Chapter 3: The smell of burnt potions and sex fills the air as Molly's screams echo off copper pans, her fingers scrambling for purchase on the worn table where generations of Blacks took their meals - now slick with her juices and Kreacher's dripping cock.
The silent, condemning gaze of the painted Black ancestors followed them from the bedroom, down the stairs, and into the cavernous kitchen. Molly’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic counter-rhythm to the sluggish drip of a leaking tap. The memory of Kreacher’s whisper, his demonstration on the cold floor, was a live wire under her skin. Her cunt was still swollen, slick, a blatant treason her body refused to deny.
Kreacher shuffled ahead, his enormous cock swaying heavily with each step, its purple head leaving a faint smear of her own wetness on the dusty floorboards. He did not speak. The air was thick with the smell of damp stone and dried herbs.
He stopped before the massive, scarred oak table, its surface a testament to centuries of house-elf labour. He ran a gnarled finger over a deep cut in the wood. “Mistress Walburga’s temper,” he croaked, not looking at her. “A silver serving platter. Kreacher did not polish it to her liking.”
Molly stared at the mark. A sudden, vivid image flashed: not Walburga, but herself, years ago, slamming a stew pot onto her own kitchen table at the Burrow after one of the twins’ more disastrous experiments. The mundane familiarity of the gesture, juxtaposed with this grotesque situation, made her head spin.
“Why are we here?” Her voice was hoarse.
“The bed was for lying,” Kreacher said, his bulbous eyes finally lifting to hers. There was a cunning spark in their milky depths. “The table is for use.”
He pointed a bony finger. A simple, silent levitation charm, more forceful than any she’d ever felt from an elf, shoved her forward. Her palms slapped down on the cold, unyielding oak. A puff of dust rose around her. Before she could protest, another flick of his will yanked her skirts up over her hips, baring her ample, pale ass to the chill air and the unseen eyes in the portraits.
“You filthy little—” she began, pushing back, but his weight was already upon her. Not the weight of his body, which was slight, but the unbearable, insistent pressure of that monstrous cockhead, not seeking her wet, willing cunt this time, but probing ruthlessly at the tight, forbidden pucker of her arsehole.
“No,” she gasped, a real fear clenching her insides. “Kreacher, stop—!”
“Mistress always preferred this,” he hissed in her ear, his breath foul with age and neglect. “Said it reminded her of her purity. A tight, clean fit for a Black.”
The irony was so dark it choked her. She struggled, but his magic held her fast, hips locked, ass raised. He spat onto his hand, a crude, wet sound, and slicked the broad crown of his shaft. It wasn’t enough. It was nothing near enough. With a sickening, deliberate pressure, he began to push.
Molly saw stars. A white-hot lance of pain ripped through her, a stretching, tearing sensation so intense her knees buckled. She screamed into the wooden table, the sound muffled by the ancient oak. He did not stop. He fed his cock into her, inch by brutal inch, a relentless, invading stretch that defied anatomy. She could feel every vein, every pulsing ridge as her body was forced to accommodate him. The burn was apocalyptic. Her nails scraped helplessly on the table.
“Fuck… oh, fucking hell…” she sobbed, drool pooling under her cheek. The fullness was beyond anything she could have conceived. It felt like he was in her throat, her stomach, splitting her in two.
Kreacher groaned, a sound of profound, ugly relief. He was fully sheathed, his sparse pubic hair scratching against her ravaged cheeks. He paused, letting her feel the complete, impossible occupation. Then he drew back and slammed home.
The pain began to mutate. It blurred at the edges, tinged with a shocking, deep stimulation that vibrated through her very core. With each ruthless drive, the table rocked, its legs screeching on the flagstones. Her massive tits were crushed against the cold marble, nipples hard as pebbles. The portraits were whispering now; she could hear the sibilant hiss of outraged purebloods.
“Disgrace…”
“…with a creature…”
“…scarlet woman…”
Their scorn was gasoline on a fire she didn’t know she harbored. A wild, defiant anger surged through her pain. Let them watch. Let them all see the plump, motherly Weasley get absolutely wrecked by a house-elf’s monster cock.
“Is that all?” she snarled, the words gritted out between his thrusts. “Your… ah!… your mistress… liked it… slow?”
Kreacher’s rhythm faltered for a second. Then a guttural sound escaped him. His claws dug into the soft flesh of her hips as he began to piston into her with jackrabbit fury. The slapping of his frail body against her ass filled the kitchen, a wet, obscene drumbeat. The pain was gone, utterly incinerated by a raw, animal fucking. Each drive hammered a spot inside her that sent jolts of blinding pleasure up her spine. Her cunt, neglected and dripping, clenched around nothing, desperate for friction.
She was coming. She couldn’t stop it. A brutal, unraveling orgasm tore through her with no touch to her clit, born solely from the deep, punishing penetration. She shrieked, her body convulsing around the massive invader, her vision swimming with tears and dust motes.
Kreacher felt it. His thrusts became erratic, animalistic. “Filthy, dirty, blood-traitor whore,” he chanted, his voice breaking. “Taking Kreacher’s seed… in your dirty… arse…”
The insult, the sheer degrading truth of it, sent another shockwave of pleasure through her. She was mindless, reduced to a vessel being used with brutal efficiency.
He stilled, buried to the hilt. A hot, volcanic pulse began deep inside her, a flood of release that seemed endless. He grunted, spurt after thick spurt filling her crammed channel, until she felt bloated, claimed, utterly used.
He collapsed onto her back, a limp, sweaty weight. The kitchen was silent save for their ragged breathing. The portraits were still, frozen in horrified silence.
The ache was immense. The emptiness when he slid out, followed by a hot trickle down her thigh, was profound. She shuddered, unable to move. Shame, glory, pain, and satiation warred within her.
Then, a whisper. Hoarse. Desperate. Unmistakable.
“More.”
It was her voice.
She begged for more.
SHE BEGS FOR MORE.