Chapter 11: Kreacher Comforts Part 11
The thick scent of Kreacher’s cooking – overcooked kidneys and something pungently herbal – clung to the damp air of the Grimmauld Place kitchen. Hermione sat hunched at the scarred wooden table, the heavy, leather-bound book she’d unearthed from a cobwebbed cupboard lying untouched before her. Its pages blurred. Words swam. The text, promising obscure defensive wards, couldn’t pierce the fog in her mind, a fog thick with the phantom ache deep inside her and the lingering taste of him on her tongue.
Her gaze, traitorously, kept sliding towards the stove. Kreacher stood there, his hunched back to her, stirring a bubbling cauldron. His ragged loincloth hung loosely, but the telltale bulge beneath, obscene even in profile, was unmistakable. The sheer weight of it seemed to pull the thin fabric down. Memories flooded her: the savage pounding on Walburga’s bed, the suffocating violation on her knees, the shameful heat that pooled low in her belly even now. The need. It was a physical thing, a gnawing emptiness demanding to be filled, obliterated.
A low moan escaped her lips before she could stifle it. Kreacher’s stirring paused. He didn’t turn, but his bulbous eyes slid sideways, fixing her with a look that was ancient and cold. Calculating. He knew. He always knew. The silence stretched, taut with unspoken command. The rhythmic clack of his ladle against the cauldron resumed, louder now. Accusing. Demanding.
Hermione’s legs moved as if detached from her body. She pushed back the heavy wooden chair, the scrape echoing harshly in the cavernous room. Her knees hit the cold flagstones beside the stove. The heat from the fire washed over her face, mingling with the flush of utter humiliation. The scent of cooking meat was suddenly overwhelmed by his unique musk – damp wool, stale cabbage, and the heavy, animal tang of his arousal. Her stomach churned, yet her cunt clenched, wetting her knickers.
His cock was already straining against the loincloth’s edge, the thick, veined shaft clearly outlined, the bulbous tip dampening the fabric. Without a word, her hands rose, trembling violently. Her fingers fumbled with the grimy knot of his loincloth. It fell away.
The sheer size of him always stole her breath. Fully erect, it jutted from his skinny frame like a grotesque monument, thick as her forearm, veined and heavy, the swollen purple head glistening with pre-cum. It bobbed slightly with his ragged breaths, impossibly intimidating. Revulsion warred with a terrifying, magnetic pull. She leaned in, her breath hitching as the hot, musky scent engulfed her senses.
Opening her mouth felt like an act of utter surrender. She stretched her jaw wide, straining to accommodate the impossible girth. Her lips stretched painfully around the slick crown, her tongue flattening against the underside as she took the first thick inch. Kreacher grunted, a low rumble in his chest. He didn’t stop stirring. The ladle scraped rhythmically.
Gods, it’s too big, her mind screamed, even as she pushed forward, gagging slightly as the thick shaft filled her mouth, pressing against the back of her throat. Saliva flooded her mouth, mixing with the bitter-salt taste of his pre-cum. Tears pricked her eyes.
"Wider, Mudblood," Kreacher rasped, his voice grating, devoid of any warmth. He shifted his stance slightly, pushing his hips forward. "Take it deeper. Kreacher expects service while he works."
She choked, tears spilling over as she forced herself to take more. Her jaw screamed in protest. She could barely breathe through her nose, the thick saltiness making her swallow convulsively. He pushed deeper still, the head nudging the entrance to her throat. She gagged violently, pulling back slightly, strings of spit and pre-cum connecting her lips to his cock.
"Useless slut," he muttered, turning briefly to glare down at her. His bulbous eyes were hard. "Can't even suck cock properly. Do it, or Kreacher stops. Leaves you empty." He emphasized the threat with another shallow thrust against her resisting lips.
Panic flared, sharp and bright, cutting through the humiliation. Empty. The void. The gnawing ache that was worse than the suffocating invasion. She whimpered, a pathetic sound, and leaned back in, opening wider, forcing her throat to relax. He surged forward, burying the thick head past the constricting ring of muscle. She convulsed, her eyes bulging, body spasming as her throat was forcibly stretched. He held her there, impaled, while he gave the cauldron another stir. The sound of her choking gags mingled with the bubbling stew.
He fucked her mouth slowly, deliberately, with the same detached rhythm as his stirring. In and out, allowing her brief, gasping breaths before plunging deep again, stretching her throat obscenely. Tears streamed down her face, dripping onto his thin thighs. Her hands clutched uselessly at her own knees, knuckles white. The humiliation was absolute. He used her mouth like a convenient hole, his attention seemingly fixed on the cooking, her choking sounds merely background noise to his task. The bitter taste coated her tongue, her throat, a vile reminder of her place.
Finally, with a final grunt, he pulled his cock free with a slick pop. Hermione collapsed forward onto her hands, coughing violently, gasping for air, strings of saliva and pre-cum dangling from her chin. Her throat felt raw, bruised.
Kreacher ignored her, turning off the flame beneath the cauldron with a snap of his fingers. He shuffled to the sink, wiping his hands on a rag, the picture of mundane domesticity completely at odds with what had just transpired at his feet. He didn't look at her.
Hermione stayed on her hands and knees, trembling, the stone floor cold against her skin. The ache inside her was a physical scream now, amplified by the degradation. She watched him, her vision blurry with tears, as he moved with unhurried purpose. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. The silence was its own command. She was his to use, whenever, however.
He turned back towards the table. His cock, still thick and hard, glistening with her spit, bobbed heavily. His bulbous eyes scanned the kitchen, then settled on her. Not on her face, but on her exposed backside, her skirt rucked up from kneeling.
"Table," he rasped, gesturing vaguely with a gnarled finger.
Hermione scrambled up, her legs shaky. Shame burned through her, but the need was a desperate animal clawing at her insides. She shuffled to the heavy wooden table, the same one where she’d tried to read moments before. She gripped the edge, knuckles white again, and bent forward, pressing her cheek against the cold, scarred wood. She arched her back, presenting herself, the damp fabric of her knickers the only barrier. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
She heard him shuffle closer. The air shifted. Then, the rough fabric of her knickers was yanked down to her knees. The cool kitchen air hit her exposed cunt, already slick with her treacherous arousal. She flinched, bracing.
Kreacher didn’t tease. His gnarled hands gripped her hips, claws digging in, pinning her to the table edge. The thick, blunt head of his cock pressed against her entrance, already stretched and tender from previous violations. He pushed. Hard.
Hermione cried out, her voice cracking. The invasion was immediate, brutal. He sheathed himself inside her in one savage thrust, tearing through her reluctant flesh, filling her to bursting. The stretch was agonizing, a fiery burn that stole her breath. The table legs scraped harshly on the flagstones.
"Fuck! Kreacher, it... it hurts!" she gasped, the words ragged.
"Be quiet, whore," he snapped, his voice harsh. He pulled back almost completely, the sudden emptiness almost as painful as the intrusion, then slammed forward again with piston force. And again. He set a relentless, punishing rhythm, driving into her with bruising power. His bony hips slammed against her ass with each thrust, the slap of flesh echoing like a drumbeat in the gloomy kitchen.
The pain was white-hot, searing, radiating through her pelvis. Her fingers scrabbled against the smooth wood. Yet, beneath the agony, the familiar, terrifying coil began to tighten. Each brutal penetration scraped against nerves already raw, sending jolts of shocking sensation through her. Her body, betraying her utterly, began to clench around the invading thickness, milking it.
"Yesss..." The hiss escaped her lips, shocking her. Shame warred with the dark, coiling pleasure-pain. "Harder! Fuck me harder, Kreacher! Fill me!"
He grunted, a sound of effort and dark satisfaction, and obeyed. His thrusts became even more violent, jackhammering into her depths. The table rocked violently. He leaned over her, his bony chest pressing against her back, his rasping breath hot on her neck. "Filthy Mudblood cunt," he growled, each word punctuated by a punishing thrust. "Begging for elf cock. My cock. Your master's cock."
"Yes! Master!" she screamed, the word torn from her, a surrender that felt both horrifying and inevitable. "Your cunt! Breed me! Pump your fucking seed into your slave!" Her orgasm hit her like a physical blow, a brutal, convulsive wave that ripped through her core, tearing a raw scream from her throat. Her vision went white. She clenched around him with desperate, involuntary spasms.
Kreacher roared, a guttural, animal sound. He slammed home one final time, burying himself to the root, his bony hips grinding hard against her ass. She felt the hot, thick pulse deep inside her as he emptied himself, jet after scalding jet flooding her violated cunt. It felt like a branding iron searing her womb, a vile, claiming heat. He held himself deep, shuddering, pumping every drop.
Silence descended, broken only by their harsh, ragged breathing and the frantic pounding of Hermione's heart against the hard wood. Kreacher pulled out slowly, his massive cock sliding free with a wet, obscene sound. Thick rivulets of his spend immediately began to seep from her gaping, reddened hole, dripping onto the dusty flagstones beneath the table. He adjusted his loincloth with a grunt.
Hermione slumped forward, her cheek pressed to the cold wood, utterly spent. Her body trembled violently. The smell of sex and cooking kidneys hung thick in the air. His cum leaked steadily down her inner thighs, warm and sticky. The void was filled, obliterated by the brutal possession, leaving only a profound numbness and the heavy weight of his ownership.
Kreacher shuffled towards the cauldron. He dipped a bowl into the stew. Without looking back, he placed it on the table beside her head. The steaming broth sloshed. "Eat, slave," he rasped. "Kreacher requires your strength." He paused, his bulbous eyes flicking over her prone form, leaking his seed onto the floor. A cruel twist touched his thin lips. "Clean the floor after. Properly. With your tongue." He turned and shuffled out of the kitchen, leaving her broken and used beside the bowl of stew, his command hanging in the stale air like a curse. She didn't move. She simply lay there, breathing in the scent of his claim, the cold wood against her cheek, her cunt throbbing with the memory of his violation. Slave. It was no longer a word. It was her reality.