A Sticky Situation
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters…I just like molesting them!
Summary: After getting into trouble during a summer at the Dursley's Harry finds himself in a sticky situation.
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The sweltering, blistering summer afternoon left Privet Drive hot and miserable. The day wore on lazily and by late afternoon a steady breeze had picked up and the sky had darkened, forcing the inhabitants indoors as the rainstorm drew near. This included 13-year-old Harry Potter. He sighed heavily as he entered Number Four Privet Drive. He reluctantly walked in the back door, cursing the storm that had driven him indoors. He loathed his relatives as much as they did him. He had no desire to spend an evening with them, especially since his Uncle Vernon's sister, Marge, was due to arrive within the hour.
As he walked into the kitchen he stopped in his tracks and before he could stop himself he let out an audible snicker. Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon and Dudley all stopped and looked at him, dislike unmasked in their eyes. Dudley had been modeling some clothes that his mother had picked up for him while she was out at the shops earlier in the day. The boy was grotesquely overweight and the cloth and buttons of his shirt were visibly straining to wrap around the immense expanse of the child. The cloth between the buttons gaped, revealing a large, soft belly. Dudley looked as though he was perspiring from sucking in his stomach in an attempt to fit into his new shirt.
"Oi!" he snapped at Harry in a strained voice, "What are you laughing at? At least I get new clothes!"
"Yeah and I don't look stupid like you, lardarse," Harry snapped back, "What is that? How many shirts did they have to sew together for you?"
Harry regretted saying it immediately, not because it was true but because he knew he was in trouble. Dudley's face went purple and what ever he said was drowned out by Uncle Vernon's roar. Dudley let out the breath he was holding and the button popped off of the poor shirt with a loud ripping sound. It sailed across the living room with such force that it hit a picture of Dudley on the mantle and cracked the glass in it. Harry laughed loudly. He knew he was already in big trouble so he might as well laugh. Uncle Vernon took two large steps toward him and reached out with one of his massive paws and grabbed Harry by his hair.
"You're lucky I have to go get Marge," He growled as he drug Harry out of the living room and up the stairs to his bedroom.
He flung Harry into his bedroom and locked the door.
"I'll deal with you later," he growled and thundered down the stairs.
Harry felt his stomach sink. He knew he was in for it. He hoped that his uncle would have time to cool down by the time he returned with his sister. He hoped that the few precious moments of poking fun of Dudley would be worth the price he would have to pay for it.
An hour later Harry heard the sounds of Vernon and Marge returning home. He nervously fidgeted for nearly an hour before Uncle Vernon came for him.
"Come on, come on," he said with feigned niceness, his walrus features were forcing a fake smile on his face.
He held out his arm as in invitation for Harry to follow him. Reluctantly and slowly Harry followed Uncle Vernon down the stairs and into the sitting room.
"Since you seem to know what is fashionable these days," Uncle Vernon said, "You can help Marge."
He gestured into the living room and Harry entered looking confused. He had expected shouting and a smack on the gob. But Marge was sitting on the sofa looking smugly at him. She had a towel around her waist and a waxing kit was sitting on the ottoman.
"I don't understand," Harry said as he looked at his uncle.
"You seem to be the fashion expert around here so you can use your expertise and give Marge a Brazilian," Uncle Vernon explained as though Harry were thick and ignorant.
Harry's eyes widened in disbelief. Somehow he didn't think that Uncle Vernon meant the hair on her upper lip. Aunt Petunia entered the room and set down a steaming tub of wax next to the kit then left without looking at or saying anything to anyone.
"You can't be…" Harry began but he was cut off.
"I am very serious," Vernon said, "Now hurry up so we can have dinner soon."
When Harry didn't budge Vernon grabbed him by the neck and threw him toward the ottoman.
"I SAID DO IT," He roared, "YOU WILL WISH YOU WERE NEVER BORN IF YOU DON'T!"
Harry gulped. He was scared. He was a boy, only thirteen and had not even begun to shave himself. He did not know the first thing about hair removal, especially in the nether regions. But he had been the target of Uncle Vernon's wrath before and had no desire to be again. He desperately wished he could take back his hasty taunts from earlier in the afternoon.
With a sigh, Harry moved toward the box of the waxing kit. Aunt Marge smiled nastily and stood up. She removed her towel and revealed a large pooch covered in cellulite. She sat back down on the couch and took some of the ornamental pillows that Aunt Petunia kept on the couch and used them to prop her legs up. She pulled back her pooch and took the duct tape that Uncle Vernon offered and taped it back revealing a very hairy peepee. The smell of tuna and sweat hit Harry in the face and he nearly gagged.
"Are you mad?" Harry said after tearing his eyes away from the old twat, "I don't know what to do. I don't know how to wax and I am pretty sure this is sexual abuse! You all are completely mental!"
"Rubbish!" Uncle Vernon shouted as he gave Harry a smack for himself, "That blasted school is giving you some pretty ruddy ideas…perhaps you shouldn't return."
"No!" Harry cried. Hogwarts was his home.
"Then read the directions and get busy!" Uncle Vernon screamed in his face.
Harry nodded. He would do anything to be able to return to Hogwarts. Harry reached in the kit and took out the pair of latex gloves. Uncle Vernon snatched them from him.
"You won't need those," he said with sick pleasure in his voice.
Harry reached in and took the large flat wooden stick.
"There you go, boy," Marge called, "Dip it in the wax."
Harry did so. Then he looked up at Aunt Marge.
"You sure you don't want a professional doing this…I can be somewhat …clumsy," Harry stammered.
"No, I like small fingers," Aunt Marge said, "Now spread it on me. That's a boy."
Harry stood arm length away and tried to flick it on to her. But she grabbed his hand and forced it on to her minge. Harry gasped. It felt like the brillo pad that he used to wash the casserole dishes with.
"It's like buttering a biscuit, boy," Aunt Marge said as she used his hand to spread the warm wax on her, "Smooth strokes now."
Harry reluctantly did so and then reached in for a cloth strip. He patted the cloth on the waxed hair and his hands shook slightly as he grabbed it and ripped it into the air. The sound was sickening and Aunt Marge farted. The smell nearly made him pass out. This was worse than the time he had drank bubbles when he was five.
"Good lad," Aunt Marge grunted as she let loose another fart.
Harry could see that she was starting to get moist. Peepee secretions were beginning to leak out of the slit in the front. Soon her clit was visible. Harry spread more wax, making sure to get it on the clit. Aunt Marge groaned as he patted another cloth strip on the area. Then, without warning, he yanked as hard as he could so it would hurt. Marge screamed and gave him a clout upside the head.
"Opps," Harry said, "How clumsy of me."
The peepee juice was all over the cloth strip and had a disgusting string of it from the strip to the peepee. Harry wrinkled his nose in disgust. After he finished the peepee, with Aunt Marge spreading herself open to get every last hair, she got on the floor on all fours.
"Do me arsehole, boy," she ordered as she spread her flabby asscheeks.
It was a mass of poop. Harry dumped the last of the wax over it and placed the cloth on it. It made a nauseating squishy sound. He ripped the cloth off and the poop came with it. He accidentally let go of the cloth and it landed on Uncle Vernon's head. Uncle Vernon let out a frightening scream. He got up and jerked Harry to his feet. He slapped him several times before dragging him back to his bedroom.
"You will stay here the rest of the night, you cheeky little blighter!" he roared.
With that he locked the bedroom door. Harry looked down at his hands. They were sticky with wax and course peepee hairs. He stopped complaining about his hands when he heard a commotion from downstairs.
"You can put the after lotion on, Vernon," Marge was saying.
"But Marge…" Uncle Vernon replied in a defeated voice, "Well, all right."
Harry smiled to himself. At least he was out of that sticky situation.
The End.
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