Chapter 18: 'Page three specifies daily creampies during ovulation,' Blythe purrs, arching her back as Snape's cock sheathes itself in her dripping pussy. Before he can finish, Elara pulls him out and guides him into her own gaping hole with a whimper. 'No pulling out ever again,' she demands, nails scraping stone as he pounds into her cervix. Their shared moans echo across the valley as Snape's balls slap against their flushed skin, his seed flooding first one womb then the other in a relentless breeding m
The study door remained shut for precisely fifty-seven minutes. When Elara emerged, she was dressed in a simple linen sundress, her hair tied back, her skin scrubbed clean. She carried two glasses of cold Pinot Grigio and the faint, electric aura of solved problems. Blythe was dozing on a sun lounger on the patio, a book splayed on her stomach. Snape, now clad in dark trousers and a thin black shirt, stood at the wrought-iron railing, watching the afternoon light bleach the vineyard rows to a pale gold.
Elara handed him a glass. “It’s done. The proposal will make Bode spin in his grave. Thank you.”
Her tone was professional, but her eyes held a private, blazing thanks for more than academic advice. He clinked his glass against hers. “The Department will reject it out of hand.”
“I know,” she said, a sly smile touching her lips. “Which is why I’ve already sent a copy to the editor of Theoretical Thaumaturgy Quarterly. Peer-reviewed publication trumps internal bureaucracy every time.” She took a sip, then set her glass down on a small mosaic table. “Now. We have other business.”
Blythe stirred, blinking sleepily in the sun. “Business? Did we order more olives?”
Elara pulled a single sheet of parchment from the pocket of her dress. It was not official Ministry vellum, but a heavier, cream stock. She unfolded it with a deliberate crispness and laid it on the table between the wine glasses. The handwriting was a hybrid of Elara’s precise script and Blythe’s looping, energetic scrawl.
“A memorandum of understanding,” Elara said, her voice dropping its playful edge. “Regarding familial expansion.”
Snape’s glass paused halfway to his lips. He looked from the parchment to Elara’s composed face, to Blythe’s now-wide eyes. The air on the patio thickened, the buzz of insects suddenly louder.
Blythe sat up, swinging her legs down. “You finished it. I thought you were writing your thesis.”
“I multi-task.” Elara’s finger tapped the top of the page. “It’s a conception schedule. Based on combined fertility windows—calculated via lunar phases, basal metabolic calendars, and a modified version of the Weirdsisters’ conception charms. Optimal days are highlighted. Secondary windows noted. We’ve accounted for your likely travel for Hogwarts’ start-of-term duties.”
Snape picked up the parchment. It was, as promised, a schedule. A brutally efficient one. Dates. Times. A column for suggested sexual positions, with clinical notes on depth and pelvic alignment. His eyes scanned a line: Day 14: Primary window. Missionary or deep doggy-style preferred for cervical contact. Post-coital elevation of pelvis for 20 minutes recommended.
A strange heat, unrelated to the sun, climbed his neck. It was part arousal, part profound shock at the audacity. They had plotted this. Together. They had turned the most primal, chaotic act into a researched, joint project. With footnotes.
“There’s a rider clause,” Blythe said quietly, coming to stand beside Elara. She looked nervous, her earlier sleepiness gone. “We decided… I want to go first.”
The silence stretched. A leaf skittered across the terracotta tiles.
“You,” Snape stated, the word flat.
“Me,” Blythe confirmed, lifting her chin. “Elara’s work… the Department, the politics… it’s a tsunami about to break. My schedule is flexible. I can be sick for nine months. I can write anywhere. It makes logistical sense.”
“It makes emotional sense,” Elara corrected, softer. She reached for Blythe’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “She wants it. A different kind of creation. And I… I want to watch you give it to her.”
The raw hunger in that last sentence, so at odds with the clinical document, hit him like a physical blow. He saw it then—not a cold contract, but a fever dream given form. Their shared, desperate want made orderly, because order was the only way they knew how to handle magnitudes of feeling that threatened to vaporize them.
He let the parchment fall back to the table. “The suggested positions are pedestrian.”
Elara’s breath hitched. Blythe’s face broke into a stunned, radiant smile.
“So deviate,” Elara challenged, her eyes darkening. “Show us your superior methodology, Professor.”
He finished his wine in one long swallow. The afternoon heat was a weight, a catalyst. He walked to Blythe first, cupping her face. “You are certain.”
It wasn’t a question. She nodded, her eyes glistening. “More than anything.”
He kissed her, deep and searching, tasting the wine and the dream on her tongue. Then he turned to Elara, his hand sliding to the nape of her neck. “And you? Architect of this scheme?”
“Participant,” she breathed, leaning into his touch. “Observer. Beneficiary. All of it.”
He released her and stepped back, his gaze sweeping over them both, then out to the endless rows of grapes, heavy with fertile potential. “Assume the position, then. Both of you. At the railing.”
There was no hesitation. They moved as one, turning their backs to him, to the view. They bent forward in unison, their hands gripping the dark, sun-warmed iron. Elara’s linen dress was easy; he pushed the skirt up around her waist, revealing she wore nothing underneath, the full arcs of her pale cheeks already offered to the light. Blythe wore a short, flimsy wrap skirt; he untied the knot at her hip and it fell away. A scrap of black lace thong. He hooked his thumbs in the sides and pulled, the delicate material snapping easily. It fluttered to the tiles.
They were side by side, bent over, utterly exposed. The contrast was stark: Elara’s skin like alabaster, Blythe’s lightly freckled from the sun. He ran a possessive hand over each curve, feeling them tremble. The vineyard sprawled before them, a testament to planned, fruitful growth.
He unbuttoned his trousers, freeing himself. He was already violently hard, the pulse in his cock throbbing in time with the cicada song. He positioned himself behind Blythe first, the head of his cock nudging through her slick folds. She was dripping, her body arching back in immediate, wanton invitation.
“Please,” she whispered, a broken sound. “Please, yes.”
He drove into her in one long, brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. She cried out, a sharp, guttural shout that echoed off the villa walls. Her inner muscles clenched around him, a hot, velvet vise. He didn’t wait, didn’t gentle. This was not about gentleness. It was about implantation. Possession. Answering a summons etched on cream-colored paper.
He fucked her with deep, piston-like strokes, each one jolting her forward against the railing. The iron clanged softly with their rhythm. Her pleas dissolved into wordless sobs of pleasure. He watched where their bodies joined, watched her flesh give way to take him, again and again, glistening.
After a dozen strokes, he pulled out. Blythe whimpered at the sudden emptiness. He stepped to the left.
Elara was watching him, her head turned, her cheek pressed against the rail. Her eyes were black with lust, her mouth open. She was soaking wet, her own arousal coating her inner thighs. He didn’t tease. He lined up and slammed into her with the same force.
Elara’s cry was different—a choked, intellectual’s gasp, as if surprised by the incontrovertible data of his invasion. She was tighter, her body a tense cord of anticipation. He gripped her hip hard, his fingers surely leaving bruises, and pounded into her, the sound of skin on skin sharper, louder. She pushed back against him, meeting each thrust with a ferocious need, her scholarly composure shattered into pure animal greed.
He switched again. Back to Blythe, whose channel was now swollen and desperately eager. Then back to Elara, who was chanting “fuck, fuck, fuck” under her breath like a profane prayer. He alternated, a relentless pendulum between their bodies. The patio air grew thick with the scent of sex and crushed herbs, with their escalating cries. The sun burned down on the tableau: the powerful man taking his two lovers, the contract forgotten on the table, the vineyard bearing silent witness.
He lost track of whose heat was whose, only recognizing the subtle differences in the way they clenched around him, the sounds they made. He was a instrument of their design, and they were the conduits for a shared, desperate future. The clinical terms on the page—cervical contact, optimal depth—were rendered into this sweating, primal, beautiful brutality.
His climax approached, a tidal wave building from the base of his spine. He was in Elara when he felt it become inevitable. He pulled out, dripping with her. Blythe understood. She turned, sliding down to her knees before he could even guide her. She took him into her mouth, swallowing him deep, cleaning Elara’s arousal from him with hungry, slurping pulls. The obscene wetness of her mouth, the devoted submission in her eyes, tipped him over the edge.
He came down her throat with a roar, his hands fisted in her hair, his hips jerking as he emptied himself in pulsing, hot streams. She drank him down, swallowing every drop, her throat working around him until he was spent, sensitive, trembling.
He slumped back, leaning against the table for support. Blythe stayed on her knees, panting, her lips swollen and glossy. Elara slowly straightened, letting her skirt fall. She turned, her face flushed, her body visibly shaking. She looked at Blythe, then at him, her gaze drifting to the damp patch on Blythe’s chin.
Silence, broken only by their ragged breathing.
Silence, broken only by their ragged breathing.
Elara’s eyes, sharp and assessing, scanned Blythe’s blissful, spent expression. She looked down at the mess on Blythe’s chin, then at Snape’s softening cock. A cold, calculating clarity cut through the post-coital haze in her gaze.
“No,” Elara stated, her voice slicing the air. “That’s not enough.”
Blythe blinked up at her, confused. “What?”
“Swallowing is for pleasure. This is for a purpose.” Elara stepped forward, her movements decisive. She grabbed a handful of Snape’s shirt, her knuckles white. “You didn’t finish inside her. The schedule is explicit. Primary window. Cervical contact. You need to flood her cunt. You haven’t even begun.”
Snape stared at her, his own breath still coming hard. The contractual language from the parchment now sounded like a verdict. “I have just orgasmed.”
“And you’ll have another.” Elara’s tone brooked no argument. It was the voice she used to dismantle flawed theories in the Department of Mysteries. “The magic isn’t in the first volley. It’s in the siege. You will fuck her again. Now. And you will not pull out. You will pump your come so deep into her she’ll taste it in her throat tomorrow. Do you understand?”
A flicker of something dark and challenging passed over Snape’s features. Exhaustion warred with a rekindled, grim arousal. She was dictating terms, using his own body as a tool. It should have infuriated him. It only made him harder.
Blythe was still on her knees, understanding dawning. A fresh tremor of anticipation shook her. “Elara…”
“On your back,” Elara commanded, pointing to a wide, padded lounger. “Legs up. Now.”
Blythe scrambled to obey, her body moving before her mind fully processed. She lay back on the sun-warmed cushions, pulling her knees toward her chest, spreading herself open without shame. The afternoon light illuminated her completely, the slick evidence of their first round glistening on her inner thighs.
Elara turned to Snape. She wrapped her hand around him, stroking roughly, demanding. He was responding, thickening again under her insistent touch. “Look at her,” Elara hissed. “That is your objective. You are not to stop until you are empty. Empty every fucking drop into her. I want to see it leak out of her when you’re done.”
She shoved him toward the lounger. Snape moved, a predator compelled by a greater force. He positioned himself over Blythe, her lifted hips cradling him. He pushed in, not with the sharp surprise of the first time, but with a relentless, deep pressure. She was swollen, exquisitely tight, and she cried out as he filled her.
“Rougher,” Elara demanded, standing beside them, a supervisor. “She’s not made of glass. Fuck her like you mean it. Like you want to breed her.”
Snape’s control snapped. He drove into Blythe with a brutal, pounding rhythm, each thrust a full-body commitment. The lounger scraped against the tiles with the force. He hooked his arms under her knees, pushing them wider, higher, bending her nearly in half. The mating press. Deep, claiming, unavoidable.
Blythe’s cries were continuous, a stream of shattered words and pleas. “Yes! Oh god, there, right there! Please! Fill me up, please, I need it!”
Snape grunted with each impact, his focus absolute. Elara watched, one hand slipping between her own legs, her fingers working in time with his thrusts. Her eyes were fixed on the junction of their bodies, on the raw, wet slide of his cock burying itself to the root in Blythe’s offered pussy.
“You feel that?” Elara gasped, her own arousal palpable. “You feel how deep he is? He’s knocking on your womb, Blythe. Let him in.”
Snape’s pace became frantic, a final, desperate surge. His release built, a heat coiling at the base of his spine, demanding to be spent. He gave one last, punishing drive, sheathing himself completely, and held.
A raw, guttural sound was torn from him. He came, his body convulsing. Inside her. A hot, liquid flood pulsed from him, jet after jet, spilling deep into her channel. He ground his hips, ensuring it went as deep as possible, flooding her, claiming her, seeding her as the contract and the woman he loved demanded.
He collapsed forward, his weight pressing Blythe deeper into the cushions, still locked inside her. They were both slick with sweat, trembling. He could feel his own spend, hot and vital, beginning to seep out around where they were joined.
Elara’s hand stilled. She watched, her chest heaving, as Snape finally, slowly, pulled out.
A trickle of white immediately escaped Blythe’s stretched, used opening, tracing a path down her skin. Elara knelt, her face a mask of intense, satisfied scrutiny. She touched the mixture of their fluids with two fingers, then brought them to her lips, her eyes locked on Blythe’s overwhelmed gaze.
Elara licked her fingers clean, the taste salt-bitter and profoundly intimate. "Good," she breathed, her voice husky. "Now, again."
Blythe's body jerked, a feeble protest in her spent limbs. "I can't... he just..."
"He can. You will." Elara stood, looking down at the ruin of them. Snape was still braced over Blythe, his breathing ragged. "The document outlined multiple consecutive deposits for optimal probability. Get up."
Snape pushed himself upright, his cock, still wet and shining, remained stubbornly hard. The potions he’d taken that morning, the ones brewed from the same meticulous research that had produced the schedule, hummed in his veins. He felt raw, scraped out, and yet electrically capable of more. Elara’s will was a galvanizing force.
"Turn her over," Elara instructed, crossing her arms. "I want to watch it from behind this time. I want to see it happen."
Wordlessly, Snape pulled Blythe up by her hip. She was pliant, murmuring, her mind soft with overload. He positioned her on her knees, her back arched, her head resting on the cushions. The earlier trickle had become a slow, creamy seep down her inner thigh. He grasped his own cock, gave it two rough strokes, and guided himself back into the sopping heat of her.
He slid in easier now, her channel loose and well-used, a hot, slick sheath molded perfectly to him. He set a deliberate, deep rhythm, each withdrawal almost complete before the solid, fluid push back in. The spent seed from his last orgasm was forced out around his thrusting length, creating a filthy, wet schlick with every motion.
"Keep going," Elara commanded, her gaze fixed on the joining. "Don't stop. I want to see it."
Snape’s pace increased, the slapping of flesh regaining its sharpness. Blythe’s moans were continuous, a low, pleasure-drunk hum. The overstimulation was tipping into a new, shuddering realm of sensitivity. He could feel his own climax coiling again, a tight, insistent pressure building from a place that felt both physical and psychological.
"Fuck her harder," Elara whispered, stepping closer. "I'm not seeing it yet. Give it to her."
He obeyed, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, jackhammer-furious, pelvis smacking against her ass. Blythe’s cries pitched higher. Snape’s grunts were harsh, guttural things torn from his chest.
Then it broke. His orgasm ripped through him, a scalding, surging release. He drove in to the hilt and held, pulsing. A thick, pearlescent jet of come spurted out around the sides of his cock where he stretched her, forced out by the violence of his thrust and the new flood behind it.
"God, yes," Elara hissed, delight sharp in her voice.
He thrust again, shallow and grinding. Another spurt bubbled out, dripping onto the cushion below. Snape groaned, a sound of profound exertion and shocking pleasure. Blythe sobbed, her body clenching rhythmically around him, milking him for every drop.
He fucked her through it, each movement squeezing more from him. The squirts were smaller now, creamy rivulets mixing with the slick mess between her legs. Every time he pushed forward, a little more escaped. The visual was obscene, undeniable. Elara watched, enthralled, her lips parted, one hand idly stroking her own nipple through the linen of her dress.
"Again," she said, though his cock was still spasming inside Blythe. "One more. I know you have it."
He did. A final, searing burst that had him sagging against Blythe’s back, his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades. It seeped, hot and immediate, adding to the drenched chaos beneath them.
They stayed like that, a trembling tableau. The air smelled of sex and sun-warmed stone and spent salt. Elara finally moved, kneeling beside them. She traced a path through the cooling mess on Blythe’s thigh.
"Perfect," she murmured, almost to herself. She looked at Snape, his face hidden, his body still covering Blythe’s. "The schedule is satisfied for today. More than satisfied."
Blythe made a small, exhausted sound. Snape forced himself to pull away, the separation audibly wet. He slumped onto the tiles, his back against the lounger, staring at the distant hills. The vineyard rows seemed to blur.
Elara helped Blythe turn over and lie down, arranging her with a surprising tenderness. She fetched a damp cloth from a side table and began to clean her, not removing the evidence from inside, but wiping the excess from her skin. Blythe’s eyes were closed, a faint smile on her swollen lips.
"Tomorrow," Elara said, her voice quiet but carrying in the stillness, "we review the data. And we begin the draft for my departmental rebuttal. The one you'll help me edit."
Snape turned his head to look at her. The Head of Mysteries Research, already planning the next battle, already categorizing this afternoon’s animal fury into a successful tactical step. The sun caught the gold in her hair, the fierce intelligence in her eyes. He felt utterly hollowed, and yet, for the first time in decades, unambiguously claimed.
He gave a single, slow nod. The contract, for now, was fulfilled.