DISCLAIMER: I AM NOT J K ROWLING AND DID NOT CREATE THESE CHARACTERS (JK I ACTUALLY AM (JK I'M NOT (BUT THIS IS 100% CANON)))
PART ONE
The door slammed shut as the heavy figure of Vernon Dursley slumped into the narrow hall. Petunia took a deep breath as she straightened her floral dress. She surveyed the table in front of her; everything was perfectly in place. The table was set, with the cutlery and plates all laid out neatly, ready and waiting for Vernon to sit down.
The expression on his face was presumably grim (Petunia had hoped that the aroma from the kitchen would at least tempt a trace of a smile to make its way onto his face) as he sat down in the small chair. Everything in the new house was smaller than Privet Drive had been, a fact which had made Vernon incredibly angry. He sat in the chair and picked up The Daily Mail (Petunia had it set out ready for him, a lesson that she had been taught a long while ago), barely acknowledging her existence. She walked quietly to the kitchen and took Vernon's dinner into the dining room, placing it on the table in front of him as though it was a gift to appease a god. She sat on the opposite chair to him and began eating her own meal, shakily bringing her fork to her mouth, over and over again, not speaking or looking up.
"Where is he?" Vernon grunted, interrupting the 'blissful' silence and making Petunia jump.
"Dudley's at a friend's house. I forget which one." Petunia attempted to sound normal; it wasn't very convincing, but Vernon was barely paying attention to her.
"Probably the blonde one. He's always with that blonde one. Fucking fags."
Petunia didn't know how to respond to Vernon's statement, so just nodded her head slightly to acknowledge the comment and continued eating her dinner.
As soon as Vernon had finished his food he vanished upstairs for a while, leaving Petunia alone to worry as to whether the upstairs of the little house was as clean as Vernon would expect. The mental torture was becoming unbearable to Petunia. Every little sound from the upstairs made her jump, her worry pressing down on her more and more. Eventually he returned down the stairs and they spent the night watching television in silence, Vernon dictating what the channel was as he always did. Petunia just sat and watched the television with unfocused, unfeeling eyes, imagining a day when she could be free from Vernon and his Nazi-like regime.
Petunia sat on the small double bed in her pink lacey nightie as Vernon finished up in the bedroom. She rubbed her hands up and down her long legs, subconsciously soothing herself, preparing for what was to come. The toilet flushed and the noise flew around the house, signalling to Petunia that it was time. She took a deep breath and lay down in the bed, waiting for that familiar silhouette to block out the light from the corridor. Eventually it came, and Petunia's husband (and controller) walked into the room. He lay down on the bed next to her, not paying any attention to her, not making eye contact. He just began to caress her body, starting at her legs and making his way up to her vagina. Petunia was always surprised at how gentle Vernon was when they made love, how he loved her like she was a perfect jewel, like a beautiful, young, precious thing which needed to be handled with care – a vast difference to the norm.
His tongue entered her vagina and she whimpered, getting a huge amount of pleasure from the experience, but being repulsed at the same time. The deeper his tongue went the better it felt, but she was still very aware that it was Vernon's tongue, the tongue that could once pushed her to climax now repulsed her deeply. His moustache too, its bristles tickling her soft skin… she did her best to hide her disgust, pretending that she was loving every moment of the sickening experience. It wasn't easy.
After a few moments of this agony Vernon's tongue left her hole and slid back into his mouth. Petunia revelled in the few moments of relief that she was enjoying, but it ended as soon as it came as something else breached her lips.
Vernon's 5-inch erect member found its way up her vagina, sliding through like a snake in a pipe. Petunia had to admit it wasn't as bad as she was expecting; his penis wasn't really big enough to cause much of an effect. She lay on the bed as Vernon raised her legs into the air, thrusting in and out of her in an erratic manner. There was no rhythm, no control. He was lke an animal. After a few minutes of Petunia fighting back tears and Vernon slowly pounding into her she felt his penis swell and his rhythm increase – he was going so fast that she thought he may be having a heart attack (the thought of Vernon spasming on the floor as his heart began to falter giving her an unusual jolt of happiness).
He wasn't though – he was only climaxing, his sperm bursting out of his penis into her vagina like a firework. His softening member left her and he turned over and fell asleep as though nothing had ever happened. As his loud snores cut through the tense silence of the room and his cold spunk dripped down her thigh, Petunia began to sob silently.
The huge lump of fat and hatred next to her rolled over onto his side, the bed bouncing with his movements. Petunia was rigid against the ripples of their bed as she stared into the darkness, thinking about how miserable she was, how unfair life had been.
Did she deserve what was happening to her? Had she brought it on herself through years of neglect and abuse to her nephew? Was there really a God out there? Was she being punished?
It was likely. Petunia never thought of herself as being religious (she rarely set foot inside a church; she never prayed), but it felt likely that something, somewhere, was punishing her for what she had done to Harry.
And with that thought, she fell asleep.