Chapter 10: Kreacher Comforts Part 10
The dust motes danced in the single shaft of weak afternoon light spearing through a gap in the heavy velvet curtains. Hermione lay curled on the vast expanse of Walburga Black’s ancient four-poster bed, the embroidered canopy looming darkly overhead like a shroud. She hadn’t moved for hours. Not since Kreacher had left her trembling on the library floor, the phantom ache inside her a constant, throbbing reminder. The evidence of his possession had dried tacky between her thighs, a stark map of her degradation. Yet, the emptiness… the terrifying, cavernous emptiness he’d left behind… it was worse. It gnawed at her insides, sharper than hunger, colder than fear.
Ron’s shattered face flickered behind her eyelids, a ghost haunting the gloom. The guilt, the isolation, the crushing weight of the war – they all pressed down, but they were distant thunder compared to the raw, screaming void within her. Kreacher hadn’t just taken her body in the library; he’d shattered the illusion of control she’d desperately clung to. He’d shown her the abyss inside herself, and now, horrifyingly, it craved only one thing to fill it: him. His brutal possession. His searing seed. The obliterating sensation that drowned everything else.
A floorboard creaked in the hall outside. Hermione froze, breath catching. Her skin prickled. Was it him? The thought sent a violent tremor through her, a sickening cocktail of terror and desperate, clawing need. She strained her ears. Silence. Just the oppressive quiet of the house. Disappointment, sharp and acidic, flooded her. She buried her face in the musty velvet coverlet, inhaling dust and decay. Pathetic, a voice hissed inside her head. Begging for the creature who violated you. But the voice was weak, drowned out by the relentless ache, the memory of that impossible fullness, the terrifying power that had held her pinned and used.
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to conjure the feeling – the brutal thrusts against the bookshelf, the searing heat flooding her core, the utter helplessness that had somehow felt like… release. Like annihilation. Her hand slid down, trembling, beneath the waistband of her skirt. Her fingers brushed the sensitive, swollen flesh, still tender from his assault. A choked gasp escaped her lips. It wasn’t enough. Her own touch was feeble, meaningless. It couldn’t replicate the savage stretch, the crushing weight of his dominance, the terrifying intimacy of his release deep inside her. She needed him. Needed the violation to fill the void he’d carved.
The door creaked open slowly. Hermione didn’t lift her head. She knew. The scent preceded him – damp wool, boiled cabbage, and beneath it, that faint, unsettling musk uniquely his. Footsteps shuffled across the worn rug. He stopped beside the bed. She could feel his presence, a dark, oppressive shadow falling over her. She kept her eyes squeezed shut, heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Then, a low, rasping sound. Not a word. A guttural acknowledgement. He knew why she was here. Knew what she wanted. The humiliation burned, but the need burned hotter.
"Kreacher," she whispered, her voice raw, muffled by the coverlet. The name felt like ash on her tongue.
He didn’t respond. She forced herself to turn her head, peeling her cheek from the velvet. He stood there, hunched as always, his bulbous eyes fixed on her. But the terror was gone. Replaced by a chilling, watchful stillness. A predator assessing prey. His gaze travelled slowly down her body, lingering where her skirt rode up her thighs. The scrutiny was unbearable, yet it sent a fresh wave of treacherous heat pooling low in her belly.
"Please," she breathed, the word escaping before she could cage it. Shame warred with the desperate craving. "Again."
A flicker passed through his eyes. Not surprise. Something darker. Satisfaction? Contempt? He tilted his head, the thin strands of white hair shifting. "Mistress begs?" His voice was a dry scrape, devoid of its former whine. It was a statement, not a question. A confirmation of her utter capitulation.
Hermione flinched. The truth of it lanced through her. She was begging. Begging the bitter, ancient creature who despised her, who had taken her with such brutal ownership, to do it again. To fill the terrifying emptiness only he could reach. Tears pricked her eyes, hot and humiliating. She nodded, unable to speak.
Kreacher moved then. Not with haste, but with deliberate, unsettling purpose. He didn’t climb onto the bed. He grasped her ankle, his gnarled fingers surprisingly strong, cold against her skin. He yanked her towards the edge of the mattress with a force that stole her breath. Her legs dangled off the side, feet barely brushing the dusty rug. Before she could react, he stepped between her thighs, forcing them wider apart. The rough fabric of his loincloth brushed her inner thighs.
He didn’t fumble. Didn’t hesitate. His movements were economical, terrifyingly assured. He pushed her skirt up around her waist, exposing her completely to the gloom. His bulbous eyes roamed over her, taking in the faint bruises on her hips from his claws, the lingering evidence of his earlier possession smeared on her inner thighs. A low, rumbling sound vibrated in his chest. Approval? Hunger? Hermione trembled violently, pinned by his gaze and his proximity. The scent of him, the sheer, grotesque reality of him so close, should have repulsed her. Instead, her body betrayed her, clenching involuntarily around the remembered invasion, a fresh slickness betraying her shameful need.
He didn’t speak. He simply gripped her hips, his claws digging in with familiar, bruising pressure, and thrust forward.
Hermione cried out, a sharp, involuntary sound ripped from her throat. The invasion was immediate, brutal, deeper than she remembered. There was no preamble, no gentle seeking. He filled her in one savage stroke, stretching her to her absolute limit, the raw ache flaring into white-hot agony. She arched off the bed, gasping, her fingers scrabbling uselessly at the velvet coverlet.
Kreacher held himself deep inside her for a moment, immobile, letting her feel every thick, veined inch. His breath hissed through his teeth. Then he withdrew almost completely, leaving her gasping at the sudden, aching emptiness, before slamming back into her with piston-like force.
"Ah! Gods!" Hermione screamed, the sound echoing off the high ceiling. The pain was intense, a searing tear, but beneath it, coiling tighter with each brutal thrust, was the terrifying, obliterating pleasure she craved. He set a relentless, punishing rhythm, driving into her with a strength that belied his frail appearance. The heavy bed frame groaned and scraped against the floorboards with each powerful drive. Her body was lifted, jolted, utterly at the mercy of his savage pace.
"Yes!" she gasped, the word torn from her, surprising even herself. "Harder! Kreacher, please!" The begging spilled out, fueled by the desperate need to be filled, to be broken, to be consumed by the sensation. To drown in it. "Don't stop! Give it to me! All of it!" Her hips lifted, meeting his downward drives, seeking more friction, more depth, more of the searing heat that was rapidly consuming the pain.
Kreacher’s rhythm didn’t falter. If anything, it intensified. His grip on her hips tightened, anchoring her as he pounded into her with increasing ferocity. His rasping breaths grew harsher, mingling with her own ragged gasps and the rhythmic slap of flesh against flesh, the creak of the protesting bed. His bulbous eyes were fixed on where their bodies joined, a dark, focused intensity in their depths. He grunted with effort, a low, animal sound that sent fresh shivers through Hermione.
The coil inside her wound impossibly tight, a pressure building with terrifying speed. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't sweet. It was a brutal onslaught, a volcanic eruption forged in pain and violation and desperate, shameful need. Kreacher drove into her with a final, devastating thrust, burying himself to the hilt, holding her impaled. A guttural roar tore from him, vibrating through her bones. Inside her, he pulsed violently, a scalding flood that triggered her own convulsive release.
Hermione screamed, a raw, ragged sound that tore through the silent house. Wave after wave of brutal, shattering pleasure ripped through her, amplified by the savage rhythm, the crushing grip on her hips, the sheer, overwhelming force of his possession. It wasn't ecstasy; it was annihilation. Her vision whited out. Her body arched rigidly, convulsing around him as he emptied himself deep inside her with a shuddering intensity that felt less like release and more like a brand being seared onto her soul.
He collapsed forward slightly, his bony frame trembling against her, his breath hot and ragged on her neck. The scalding heat pooled deep within her, a tangible, violating presence that somehow soothed the screaming void. For a moment, there was only the frantic hammering of her heart, the rasp of their shared breath, the lingering tremors coursing through her spent body, and the profound, terrifying fullness.
For a moment, there was only the frantic hammering of her heart, the rasp of their shared breath, the lingering tremors coursing through her spent body, and the profound, terrifying fullness. Kreacher’s weight pressed her deeper into the musty velvet, his bony hips grinding against hers, ensuring every last drop remained trapped inside her violated cunt. The scalding flood he’d pumped into her depths felt like a claiming, a vile possession that simultaneously soothed the gnawing void and branded her soul.
He shifted, pulling his monstrous cock free with a slick, obscene pop that echoed in the gloom. Hermione whimpered, a pathetic sound, instantly mourning the loss of that brutal fullness. Her thighs trembled, sticky with their mingled fluids. Kreacher straightened his stooped posture slightly, his bulbous eyes gleaming with a cold, ancient light as he looked down at her sprawled, ruined form. He didn’t wipe himself; thick ropes of his spend and her slickness coated the veined, intimidating length resting heavily against his thin thigh.
"Filthy Mudblood," he rasped, the words devoid of their usual whining hatred, replaced by a chilling certainty. "Knows her place now." His gaze pinned her, not with lust, but with ownership. Hermione flinched, the shame a physical blow, yet her traitorous cunt clenched, aching for that violation again. She couldn’t meet his eyes. Her gaze dropped to the thick cock glistening before her, mesmerized by its sheer, grotesque power.
Hermione’s gaze remained locked on Kreacher’s obscenely thick cock, glistening under the weak light filtering through the heavy drapes. Its sheer size, veined and heavy, seemed to pulse faintly with remembered power. Her abused cunt clenched reflexively around the emptiness, a fresh slickness betraying her body’s traitorous craving even as shame scorched her cheeks.
"Clean it," Kreacher rasped, his voice devoid of request, laced with cold command. His bulbous eyes, ancient and reptilian, held hers. Not a demand for service, not anymore. This was an order to a lesser being, a test of her utter submission. The words hung in the musty air, heavier than the velvet canopy.
Hermione flinched, a tremor running through her sweat-slicked limbs. The library floor, the frantic coupling against dusty shelves, the brutal claiming on Walburga’s bed – each violation screamed wrong. Yet, the raw ache deep inside, the desperate emptiness only he could temporarily fill, warred violently with her crumbling morality. Her throat tightened. She hesitated, the echo of his contemptuous "Filthy Mudblood" ringing in her ears.
Kreacher shifted his weight, the massive shaft swaying slightly, a drop of their mingled spend beading at the swollen tip. A low, impatient grumble vibrated in his thin chest. The implicit threat crackled in the silence. Hesitation was defiance. Defiance would mean denial. Denial was a void she could no longer endure.
Slowly, trembling violently, Hermione slid from the edge of the vast bed. Her knees hit the threadbare rug hard, the impact jarring her spine. She kept her eyes downcast, fixed on the cracked floorboards near his knobby, bare feet, the scent of old cabbage and male musk thick in her nostrils. The position screamed supplication. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a frantic bird.
She inched forward on her knees, the rug rough against her skin. The sheer proximity of his cock, the heat radiating from it, the pungent smell of sex and something uniquely Kreacher, made her stomach roil even as her core throbbed. She closed her eyes, took a shaky breath that tasted of dust and decay, and leaned in. Her lips, dry and chapped, brushed against the swollen, veined head.
A sharp intake of breath from above. Not pleasure, she knew. Assessment. She opened her mouth, forcing her jaw wide to accommodate the impossible girth. It stretched her lips painfully as she took the bulbous tip between them. The taste flooded her senses – salt, bitter musk, the metallic tang of her own blood from earlier, the lingering essence of his potent seed. She gagged, her throat convulsing, but pushed forward, desperate not to displease.
"All of it, Mudblood," Kreacher commanded, his voice a harsh scrape above her. His bony fingers tangled roughly in her bushy hair, yanking her head forward. "Take your master's cock. Swallow it down, you filthy slag." The obscenity, the ownership in ‘master’, sent a jolt of pure humiliation through her, yet her traitorous cunt pulsed, dripping onto the rug beneath her knees.
Tears welled, hot and stinging, blurring her vision of the cracked floor. She fought the urge to retch, forcing herself deeper, taking more of the monstrous thickness into her mouth and down her throat. Her jaw screamed in protest. He held her head firmly, controlling the depth and pace, his hips giving short, shallow thrusts against her face. Each movement forced more of him down her constricting throat, making her choke and sputter, saliva and precum slicking her chin.
"Gagging on it," he observed, a cruel satisfaction in his rasp. "Good. Know your place is on your knees. Sucking elf cock." He pushed deeper, the thick shaft filling her mouth completely, bulging her cheeks, stretching her throat muscles to tearing. Tears streamed freely now, dripping onto his thin thighs. She couldn’t breathe. Panic flared, but his grip was iron. This was her purpose now: suffocation and degradation.
He held her there, impaled on his thickness, for agonizing seconds before finally pulling back slightly, allowing a gasp of air before shoving forward again. He established a brutal rhythm, face-fucking her with detached efficiency, his grunts the only sound besides her choked gags and the wet, obscene squelch of his cock plunging in and out of her throat. Her mind fragmented. There was only the stretch, the taste, the suffocating pressure, the weight of his ownership pressing her down onto the rug.
Abruptly, he yanked her head back, his cock sliding free with a thick, slick pop. Hermione collapsed forward onto her hands, gasping and coughing, strings of spit and pre-cum hanging from her bruised lips. She gulped air, her throat raw and burning. Before she could recover, his gnarled claws dug into her hips again, flipping her roughly onto her hands and knees on the rug, her face pressed near the spot where she’d just serviced him.
"Present," he ordered, the word cracking like a whip. There was no tenderness, no preamble. The head of his monstrous cock pressed bluntly against her swollen, dripping entrance, still tender and stretched from his earlier savage pounding on the bed. She whimpered, a low sound of fear and unwanted anticipation. He didn’t wait for adjustment.
Kreacher slammed his full, impossible length into her cunt in one vicious thrust. Hermione screamed into the rug, the sound muffled by the coarse fibers. The brutal stretch was agony, tearing at sensitized flesh, deeper and harder than before. He pinned her hips down, his bony frame surprisingly heavy, and began to piston into her with relentless, jackhammer force. There was no rhythm of seduction, only the hammering cadence of possession.
"Fuck!" she gasped, the pain a white-hot brand. "It hurts... Kreacher, please... too deep!" Her plea was weak, broken.
"Shut your filthy hole," he snarled, driving harder, each thrust bottoming out inside her with a wet slap of flesh. "Take it. Take your master's cock, slave. Your cunt exists for this." He leaned forward, his breath hot and foul on her neck. "Beg for my seed, Mudblood. Beg to be filled."
The command, the word slave, struck her core. The last vestiges of resistance crumbled like ancient parchment. The pain was immense, a searing fire, but beneath it roared the terrifying, addictive oblivion she craved – the feeling of being utterly claimed, dominated, used. "Yes!" she sobbed, the word mangled against the rug. "Fuck me! Harder! Please, Kreacher... Master... fill me! Breed your filthy slave! Give me your fucking cum!"
Her desperate, obscene pleas seemed to fuel him. His thrusts became even more punishing, the bedframe groaning loudly as he hammered into her from behind, his thin body slamming against her backside. His claws raked down her flanks as he gripped her hips, holding her open, impaling her on his veined shaft with brutal efficiency. The sound of flesh slapping flesh, her choked cries, his guttural grunts, filled the gloomy room.
She felt the coil snap, not with sweet release, but with a violent eruption born of degradation and overwhelming sensation. Her orgasm ripped through her, convulsing her around his invading girth, a scream tearing from her raw throat as wave after wave of brutal, shattering pleasure-pain consumed her. It was obliteration.
Kreacher roared, a sound more animal than elf, and buried himself to the root. His hips ground against her ass as he pulsed violently within her depths, flooding her violated cunt with scalding jets of cum. It felt like a branding iron searing her womb, a vile claim she both loathed and desperately needed. He held himself deep, pumping every last drop, his bony frame shuddering against hers.
He withdrew slowly, his massive cock sliding free with an obscene, wet sound. Thick rivulets of his spend immediately began to seep from her gaping, reddened cunt, dripping onto the rug beneath her trembling knees. He stepped back, adjusting his loincloth with a grotesque nonchalance. Hermione collapsed fully onto the rug, gasping, her body a trembling ruin, his seed leaking onto the dusty fibers.
Kreacher looked down at her prone form, his bulbous eyes cold and calculating. "You belong to Kreacher now, Mudblood," he stated, his voice flat with absolute certainty. "My slave. My cunt." He nudged her thigh dismissively with a knobby foot. "Clean the mess. Then be ready. Kreacher will use you when he wishes." He turned, shuffling towards the door, leaving her broken and leaking on the floor, the taste of him still coating her tongue, the weight of his ownership settling upon her soul like chains. She didn't move. She simply lay there, breathing in the scent of sex and defeat, the word echoing in the silence: Slave.