Chapter 4: Kreacher's thick cock bulges Molly's cheeks as he thrusts past her uvula, her tears splashing the Black family crest while Walburga's portrait screeches 'Mudblood slut!' - the vibrations of her screams making Kreacher's balls tighten against Molly's chin before erupting down her esophagus.
The word hung in the dusty air, a phantom of her own voice. More. She felt his thin body tense atop her, his surprise a physical thing. The dripping from her violated ass was a warm, shameful reminder.
Kreacher pushed himself off her, his enormous cock, slick with her fluids and his own spend, swinging free. He looked down at her, his bulbous eyes wide with something that wasn’t just contempt. It was recognition.
Without a word, his gnarled hand fisted in her tangled red hair. He yanked.
Molly cried out, stumbling as he dragged her upright from the table. Her knees were weak, her body a map of new aches. He pulled her through the kitchen door, not toward the bedroom, but into the deeper gloom of the hallway. The grand staircase loomed ahead, a sweep of worn stone and dark wood ascending into shadow. At its foot, the enormous tapestry of the Black family tree gleamed dully in the low light. And above it, the curtains were drawn over Walburga Black’s portrait.
“No,” Molly whispered, a different fear seizing her. “Not here.”
“Mistress should see,” Kreacher crooned, his voice dripping with malicious intent. “See what her house has become. See what entertains the blood-traitor scum who soil her pillows.”
With a brutal shove, he forced her to her knees on the cold stone floor, directly before the tapestry. The threads of pure lineage, embroidered gold and silver, blurred before her eyes. He positioned her like an offering. Then he turned his head toward the portrait.
“Mistress!” he called, his voice cracking with a twisted reverence. “Look! Look what Kreacher brings!”
The curtains flew open with a violent snap. Walburga Black’s painted face contorted, her mouth opening for the scream they all knew was coming. But the scream died, choked into a shocked, strangled silence. Her painted eyes bulged, taking in the scene: the disheveled, plump woman on her knees, skirts rucked, face flushed, and her house-elf, naked and preposterously, monstrously erect.
The silence was worse than any scream.
“Finish it, you filthy creature!” Walburga finally shrieked, her voice a jagged scrape of fury. “Defile her! Let her choke on the dregs of what she is!”
Kreacher needed no further command. His hand tightened in Molly’s hair, angling her face upward. His other hand guided the swollen, purple head of his cock to her lips. It was hot, and it smelled of sex and her own body.
“Open,” he commanded, not a request.
Trembling, she parted her lips. The sheer girth of him stretched her mouth immediately, a salty, musky taste flooding her tongue. She couldn’t breathe. Her jaw ached.
Walburga began a running, hateful commentary. “Look at her! The breeding sow for a clan of ginger vermin! She knows her place now, on her knees, servicing her betters in the only way her kind can!”
Kreacher pushed forward. Molly gagged, her throat convulsing against the invasion. Tears sprang to her eyes. He didn’t care. He fed his length into her mouth, past the point of comfort, into the tight clench of her throat. Her nose pressed into the sparse, coarse hair at his base. She was full, utterly full, her senses drowning in him.
He began to move, shallow hip thrusts that fucked her face. Her gag reflex spasmed repeatedly, tears and spit slicking his shaft. The sounds were obscene: wet, choking gulps, Kreacher’s ragged grunts, Walburga’s vicious praise.
“Deeper, Kreacher! Make the whore taste it! She wanted more? Give her more!”
Kreacher obeyed, his thrusts becoming longer, more brutal. He held her head steady, using her mouth as a fleshlight, pounding into the tight, wet heat of her throat. Molly’s vision speckled. Her hands, which had been fluttering helplessly, rose and gripped his bony thighs, not to push away, but to anchor herself. The submission was complete. The degradation was absolute. And amidst the panic and the lack of air, a terrible, dark current of arousal hummed through her. She was being used as a thing, a hole, and her body, traitorous and awake, thrummed in response.
She could feel the frantic pulse in his cock, the telltale tightening of his balls against her chin.
“She’s ready for your filth, Kreacher!” Walburga screamed, ecstatic. “Mark the tapestry! Let her ruin be part of the family history!”
With a final, choked roar, Kreacher slammed home and held. A hot, bitter flood erupted into Molly’s throat. She swallowed reflexively, once, twice, but it was too much. It overflowed, spilling from the corners of her stretched lips, dripping in thick, pearlescent streaks from her chin.
The thick drops splattered onto the embroidered silver thread of the Black family tree, blotting out a pristine corner of the genealogy with viscous, milky white. Kreacher shuddered, his grip in her hair finally slackening as he pulled his wilting cock from her bruised lips with a wet, soft pop.
Molly gasped, dragging air into her ravaged throat, each breath a ragged scrape. Her jaw ached terribly. She stared, transfixed, at the stain spreading on the tapestry. Walburga’s portrait was silent, too, a frozen mask of outrage and perverse satisfaction.
“Now the cunt,” the painted witch hissed, her voice low and venomous. “The well-used cunt that whelped a pack of pauper children. Let it learn a real breeding.”
Kreacher’s eyes, glazed from his release, sharpened. He looked from his mistress to Molly, who was still kneeling, swaying, her own wetness from earlier making a dark patch on the stone floor between her thighs. He kicked her legs apart wider, the movement brutally casual.
“On your back,” he grunted. “Here.”
He pushed her shoulders, and she fell backward, her head coming to rest just below the sullied tapestry. The cold stone stole her breath. The enchanted ceiling above the staircase seemed to swirl. Kreacher loomed over her, his cock already stirring back to life, an obscene, resilient thing.
He didn’t guide it this time. He simply dropped to his knees between her spread legs, his rough hands grabbing the soft flesh of her inner thighs, and mounted her. The broad head of his cock, slick with her spit and his own spend, pressed against her slit. She was swollen, sensitive, an open ache from the earlier anal ravaging. This was different. This was a claiming of what was, by nature, hers.
“Do it, you wretched thing!” Walburga screeched, breaking her silence. “Fill the blood-traitor’s womb with your piss-poor elf seed! Let it fester there!”
With a single, powerful thrust, Kreacher buried himself inside her pussy.
Molly arched off the stone, a broken sound escaping her. He was impossibly large, a stretching, burning fullness that was at once foreign and deeply familiar. This was the place meant for pleasure, for love, for creating life, and he was defiling it with a violence that sang along her nerves. He gave her no time to adjust. He set a ruthless, pounding rhythm, his bony hips slapping against her plump thighs, the sound echoing up the stairwell.
His pace was relentless, a hard, driving fuck that shoved her body up the stone floor with each slam. Her breasts bounced heavily, nipples tight in the chill air. She could feel every inch of him, every throbbing vein, as he pistoned in and out of her slick, gripping heat.
“Fuck,” she moaned, the word torn from her. Her hands scrabbled for purchase, fingernails catching on the uneven grout between stones. “Oh god, fuck…”
“Not god,” Kreacher grunted, his breath coming in wheezing pants. “Kreacher. Just Kreacher.” He drilled into her, his bulbous eyes fixed on her face, watching her unravel.
The pain melted, consumed by a gathering, molten pressure. Her body, treacherous and awake, clenched around the invading girth, pulling him deeper, milking the thrusts. The shame of it, of being spit-roasted by this creature under the gleeful gaze of a mad portrait, coiled tight in her belly. It snapped.
Her orgasm was a silent, seismic rupture. It locked her throat and bowed her spine, her cunt fluttering and spasming around the elf’s massive cock in rhythmic, squeezing waves. She saw nothing, heard nothing but the roar of her own blood.
Kreacher felt her convulse. A grimace of intense concentration twisted his features. He sank deep, grinding against her, and held. His body tensed like a wire. Inside her, a hot, sudden flood erupted, pulse after pulse spilling into her clenching depths. It felt even hotter than before, a claiming injection. He collapsed forward, his weight pinning her to the cold floor, his face buried in the curve of her neck.
The only sound was their ragged, mingled breathing. Walburga’s portrait offered no critique, only a silent, seething judgment.
Molly lay impaled, full, utterly spent. The stone was icy against her back, but the core of her was a furnace of sweat and spend and shame. Kreacher’s cock, still half-hard, twitched inside her. She didn’t push him off. Her hands, limp at her sides, slowly rose. Her fingers, tentative, brushed against the knobby, pale skin of his back. She left them there.
The cool stone beneath her seeped into her bones, a stark counterpoint to the furnace burning inside her. Kreacher’s weight was a leaden, humiliating blanket. His spent cock softened slowly within her, a gummy, tender plug. She could feel a warm trickle escape down the cleft of her ass, mixing with the cold sweat on the stone.