Chapter 31: Free Use Night
The fire in Draco’s sitting room was just embers again, but they weren’t there. He’d Apparated them directly into The Vault’s private lounge, the one behind the office where he’d steadied her just nights before. Now, it was transformed. The utilitarian lights were gone. In their place, banks of charmed candles flickered, making the crimson velvet walls seem to breathe. The air was thick with sandalwood and the crisp, clean scent of hemp rope.
Hermione stood in the center of the room, wearing only the simple silk robe he’d given her. Her skin pebbled in the cool air. Draco circled her, a length of pristine, ivory rope coiled in his hands. His expression was serene, focused.
“Tonight has one rule,” he said, his voice calm and absolute. “Your body is mine to use. For my pleasure. Your needs are secondary. Your pleasure is a byproduct I may or may not allow. This is about my gratification. Do you understand the premise?”
A thrill, sharp and dark, cut through her. This was different. This wasn’t about mutual surrender or shared trust. This was about her relinquishing all claim to agency. She nodded, her throat tight. “Yes.”
“Verbal confirmation, Hermione.”
“I understand the premise. My body is yours to use.”
“Good.” He came behind her, let the robe slip from her shoulders. It pooled at her feet. “Arms behind your back. Wrists together.”
The rope was cool and slightly rough against her skin. He worked with swift, efficient movements, creating a simple but inescapable harness that cinched under her breasts, crossed between her shoulder blades, and bound her wrists firmly at the small of her back. It was not decorative. It was functional. Restrictive. Every pull of the knots reminded her of her purpose.
He turned her to face him. In his hand was a blindfold, not silk, but a broader mask of soft black leather. He held it up. “This stays on. You don’t need to see. You only need to feel what I decide to give you.”
He fitted it over her eyes, plunging her world into warm, utter blackness. The sounds became amplified: the crackle of the candles, the rustle of his clothes, her own accelerating breath. She felt his fingers at the back of her head, securing the buckle. Then his lips were at her ear.
“There’s one more thing.” His breath was hot. “The wall to your left. It’s a mirror from this side. But from the other side, in a private viewing room, it’s clear glass.”
Her breath hitched. A cold wave washed over her skin.
“Three trusted members are there. They have discretion in their contracts. They are watching. They will see your obedience. They will see how beautifully you serve me. They will see everything I do to you.” He kissed her temple, a chilling contrast to his words. “This isn’t a performance for them. It’s a demonstration. Of my control. Of your submission. The audience is irrelevant to you. You are here for me. But I wanted you to know.”
The knowledge was a live wire in her gut. She was exposed, utterly. Not just to him, but to unseen, evaluating eyes. The anonymity of it, the complete objectification, made her knees weak. A strange, terrified pride straightened her spine. He was presenting her, his most challenging submissive, broken to his will.
“Thank you for telling me,” she whispered, the words tasting foreign.
“My good girl,” he murmured, and the praise, in this context, felt like a brand.
The night became a disjointed, sensate blur.
He used her without ceremony. There was no warm-up, no gentle coaxing.
One moment she was standing blind; the next, his hands were on her hips, bending her forward over the padded arm of a chaise. The velvet was coarse against her nipples. He entered her in one smooth, deep stroke from behind. She cried out, the sound swallowed by the room. He set a brutal, driving pace, his grip on her hips iron-tight. The rope harness bit into her skin with every thrust. She could feel the peak gathering, a storm building in her core, sharp and urgent. Just as her muscles began to flutter, he stopped. Pulled out completely. Left her empty, trembling, and wet against the cool air.
He didn’t speak. He just guided her, his hands impersonal on her shoulders, until she was kneeling on the scattered cushions before him. She heard the slide of his zip. His fingers tangled in her hair, not gently, and guided his length to her lips. She took him, the taste of herself and him salty on her tongue. He moved her head, setting the rhythm, using her mouth with the same focused intent. Her own need was a screaming ache between her legs. She was so close from the earlier friction, every nerve alight. Just as she lost herself in the rhythm, feeling her own climax tease the edges again, he pulled away.
Time lost meaning. He lifted her, her bound arms making her helpless, and sat her on his lap as he settled in a deep chair. He impaled her on him, her back to his chest, and made her ride him with slow, grinding rolls of his hips. His mouth was on her neck, his teeth scraping her pulse point. He whispered how perfect she felt, how hot and tight, how beautifully she was performing for their unseen guests. The filthy, praising words in the context of the observation drove her higher than any touch. She was panting, begging into the darkness with soft, broken “pleases.” He chuckled, a dark, warm sound against her skin, and stilled her hips just as she was about to fly apart.
“No,” he said softly. “Not yet.”
She sobbed, a real tear slipping under the blindfold.
He laid her on her back on the platform, her bound arms trapped beneath her. He spread her legs and simply looked, his thumbs tracing her inner thighs. She could feel the heat of his gaze, and the imagined heat of the others’. The exposure was more intimate than any penetration.
“So wet for me,” he mused, his voice clinical. “So desperate. You want to come, don’t you?”
She could only nod, frantic.
“I know.” He lowered his head.
His mouth on her was neither gentle nor cruel. It was devastatingly precise. He knew her body, knew the exact rhythm, the perfect pressure. He worked her with his tongue and lips, bringing her to the very brink again and again, letting her hover there until she shook with the effort of not breaking. She lost all sense of where she was, who was watching. There was only the building pressure and his merciless, expert mouth.
“Please,” she begged, her voice raw. “Draco, please, I can’t—”
“You can,” he said, his breath hot against her. “And you will. Now.”
He gave her no warning, just redoubled his efforts, sucking firmly, his tongue circling the exact right spot. The orgasm ripped through her, violent and total. It shattered the careful compartments in her mind. She screamed, the sound tearing from her throat, as her body convulsed under his hold. Waves of sensation crashed over her, relentless, until she was completely spent, a boneless, trembling thing on the cushions.
He moved up her body, but didn’t enter her again. He simply gathered her limp form into his arms. She felt him wave a hand, heard the subtle snick of a lock engaging. The observers were dismissed.
He carried her through a door, into a small, plain bedroom attached to the lounge. He laid her on the cool sheets and, with careful, practiced motions, undid the knots of the harness and the buckle of the blindfold.
The dim light of a single candle stung her eyes. She blinked up at him. His face was sheened with sweat, his hair disheveled. He looked utterly satisfied, and more open than she’d ever seen him.
He peeled off his own clothes and slid into bed beside her, pulling the covers over them. He drew her back against his chest, her sore, well-used body molding to his. He nuzzled her damp hair.
“That,” he whispered, his voice thick with sleep and satiation, “was just the beginning of this weekend. Tomorrow, you’re mine again. And again. I’m going to use you until you forget your own name. Until all you can say is ‘please’ and ‘more’. Until you beg me for mercy.”
He said it like a promise. Like a gift.
Exhaustion pulled her under before she could even form a thought. In the dark, her body already aching for the dawn, she knew she would never beg for mercy. She would beg for him.