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This isn’t the first time this has happened, and you know it probably won’t be the last. It doesn’t stop you though as you stand, naked, your fiery red hair flowing freely down your back.

Harry stands in front of you. He’s also naked, and he’s hard, and, you think, he’s even leaking without so much as a caress, if the light reflecting wetly off the tip of his cock is any indication. But you’re not convinced for a second it’s you he’s hard for. Because Draco Malfoy is standing behind you, his erection pressing suggestively into the canyon between your buttocks, where you’re slick and wet and ready for him.

Harry helped prepare you earlier, as he’s done every time you’ve done this with Malfoy. He keeps his eyes screwed tight whilst he’s doing it, and you’ve convinced yourself that it’s not you he’s thinking of, as he parts your buttocks and his fingers slide into you, stretching you, and opening you up. He groans and shudders, and you wonder just what levels you’ll go to, to please your husband.

Malfoy begins to breach you then, and you cry out. You never like this part. It doesn’t hurt, but you feel too full, almost uncomfortable. Harry is staring at you both with hunger in those emerald eyes, burning brightly, as Malfoy pushes fully into your body. He notices your discomfort and crouches down, poking out his tongue, and swipes it across the tip of your clit. It makes you shudder as white-hot arousal shoots through you. This- this is the reason why you give in to Harry’s yearnings for threesomes with Malfoy. To see that look of hungry desire in Harry’s eyes, desire which is lacking when you’re alone in bed, when your love-making is perfunctory and clinical. You shake that thought- and the accompanying flutter of panic that has taken up residence in the pit of your stomach- away.

Malfoy’s ragged, uneven breathing is hot against your cheek, but you ignore it as Harry’s tongue works you, dancing and flickering and sucking and licking, and just for a minute you allow yourself to believe that you’re alone with him, that you’re all Harry needs. That he’s going down on you purely because you like it. Your thighs are trembling now and you screw your eyes shut, but you know you won’t be coming like this. Harry is always inside you before you’re allowed to reach your orgasm. He slips a finger into your cunt, curling his fingers just right to find that sensitive, secret spot at the front of your wall; you’re wet for him, and shudder as he thrusts with a finger. He grunts his approval, withdraws his finger and stands up, taking his erection in hand, smearing the lubricant from your vagina all over his cock. You’re aware that it’s not only your eyes that are feasting on the rigid length; the twitch of approval from Malfoy’s erection deep inside you and the hitch in his breathing is proof enough that you’re not the only one who wants to be fucked by this man.

You gasp as Harry slide inside you, the stretch from being filled by two men burns and makes you cry out. What silences you, however, is the deep groan from Malfoy as Harry penetrates you, and you know that what you’re feeling, he’s feeling against his own cock, and you wonder, again, just which one of you it is that Harry is actually fucking.

Harry’s deep inside you now. His face is tinged with pink and there is a fine sweat breaking out across his forehead. You want to kiss him, to thrust your tongue inside his mouth, but you don’t. You never do. He doesn’t like kissing you when it’s the three of you. You try not to think about why that is.

Harry begins to move, to thrust in and out of you. Malfoy shudders. He’s made no attempt to move inside you, content, it appears, to let Harry thrust against him. You imagine what Malfoy must be able to feel; Harry’s thick, hard cock sliding against his as it caresses it through your vaginal wall. Harry thrusts deeply, and Draco groans; their eyes meet for only a split second but it tells you enough to know that you may as well be invisible. Tears spring to your eyes, but you don’t allow them to fall. You never do.

Malfoy Summons your bullet vibrator from the bedside table with a casual wave of his hand. He teases it across your neck, your nipples, and your stomach before guiding it between your legs and placing it onto your clit, already hyper-sensitive from Harry’s earlier oral stimulation. You can’t help yourself; you cry out as the unexpected shot of arousal surges through your body. He silences you by kissing the corner of your mouth. You wish it was Harry kissing you instead.

You look down then. Malfoy is running his fingers along Harry’s shaft as he thrusts into you; the bullet is secured with one hand whilst the other is gripping the base of Harry’s cock tightly as he drives in and out. This is new. This hasn’t happened before. They have never touched each other during a session before. You wonder if Malfoy’s concern with your own pleasure is just a ruse to get closer to your husband’s penis. You bite your lip and close your eyes, trying to focus on the sensations that Malfoy and Harry are nonetheless drawing from your body in unison. You’re confused; the juxtaposition of arousal and heartbreak has you on edge and you let out a sob as your hands ball into fists, your nails- long and painted scarlet, just how Harry used to like them- digging painfully into your palms. Not for the first time, you wonder why you’re doing this.

But you love Harry, don’t you? You’ve loved him since you were ten years old. And you’ll do anything you can to keep him.

And so you let yourself go, you open your legs wider, as Harry pushes into both your body and Malfoy’s hand, as the buzzing shaft of metal hums across your clit, pushing you closer and closer. You know Harry is close too; his rhythm has faltered and you can almost feel the vibrations in his legs with the exertion of remaining upright.

Malfoy presses the bullet firmly against you then, and it’s enough; you feel your muscles tighten around both cocks deep inside you as you feel the first contractions of orgasm begin to crash over you. You cannot help yourself; you throw your arms around Harry and bury your face in the crook of his neck as you ride out your climax, and it’s Harry’s name, and his alone, that you mouth into his neck in a silent gasp.

Harry hasn’t even noticed you’re holding him. His eyes are on Malfoy’s again, his mouth parted slightly, as beads of sweat drip down his cheeks and fall to his collar bone. You watch as those eyes- such a perfect shade of emerald- flutter shut as his breathing hitches, and then you feel your heart shatter just that little bit more when Harry’s hand almost instinctively reaches out and grabs Malfoy’s buttocks. He freezes and grunts, and you can feel him coming inside you.

Malfoy’s climax immediately follows Harry’s, filling you with semen, yet he hasn’t moved a single stroke. It’s Harry who’s brought him off. You don’t allow yourself to think about that too much.

They both withdraw from you, and Malfoy dresses in silence. You and Harry both throw on a bathrobe. Once Malfoy is dressed, he kisses you briefly on the cheek, and then does the same to Harry, before exiting the bedroom and heading for the Floo in the living room. Harry follows him. He’s never done that before.

You head to the bathroom and sit on the toilet, where you realise you’re shaking. You take a flannel and begin to clean yourself up, washing away traces of semen from both orifices that may have been released into you but definitely wasn’t because of you. You remove a phial of your contraceptive potion from the bathroom cabinet and down it in one gulp. You refuse to let yourself cry.

The reflection in the bathroom mirror taunts you; your face is white, your eyes look lifeless, and your hair is dank with Malfoy’s sweat. But you’re too weary to shower. You just want to crawl into bed, close your eyes, and fall into oblivion.

Harry has clearly only just re-entered the bedroom when you return. He’s shed his bathrobe and is pulling on clean pyjamas. Long-sleeved, long-legged, button up pyjamas. He may as well have dressed in a chastity belt.

He climbs into bed and you get in next to him. He leans over and kisses you briefly, on the mouth. It’s the first time you feel as if you’ve had his full attention in well over an hour, but this doesn’t hearten you, for you can smell Malfoy’s cologne on his skin. You want to ask him why that is, how it got there. You want to ask him if he still loves you. You want to tell him that it will never happen again with Malfoy.

But you don’t. You kiss him back, and then lie awake in the dark, listening to Harry’s deep, even breathing whilst he sleeps, as tears dry on your cheeks.


It’s another two weeks before you know for certain that you’ve lost him. You and Harry haven’t had sex since the last time with Malfoy. He’s refused your advances with the look of a deer caught in the headlights, as if he’s expected to perform some disgusting act, rather than simply make love to his wife. And it’s driving you insane.

You’re home early, you know that. You arranged to leave work a few hours early today. You’re planning on taking a long, hot bath, slipping on the ridiculously expensive lingerie Harry bought for you in Paris a few years ago that he used to adore so much, and having another attempt at seduction. Harry isn’t supposed to be home yet, but you know straight away he is. His wand is lying on the kitchen table. And, with a stab of pain like nothing you’ve ever experienced before, you know he isn’t alone. For a cloak that you recognise as Malfoy’s is slung over the back of a chair.

Your heart is in your mouth now. You inspect the living room, hoping to find them both in there, but knowing that they won’t be. There’s only one room they’re in, you know that deep down, but you still pray to any deity who may be listening that you’re wrong.

Soft moaning as you approach your half-closed bedroom door kills any scrap of hope that you felt. You grab Harry’s Invisibility Cloak from the drawer in the study, throw it over you, and then, taking a deep breath, you silently slide through the gap in the doorway and enter your bedroom.

You almost reel from shock, despite being prepared for the scene in front of you, as you manage to stifle the gasp that’s lodged in your throat. Malfoy is lying on his side on your bed, facing you, completely naked and flushed, his legs parted and bent. He’s sweating, and gasping, as his fists tug desperately at your bed sheets- the ones your parents bought for you and Harry as a wedding present. The irony of that is not lost on you. Malfoy’s cock is thick and pink and very, very hard. Even from this distance you can see pre-come glistening on the head, which is dark red and protruding from the foreskin. His eyes are screwed tightly shut, his muscles are tense and his mouth is open in what you’re sure is a silent scream of ecstasy, as his body clearly prepares itself for its imminent orgasm.

But that’s not what your eyes are focussed upon. Oh no. They’re on Harry. Because in all the years you have been married, you’re positive that he’s never looked how he does right now during sex. Even during the threesomes with Malfoy. He’s breathing heavily, he’s drenched in perspiration, and, unlike Malfoy’s eyes, his eyes are wide and filled with what you can only describe as complete and utter adoration, and focussed entirely on his lover. For there is no other word for it. They are clearly lovers, in every possible sense of the word.

He’s also flushed all over in a dusky shade of rose, and there are no signs of the inhibitions you’ve always suspected Harry’s had during sex; that sense you’ve always had that part of him is holding back. You can see that his chest heaving, his hair is wet, and his cock… you feel a part of you die inside as you look at his cock. Or, more accurately, what you can see of it. For Harry is inside Malfoy, thrusting wildly and deeply, his fingers clenched on Malfoy’s hips, tight enough to bruise his skin, and he’s never been like this with you. When he thrusts into you it’s hesitant, restrained. There’s nothing like that here. Harry is as wild and uninhibited as you’ve ever seen him.

And he’s utterly fucking beautiful.

He comes then, with a hoarse, guttural groan of euphoria. His body convulses and trembles as he comes down from his climax, but it doesn’t stop Harry gripping Malfoy’s pulsing cock in his hand and stroking him to completion just seconds after his own orgasm ends, before tilting Malfoy’s face towards him and capturing him in a long, passionate, open-mouthed kiss. And that is the moment, as you stand watching them kiss, that everything is absolutely, totally, crystal clear to you. You’ve not lost Harry. You cannot lose what was never truly yours in the first place.

You bite on your lip as you feel tears begin to fall over your cheeks. They have no idea you’re there, of course, but even without Harry’s Cloak, you know that you’d be invisible to them right now. Draco twists around into Harry’s embrace then, and one else exists except those two men, locked tightly around one another and still panting hard. You can see Draco’s left arm tracing patterns over Harry’s back, his left leg thrown over Harry’s right, and Harry cradles him tenderly on the side of his neck, soothing the skin just below his earlobe with the pad of his thumb. He pulls Draco close for another kiss, and you’ve seen enough. You turn and, without looking back once, you slip out of the room.

You pause as you walk past the airing cupboard, and hastily throw a few items of clothing into a holdall you store in there. You think about leaving a note, but that won’t do. It’s a poor way to end a relationship in which you’ve invested so many years of your life. The tears are falling thickly now, obscuring your vision, as you neatly fold Harry’s Cloak and replace it in his drawer.

You descend the stairs and walk into the living room. Yours and Harry’s wedding photo takes pride of place on the mantelpiece; a large portrait in an ornate gold frame. Harry looks so happy in those pictures. You wonder to yourself if he knew he was gay when he married you. Whether he knows he is even now. You run your left index finger over Photo Harry’s face, as he grins and waves at you. A slither of shining metal on your hand catches your attention as your finger slides over his pleasure-flushed cheeks. Choking back the cry that’s threatening to escape, you hastily remove your wedding ring and place it next to the photograph. You’ve not removed your ring in years; the gold has caused a dent in your finger. Without another sound, you pick up your bag, throw it over your shoulder, and walk away.