Chapter 20: Blythe screams as two men lift her onto the workbench, one driving into her pussy while the other fucks her mouth, her nails scraping the wood as they pound her relentlessly. Meanwhile, Elara kneels between another pair, sucking one thick cock while the other slides between her tits - their sweat-slicked bodies glistening in the dim light until Snape steps forward with a growl, commanding the men to fill his wives' holes with their seed before he reclaims what's his.
The cottage’s living room, usually a sanctuary of velvet and firelight, felt charged with a different kind of heat. Elara watched from the window as the last of the four groundskeepers, a burly Welshman named Dai, latched the equipment shed door. The plan had been absurdly simple. A whispered complaint about a stuck window in the cottage, a flutter of Blythe’s lashes, an offer of firewhisky for their trouble. Men were so refreshingly predictable.
“They’re coming,” she said, her voice low. She turned from the window. Blythe was already by the fireplace, pouring generous measures of Ogden’s Old into five tumblers. The fire painted her skin gold, highlighting the careless drape of her silk robe.
“The big one with the red beard,” Blythe murmured, a sly smile on her lips. “I want him first.”
“Greedy,” Elara chided, but she was smiling too. This was a different kind of experiment, a thesis on physical leverage and the dissolution of polite barriers. After the calculated tension of Italy, the intellectual sparring with Snape, she craved something brutish and direct. Something that didn’t require a glossary to parse.
A heavy knock rattated the cottage door.
“It’s open!” Blythe called, her tone bright and welcoming.
They filed in, ducking under the low doorway: Dai, then Tom and his brother Celyn, both broad-shouldered and smelling of fresh earth and grass, followed by the red-bearded one, Rhys. They wiped their boots self-consciously on the mat, their eyes adjusting from the night to the warm, intimate glow of the room. They saw the two young women, the fire, the drinks. A collective nervous energy tightened the air.
“Window’s all sorted, Miss,” Dai said, his voice a low rumble. “Just needed a firm tap.”
“You’re absolute heroes,” Blythe breathed, gliding forward with the tray of tumblers. She handed them out, her fingers brushing theirs. “Please, have a drink. You’ve saved us from a dreadfully chilly night.”
They took the glasses, murmuring thanks, their eyes darting between the girls and the expensive furnishings. Elara leaned against the arm of the couch, sipping her own whisky, letting the silence stretch just to the point of discomfort.
“It must be fascinating work,” she finally said, “tending to the grounds. All that raw, growing life. The constant, physical… manipulation of the environment.”
Rhys, the red-beard, coughed. “It’s a lot of digging, miss.”
“I like digging,” Elara said, her gaze holding his. “Uncovering what’s beneath the surface.”
Blythe laughed, a bright, cascading sound. She let her robe slip from one shoulder. “It’s so stuffy in here, don’t you think? After all your hard work.” She untied the belt. The silk whispered open and pooled at her feet. She stood naked before the four men, her skin glowing in the firelight, utterly unselfconscious.
The reaction was immediate. Tom choked on his firewhisky. Celyn’s glass froze halfway to his mouth. Dai’s eyes went dark. Rhys simply stared, his own glass cracking in his grip, amber liquid dripping onto the rug.
“Oh, bother,” Blythe giggled, stepping over the silk. “Now look what you’ve made me do.”
Elara watched their faces, the sheer primal shift in the room’s atmosphere. Power wasn’t always a subtle potion or a cutting remark. Sometimes it was this: the absolute, undeniable fact of a body offered. She set her glass down and, slowly, began unbuttoning her own blouse. “She has a point. All this… formality seems rather silly now.”
That was all the invitation needed.
It wasn’t a gentle transition. It was a landslide. Dai was the first to move, crossing the room in two long strides and pulling Blythe against him, his mouth crashing down on hers. Tom and Celyn followed, hands grabbing, pulling at Elara’s clothes. Buttons flew. Her skirt was yanked down her hips. There were no sweet nothings, only grunts and the sharp intake of breath.
Rhys, wiping his cut hand on his trousers, locked eyes with Elara. “You meant this,” he growled, not a question.
“Obviously,” she said, just before he grabbed a fistful of her hair and turned her, bending her over the back of the plush couch.
The room dissolved into a tangle of limbs and heavy breath. Blythe was on the rug before the fireplace, Dai between her thighs, his broad hands pinning her hips as he drove into her with a single, deep stroke. She cried out, a sound of pure shocked pleasure, her nails scraping the floorboards.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” Dai grunted, his rhythm already establishing, a relentless, pounding pace.
Elara felt the rough denim of Rhys’s trousers against the backs of her thighs. He didn’t bother with foreplay. He spit into his palm, slicked himself, and shoved into her with a force that drove her hard against the couch. The air left her lungs in a gasp. It was brutal, filling, a stark invasion that bordered on pain. She gripped the velvet upholstery, her knuckles white.
“That’s it,” Rhys snarled in her ear, his breath hot and smelling of whisky and tobacco. “Take it. Fucking take it all, you clever little witch.”
Behind her, she heard Tom and Celyn arguing in quick, hushed Welsh. Then hands were on her, turning her head. Tom leaned down, kissing her sloppily, his tongue pushing into her mouth while his brother’s hands kneaded her breasts, pinching her nipples hard. She was surrounded, penetrated on all sides, a vessel for their sudden, explosive hunger.
Blythe was screaming now, a continuous stream of profane encouragement. “Yes! Right there! Don’t you fucking stop, you massive brute! God, your hands!”
Elara lost track of whose hands were where. One moment Tom was fucking her mouth with his tongue, the next Celyn had replaced Rhys, his cock slightly thinner but just as relentless, hammering into her from behind with a frantic, jackrabbit pace. The couch rocked against the floor. A small ornament rattled off a side table and shattered.
Rhys, momentarily displaced, went to Blythe. He didn’t wait for an invitation. He pulled Dai out of her by the shoulder—Dai cursing—and pushed Blythe’s legs up over her head, burying his face between her thighs. Blythe’s screams turned to shrieks. “Oh God, yes! Eat me! Lick my fucking cunt!”
Elara felt a strange detachment even as her body convulsed around Celyn’s thrusts. This was biology. This was physics. The application of force, the release of tension. It was less about pleasure than about consumption. They were consuming her, and she was allowing it, directing it even, with her moans and the arch of her back. It was the antithesis of Snape’s calculated, resentful touch in the dark office. This was daylight-bright and shameless.
“Switch,” Dai grunted, pulling Celyn off Elara. They traded places with a rough efficiency. Dai’s cock was thicker, stretching her brutally. He fucked her with the same steady, ground-eating force he’d use to dig a trench. Elara saw stars, her vision blurring at the edges.
Blythe was on her knees now, taking Rhys into her mouth while Tom fucked her from behind. She gagged, sputtered, then took him deeper, her eyes streaming. The room was a symphony of skin slapping against skin, ragged breathing, and the wet, obscene sounds of penetration.
Elara came first, a sharp, unexpected clenching that ripped through her as Dai pounded into a spot that blurred all thought. She didn’t scream like Blythe. She let out a choked, guttural sound, her body seizing. Dai groaned, his pace faltering, then becoming even more punishing as he chased his own finish.
He pulled out abruptly, his come striping her back and the velvet couch in hot, sticky bursts.
Before she could recover, Rhys was there, rolling her over. He pushed her legs apart, his red beard smeared with Blythe’s wetness. He entered her in one furious thrust. She was raw, oversensitive, and the sensation tipped over into a painful, breathtaking intensity. He fucked her like he hated her, like he wanted to break the smart, pristine thing he perceived her to be. And she took it, her eyes open, watching the firelight dance on the ceiling.
Blythe climaxed again, a wailing, sobbing orgasm that left her collapsed on the rug, Tom emptying himself inside her with a long, shuddering groan.
Rhys’s rhythm broke. He swore, his body locking, and he came deep inside Elara with a sound like a dying animal. He collapsed on top of her, his weight crushing, his sweat-slick skin sticking to hers.
Silence fell, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the labored, steadying breaths of six people.
The groundskeepers began to move first, shuffling, pulling on clothes with a sudden, abashed haste. They didn’t look at each other, or at the girls. Murmured, barely coherent farewells were uttered. The cottage door opened and shut four times.
The cold night air rushed in and was gone.
Elara lay on the ruined couch, staring at the ceiling. The smell of sex, sweat, and spilled whisky was overpowering. Blythe crawled over from the rug, limbs loose, a satiated smile on her face. She curled into the space beside Elara, her head on her shoulder.
“Well,” Blythe sighed, her voice hoarse. “That was educational.”
Elara didn’t answer. Her body felt used, thoroughly and completely. A specimen in an experiment. She thought of Snape’s long, potion-stained fingers, his clinical precision. He sought control in dominance. She had just sought… obliteration. A temporary nullification of the relentless, calculating mind that had spent the summer negotiating contracts and parsing the subtext of every glance.
Blythe’s breathing evened out into sleep.
Elara continued to stare upward. The euphoria drained away, leaving a familiar, hollow clarity. The experiment was concluded. The data was recorded. She had proven she could orchestrate a purely physical chaos. And now, in the quiet aftermath, she felt nothing but a cold, sharp loneliness, sharper and more profound than any she’d felt before. It tasted like ashes and come and the dregs of cheap firewhisky.
Outside, an owl hooted. The castle on the hill loomed in the darkness, its windows mostly dark. One, in the lowest dungeons, might still have been lit by a single, guttering candle. She wondered, idly, what his experiment had yielded tonight.