Chapter 2: The Dead Mistress's Bed
The smell of lemon polish and old rosewater did little to mask the deeper, sour odor of neglect in Walburga Black’s bedroom. Molly wrestled with the heavy velvet curtains, yanking them open with a grunt, sending a shaft of pallid London light cutting through the motes of dust. It illuminated the monolithic bed, its dark wood carved with serpents and thorns.
“Filth,” she muttered, wiping her hands on her apron. The entire room was a tomb. She had volunteered to tackle it herself, telling Arthur it needed a “woman’s touch,” but the truth was simpler, dirtier. Since the incident in the attic a week prior, her thoughts had coiled around that hidden nest like ivy. The memory of Kreacher’s grotesque display flashed behind her eyes at the most inopportune moments—while stirring stew, while mending one of Arthur’s socks, as she lay beside her softly snoring husband in the dark. A hot, shameful throb would pulse between her legs, followed by a wave of nausea.
She moved to the bed, intent on stripping the linens. The silk coverlet was cold and slimy to the touch. As she pulled it back, she froze.
There was a shape curled in the depression of the mattress, nestled right where Walburga Black’s body would have lain. It was Kreacher. He was naked again, his bony back to her, his white hair sparse against the yellowing pillowcase. And he was moving. A slow, rhythmic rocking of his hips.
A sound escaped her—a sharp intake of breath.
Kreacher went still. Then, with a rustle of dry skin on silk, he rolled over. His monstrous cock, already thick and half-erect, lay heavily against his concave stomach. In the grey daylight, the veined purple of it was even more obscene. He didn’t cover himself. His bulbous eyes fixed on her, not with surprise, but with a kind of weary expectation.
“Mistress Molly disturbs Kreacher’s rest,” he croaked.
“Get out of that bed this instant!” Her voice was shrill, maternal outrage on autopilot. “This room is to be cleaned! And you… you will put on clothes!”
“Kreacher serves the House of Black,” he said, his thin fingers stroking the sheet beside him. “This was Mistress Walburga’s bed. Kreacher keeps her scent. Kreacher remembers his duties.”
“Your duties were to clean, not to… to desecrate.” But her eyes were locked on the sheer size of him, the way his heavy balls rested on the silk. The musky, animal smell from the attic was here too, mingled with dead perfume.
“Kreacher served his Mistress in all ways she demanded,” he whispered, his gaze never leaving Molly’s flushed face. “The Noble and Most Ancient House has… needs. Dark needs. Mistress Walburga was a powerful witch. A lonely witch. Kreacher attended to her.”
The implication crashed over Molly like a wave of icy water. She saw it: the proud, cruel woman in this very bed, the pathetic, devoted elf. A new kind of heat flooded her, one that had nothing to do with anger. It was a dark, fascinated horror. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
“You’re lying,” she breathed, but there was no conviction.
“Kreacher does not lie.” He shifted, his cock twitching, growing fuller against his belly. “When the Master was gone, when the young Master Sirius shamed her, Mistress required comfort. She required service. Kreacher provided.” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial rasp. “She liked his mouth first. Then she would ride him. She said his filth was fit only for a beast, but she screamed for it. She screamed the old magic into his skin.”
Molly’s hand flew to her own throat. Her skin was burning. The image was repulsive. It was also vividly, undeniably arousing. The power dynamic, the utter degradation, the secret, sweaty truth of it. She could almost hear the ghost of Walburga’s screams in the dusty air.
“Stop it,” she said, but it was a plea.
Kreacher’s eyes gleamed. He understood. He saw the conflict in her, the tight pull of her apron over her full breasts, the way her legs pressed together. He slowly sat up, the sheet falling to his waist. His erection stood fully now, a rigid, veined tower of flesh, the flushed head leaking a bead of clear moisture. It was absurd. It was terrifying. It was the most blatantly sexual thing she had ever seen.
“Mistress Molly is curious,” he stated flatly. “Mistress Molly has a good witch’s heart, but her cunt is a hot, wet thing. Kreacher can smell it from here. Like Mistress Walburga’s, before the bitter took her.”
“Don’t you dare—” she started, but her protest died as he shuffled to the edge of the bed, his feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. He stood, hunched under the weight of his own anatomy, and took a step toward her. The sheer proximity of him, the heat radiating from his pale, wrinkled skin, made her head swim.
“She would stand where you stand,” Kreacher murmured, looking up at her. “She would look at Kreacher’s shame and her mouth would go wet. She would lift her skirts.” His gnarled hand reached out, not touching her, but hovering near the hem of her own practical dress. “Show Kreacher. Kreacher will show you how it was.”
It was madness. It was the culmination of every stifled, hungry thought she’d pushed down for twenty years. Arthur was kind, Arthur was loving, Arthur was… gentle. This was none of those things. This was raw, ugly, and real. Her body made the decision before her mind could catch up. A deep, pulling ache settled in her womb, and a slick heat bloomed between her legs.
With trembling fingers, she grasped the sides of her simple cotton dress. She pulled it up, over her hips, revealing her sensible white knickers, the ones that covered the full curve of her arse and the soft swell of her belly. Kreacher’s breathing hitched. A long, string of saliva dripped from his pendulous lower lip.
“Further,” he commanded, the servant’s whine gone from his voice.
She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her knickers and pushed them down, letting them fall around her ankles. The cool air of the tomb-like room kissed her thighs, her mound of red curls. She felt exposed, more naked than she’d ever been.
Kreacher’s eyes devoured her. “On the bed,” he rasped. “On her side. Where she lay.”
Moving as if in a trance, Molly backed up until her calves hit the high bed frame. She hoisted herself up, the silk cold and slippery beneath her bare skin. She lay back on Walburga’s side of the bed, the ghost of the woman’s imprint beneath her. She stared at the cracked plaster ceiling, her chest heaving.
Kreacher clambered onto the bed beside her, his movements surprisingly agile. He loomed over her, his smell engulfing her—dust, male sweat, something deeply organic. He didn’t kiss her. He didn’t touch her breasts. He simply positioned his grotesque, magnificent cock at her entrance. The broad, wet head pressed against her folds, smearing her own slickness.
“Now,” he grunted. “You do it. Like she did. Take your service.”
Her hands shook as she reached down, wrapping her fingers around the base of his shaft. The skin was hot, pulsing, the veins like ropes under her grip. It was too big. It was impossible. But her body was opening, aching, weeping for it. She guided the head to her opening, pressing just the tip inside.
A sharp, stretching burn made her gasp. Kreacher let out a satisfied sigh. “Yes. Tight. Ripe.”
She pushed her hips downward, forcing more of him into her. The stretch was exquisite, a pain so intense it blurred into blinding pleasure. She was being split open, filled beyond anything she’d known. She cried out, a ragged sound lost in the dusty room.
SHE MOUNTS HIM.
She rose up on her knees, his cock slipping partially out, a glistening length of him coated in her arousal, then sank back down, taking him deeper. A groan was torn from her throat. She did it again. And again. Each descent was a struggle, a conquest. Her plump breasts bounced with the effort, her red hair stuck to her sweaty neck. The slap of skin on skin, the wet, filthy sounds of her taking him, filled the silent bedroom.
“Fuck,” she panted, the crude word feeling like fire on her tongue. “Oh, fuck, it’s so… big.”
Kreacher’s hands came up, not to caress, but to grip her hips, his bony fingers digging into her soft flesh, guiding her, forcing her down onto him harder, faster. “You take it,” he hissed. “Take the elf’s cock. Your good wizard husband will never fill you like this. Never make you feel this full.”
It was true. The burning stretch was transforming into a deep, rolling pressure against every sensitive inch inside her. Her own pleasure coiled, tight and desperate. She rode him with increasing abandon, her thighs burning, the old bed groaning beneath them. She looked down, watching where their bodies joined, watching his grotesque thickness disappear into her, and a wave of dark, powerful ecstasy crashed over her. She came with a shattered cry, her body clamping around him in rhythmic, vice-like pulses.
Kreacher gave a guttural shout. His grip on her hips became iron-tight as he shoved up into her one last time, his body arching. She felt a hot, rushing flood inside her as he emptied himself, his release filling her in pulsing jets. She collapsed forward onto his scrawny chest, his still-throbbing cock buried to the hilt inside her, both of them slick with sweat and spent.
The sound of the bedroom door opening was as sharp as a breaking bone.
“Molly, love, have you seen the—?”
Arthur’s cheerful voice died in his throat.
Molly froze, her face buried in Kreacher’s thin, sweaty hair. She heard the soft thud of something hitting the floor—probably the Muggle tool he’d been carrying. She didn’t lift her head. She couldn’t. The only sound was Kreacher’s ragged breathing beneath her ear, and the awful, echoing silence from the doorway.