand absently up his shaft. It didn’t hurt to fantasize, though, right? It was harmless to imagine Daphne in his room right now, bent over with her ass in the air, her pussy always wet and waiting whenever he desired.

He stroked his cock harder, picturing her helpless at his feet, begging to be transformed. He heard her speaking in slurred, desperate pleas, her free will disintegrating under his power, her only remaining desire to be made perfect in his eyes. He dreamt of her dropping out of school, abandoning her ambitions and ideals to devote her body and mind to his service. She would never wear clothes again: just an apron tied around her naked curves, her tits periodically spilling out as she cleaned and cooked, waiting for her Master to tear off the frilly fabric and do what he wished with her. While he was out, he would force her to edge herself silly, repeating mantras of submission and degradation, until she could no longer remember a time when she was Daphne Greengrass, a time before she was Master’s obedient cumslave.

A small grunt escaped Harry, the pleasure tightened between his legs. He pictured waking up every morning to Daphne’s mouth around his cock, her vacant eyes brightening as her tongue welcomed him into the new day. And there, behind Daphne...

Harry imagined Cho, her skin shining in the sunlight. He saw her crawling onto the bed, her thick, luscious hips and breasts swaying as she approached her Master’s erect cock, her cherubic features mirroring Daphne’s worshipful, doe-eyed expression of bliss.

Harry came with a gasp, the fantasy disintegrating as cold reality washed over him. He quickly cleaned himself and pulled on his pants. He needed to get out. He needed air. He needed to sweep away the future his mind had just conjured for him. No matter how enticing, he wouldn’t let the Potentia have its way—he wouldn’t let it change him.

Yet as he pulled out his jacket and stepped out the door, Harry could feel the Potentia rumble in the back of his skull.

It felt like laughter.


“You feeling alright, Daph?” Tracey asked as she joined Daphne’s side.

Daphne blinked. She should’ve suspected her best friend would notice something was off. “Um, yeah. I’m fine. Sorry,” she added when Tracey raised her eyebrows, “I know I’ve been acting a little weird lately. It’s been a hectic week.”

The two girls were stationed by a fourth-floor bannister, overlooking to the room in which, after the war, parties began to be organized for all housese. From their perch, they could easily scope out those pursuing and being pursued; the power couples and the doomed pairings; the bonds forged, broken, and renegotiated and shouted sing-alongs. They could always descend into the fracas when they wished, but that came only after their recon was complete.

Daphne exhaled, feeling more comfortable than she had in a while. “This is helping,” she said. “I’m starting to feel like myself again.”

“Glad to hear it,” Tracey arched an eyebrow. “After you missed the game, I was starting to worry about you.”

Daphne nodded, genuinely moved. She knew Tracey would rather be downstairs partying: that was as clear as the cleavage almost popping out of her strapless top. Yet despite the eye-catching attire, she had spent the majority of the evening hovering around Daphne, the shadow of concern never vanishing from her face. It was touching, and further grounded Daphne’s thoughts. Paradoxically, a noisy sorority party was turning out to be the best place for her to analyze what had happened between her and Master.

And she needed to analyze it—quickly.

There was no denying his powers. That much was clear. Whether they were magical, material, or somewhere in between was still a mystery, but their effects couldn’t be denied. That left her with three possible responses:

Option 1: she could try to report Master and turn him in to the unspeakable. This was the least appealing plan. Trying to convince any Auror or official of Master’s abilities would be a serious uphill battle, one far more likely to expose her as a closeted submissive than Master as a supernatural dominant. Plus, even if she did succeed, there was no telling what would happen next. She might be turned into some sort of test-subject along with Master, poked and prodded and scrutinized for the rest of her life.

If she was going to lose her freedom, that’s not how she wanted it to go.

Option 2: she could just try to avoid Mas—Harry, and hope that everything would eventually return to normal. It wouldn’t be painless, but she had the resources to escape his orbit, and could conceivably even go as far as moving schools. Maybe over time, her brain would go back to how it was before. Maybe her submissive side would eventually die down, or at least become manageable enough that she could fulfill it through more mundane means. Maybe she could learn to forget about...Harry, his overpowering voice, and the overwhelming pleasure it brought her.

And maybe winged pigs would fly out of her ass.

“Shit,” Tracey suddenly whispered, bringing Daphne back to earth. “Trouble. Six o’clock.”

Daphne followed her friend’s gaze. Two hulking oafs were staggering down the hall straight for them, drinks sloshing loosely in their hands. Their ill-fitting polos and faded jeans made their status clear: they were party chaff, muggle descent through and through. And now they were intruding on her private time. She stepped in front of Tracey, ready to send the interlopers packing. But as her opponents got within striking distance, her stomach dropped.

These weren’t just any randos: they were the other boys from Harry’s room.

“Oh damn, Daphne!” the larger one exclaimed.

“Um, I’m sorry. Do we know you?” Tracey asked, shooting Daphne a confused look.

“Ah shit, prolly not,” the boy smiled. “I’m Seamus. This is my friend Dean.”

“Hey,” Dean lifted a hand in greeting. “You didn’t like, kill my roommate, right?” he tittered nervously.

“What is he talking about?” Tracey looked to Daphne for answers, but things were moving too fast. She still hadn’t even fully processed what Harry did to her, much less how to explain it away to someone else.

Seamus cleared his throat. “She, uh, came by earlier today. Said she wanted to talk to my roommate. And he was, like, scared shitless, you know?” he giggled nervously.

“His roommate was the one who hypnotized her at that show,” Dean added.

“Wait, you talked to Harry?” Tracey turned to Daphne and disbelief. “That’s where you went after we left the apartment?”

“Okay, first of all,” Daphne shot Dean a glare, “he didn’t hypnotize me, okay? I was acting.”

Dean grinned dumbly. “Then what’d you need to talk to him about?”

“Yeah, Daph,” Tracey crossed her arms. “Why did you miss the game to talk to ‘Harry?’”

Okay. Defcon 1. Daphne needed to end this now. “Tracey, seriously? I didn’t miss the game to talk to—to him okay? It was like I told you: I was behind on studying. But...during a break...I did go to speak to him.”

“Why?” her best friend pressed.

“Because...because I felt bad,” Daphne lied. “He’s a weirdo, but embarrassing him like that in front of everyone was uncalled for. Plus, I didn’t want to be responsible for him trying that hypnotism shit on some other girl. So I told him the truth. It’s embarrassing to admit, but I was wrong.” She met Tracey’s eyes, praying the story would take. Her friend mulled it over, then nodded—still surprised, but understanding.

Dean laughed. “Aw see, Seamus? She’s not so bad—she cares.”

“Dude, can we just go?” Seamus asked, eyes darting back down the hall.

“Hey,” Dean pressed on. “If you really want to make it up to him, Daph I can think of a few ways you can...apologize.”

Tracey cringed. Daphne’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not part of a Slytherin are you Dean?”

“Huh? Uh, no, I...”

“But you are aware that this is a Slyth-only party, correct? So how do you suppose you made it in?”

“Pff,” Dean took another gulp of his drink. “Guess your girl at the door screwed up.”

“Our girls never screw up, Dean,” Daphne stepped forward with an icy smile. “That’s what make them Slytherin. I’ll tell you why she let you in: because you’re what we in the biz call ‘easy lay.’ You’re a pliable, harmless, hunk of meat; a toy my girls can get off on with no strings attached and no expectations. And like most dildos, you are eminently replaceable. And nobody wants to hear you speak.”

Dean blinked and took a step back. “Y-yeah,” he looked to Seamus for support, but he was white as a sheet. While they were talking, Millicent Bulstrode had stepped into view behind them, casting a shadow over the two blanching boys. With her wild hair, towering, athletic physique, and fanged grin, she would be intimidating in the broad daylight. Materializing out of the darkened hallway, she was every students’s worst nightmare.

“There a problem up here?” she asked. “Thought I heard the mating call of the dickless deadman.”

Dean opened his mouth to speak, but only managed a strained squeak.

“Milli,” Daphne motioned towards the stairs. “Could you please make sure these two find the way out?” She gave Dean a haughty glance. “I’ll make sure they never find their way back in.”

Millicent clapped the newly-minted exiles on the shoulders, leading them down the hall and out of sight.

“Damn,” Tracey shook her head. “Guess I was worried for nothing. You’re still in top form,” she ran a hand through her dark hair. “Sorry if it seemed like I was doubting you.”

“It’s fine,” Daphne said, turning back to the party below. But it wasn’t; not really. She had survived the encounter, but it was a battle that never should have happened. And it brought her fears into sharp relief. About the final, most likely outcome of her Master’s abilities.

Option 3: total submission. If she wanted to hear his voice again—if she wanted to indulge in the pleasure of Master’s power—it would have to be an all-or-nothing affair. She could try to hide it; she could try and experiment bit by bit as she had so far. But tonight’s events made it clear: she wouldn’t be able to keep it secret forever. She was too visible, too influential. There would be traces. There would be questions. And the only way she would be able to save herself from humiliation...would be if she no longer cared.

That meant surrender. Complete, beautiful, and permanent.

Could she really ever make such a choice? To give up her agency completely? Who knew what Master would do when she finally gave in?

A few days ago, she wouldn’t have imagined him capable of much more than a live-in relationship, with her the faithful servant under his awkward, well-meaning command. But his behavior this afternoon changed everything.

If he got a taste for control—if his powers continued to develop and shape him—there was no telling what he might do. He might force her into marriage, molding her into an obedient, horny housewife while he raided her family fortune. He might erase her completely, leaving her a mindless pleasure drone with no thoughts or will of her own. What if he didn’t stop at her? What if he used Daphne as a recruitment tool, forcing her to betray her friends and lure them into his clutches? He could turn Slytherin into his own personal harem, an army of giggling, brainless sex slaves hanging on his every whim.

Daphne tried not to think about it. There was no sense in letting herself spiral now. She didn’t have long, but she didn’t have to rush into a decision just yet. She should try to remain in the present for now, remind herself of what she stood to lose. She should focus on the music, Tracey’s smile, the feeling of being in command of all she surveyed.

And yet a part of Daphne couldn’t help but think... couldn’t help but imagine... they would all look on their knees before Master.

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