Chapter 5: The Dead Mistress's Bed
Kreacher did not let her rest. He hauled himself off her sprawled body, his cock slipping from her flooded cunt with a wet, obscene sound, and gripped a fistful of her ginger hair.
"Up, blood-traitor bitch," he croaked. "Mistress's bed is waiting. Kreacher is not finished with you."
Molly's legs shook under her. Her knickers hung off one ankle, her skirt rucked to her waist, and his seed was already running down the inside of her thigh as he dragged her up the grand staircase step by step. She could have fought. Her hands stayed limp at her sides. Each tug of her scalp sent a fresh pulse of heat between her legs, and she climbed on wobbly knees with her arse bare and her mouth still tasting of him.
The landing at the top smelled of dust and dried lavender gone sour. Kreacher pushed open a heavy door and shoved her inside.
Walburga's bedroom had been sealed like a tomb. Heavy velvet drapes hung moth-eaten over the windows, and the air was thick, stagnant, weighted with decades of secrets. A great four-poster bed dominated the room, its silk sheets yellowed but still bearing the deep imprint of a body long dead, a hollow in the mattress shaped like a narrow-hipped, proud-shouldered woman.
"Kreacher kept it exactly as Mistress left it," the elf said, closing the door behind them. He pushed Molly toward the bed. "Lay down on it. Put your fat arse where Mistress put hers."
Molly sat on the edge of the bed and the silk slid cool under her bare thighs. The hollow of Walburga's shape was right there beside her, a dip in the sheets the size of a sleeping woman. She traced it with two fingers, and a shiver ran through her that had nothing to do with cold.
"You slept here," she whispered. "In her bed. With her."
"Kreacher served Mistress every night for thirty years," Kreacher said. He climbed onto the bed, the mattress barely dipping under his bony weight, and knelt behind her. His cock, half-hard again and glistening with her juices and his spend, dragged a sticky trail across her arse cheek. "Mistress lost her husband and her sons. Mistress was lonely. Kreacher made Mistress scream into this pillow every night so the neighbors would not hear."
Molly turned her head. Her face was flushed, tear-streaked, lips swollen from his earlier abuse. "You're lying. She was your mistress. She'd never..."
"Never what?" He laughed, a rasping, ugly sound, and pressed his thick knob against her slick entrance from behind. "Never let a house-elf mount her like a bitch in heat? Mistress begged for it. Barely a week after her husband stopped warming her bed, Mistress had Kreacher's cock down her throat in this very room. Right there, on that pillow, she took his seed for the first time and thanked him after."
Molly's stomach turned. The image was grotesque, obscene, the proud, mad Black matriarch on her knees for the hideous creature beside her. She should have been sickened. Instead her cunt clenched around nothing, and a fresh rush of wetness trickled out of her to stain Walburga's silk.
"You liked that," Kreacher hissed against her ear. He reached around and squeezed one huge tit through her blouse, mauling it roughly. "Hearing about Mistress, how she spread her legs for Kreacher night after night. Your pretty little pussy just dripped, didn't it?"
"No," Molly breathed, and even she heard the lie in it.
He shoved her down. Her face landed in the hollow of the sheets, right where Walburga's dead body had lain for decades, and the stale lavender smell of the dead witch filled her nose. Kreacher straddled the backs of her thighs, positioned his enormous cockhead at her dripping, well-used entrance, and drove into her in one relentless push.
Molly screamed into the silk. Her second fucking of the night, and her channel was still raw and stretched, but her body welcomed him greedily, walls fluttering around that veins-ridged slab of meat as he bottomed out against her cervix. Her hands clawed at the pillow.
"She kicked and squealed the first month," Kreacher grunted, setting a slow, deep rhythm, each thrust grinding her hips into the mattress. "Called Kreacher filthy names. Filthy creature, disgusting beast. Then Kreacher learned what made Mistress quiet. He'd choke her throat gentle-like while he pumped her full, and Mistress would come so hard she soaked the sheets. Like this."
His bony hand closed around her neck. Not squeezing, just resting there, a collar of long grey fingers, and Molly's scream dissolved into a shuddering moan. Her back arched. Her huge tits ground into the mattress through her ruined blouse.
"Oh god," she gasped into Walburga's pillow. "Oh god, that's... that's not fair..."
"Say it," Kreacher croaked, fucking her harder now, the slap of his hips on her wide arse loud in the stagnant room. "Say what Mistress said."
Molly's face burned in the dead witch's pillow. Every thrust shoved the words up her throat. Her whole plump body rocked under him, pinned, stuffed, owned.
"Use me," she sobbed. "Use me like you used her. Please, Kreacher, please, use your nasty elf cock, breed me like I'm your mistress."
Kreacher made a low, pleased hiss. His grip on her throat tightened just enough to make her pulse hammer against his fingers, and he began to fuck her in earnest, brutal, punishing strokes that jarred the great bed on its carved feet and shook dust from the moth-eaten drapes.
The dead woman's shape cradled Molly's face. Every night for thirty years, in this exact hollow, Walburga Black had taken this same cock and screamed into this same silk, and now Molly Weasley lay where the mistress had lain, legs spread for the same hideous beast, her cunt clenching and gushing around him. Her orgasm crashed over her without warning, shaking her whole soft frame, and she wailed into the pillow until the silk was damp with her breath.
"Good bitch," Kreacher rasped, hammering through her spasms. "Mistress always came fastest with Kreacher's hand on her throat. You're just the same. A fat, lonely whore who needs a proper master."
He pulled out abruptly, and Molly mewled at the loss, empty and gaping. Then his bony hands turned her over, flipping her plump body onto her back in the middle of the bed. He climbed up over her, his monstrous cock swaying above her heaving chest.
"Open your mouth, Mrs. Weasley," Kreacher rasped, shuffling forward on his knees until they framed her ears. "Kreacher is going to fuck your face now."
Molly's jaw dropped before her mind caught up with her body. That was the thing that shamed her most, how fast her lips parted, how her tongue lolled out pink and eager against the yellowed silk beneath it. His cockhead, fat and flushed and smeared with her own cunt, came down and rested its heat on her outstretched tongue like a offering on an altar.
"Wider. Mistress could take Kreacher to the root by the end. See if the blood-traitor whore has half her discipline."
He pushed in. The bulbous crown slid over her tongue and pressed at the soft back of her palate, and her throat convicted her at once, gagging around the intrusion as her eyes watered. He gave her no time to adjust. His bony hips drew back and drove in again, deeper, and the thick shaft dragged across her tongue and filled her mouth until her cheeks bulged around it.
"That's it," he hissed, thumbing the corner of her stretched lip. "Mistress made that same face the first time. Fat cheeks bulging like a squirrel's."
The rhythm he built was nothing like the careful mounting he'd given her on the stairs. This was a rutting. He braced one hand on the headboard, its carved Black serpents cold under his grey knuckles, and fucked her mouth in long, merciless strokes, his heavy balls swinging forward to smack her chin with every thrust. Molly clutched the sheets and took it. Drool ran from the stretched corners of her lips, down her jaw, pooling in the hollow where a dead woman's cheek had pressed for thirty years.
She gagged and gurgled around him, and the sounds only made him go harder. Her huge tits bounced under her ruined blouse with each jerk of his hips, and her nostrils flared wide as she fought for air around the slab of meat plumbing her throat. His veiny length was so deep now that her throat bulged, a visible ridge distending the pale column of her neck, and he pressed two fingertips against it and laughed his rattling laugh.
"Feel that, whore? That's Kreacher's cock in your throat. Mistress used to make Kreacher press there so she could feel herself being used." His thumb dragged through the mess on her chin. "You're dripping on her bed again. Kreacher can smell your filthy cunt from here."
He was right. Her hips had started rocking against nothing, her soaked, gaping pussy clenching on air as her mouth got fucked. Somewhere past the stretch and the burn and the lack of breath, pleasure was blooming low in her belly, shame and lust tangled so tight she couldn't tell which fed which. Her moans buzzed up through his shaft, and she felt his avocado-heavy balls tighten against her chin.
"Gag louder," he grunted. "Mistress screamed into this pillow around Kreacher's cock every night for thirty years. She'd want to hear you."
Molly gave him what he wanted. She stopped fighting the reflex and let it take her, retching wetly around him, tears sliding down her temples into the silk, her whole soft body jolting under the steady hammering of his hips. Her mascara was somewhere on Walburga's pillow now. Her hands, which had clawed the sheets for purchase, crept upward instead, one settling on the taut little cheek of his arse, the other cupping his swinging balls, cradling them, urging him deeper.
Kreacher made a startled, pleased croak. "Greedy bitch. Mistress never touched Kreacher's stones until her third year of service."
That was a lie, they both knew it, and neither cared. Molly squeezed his balls gently, rolled them in her palm, and hollowed her cheeks around him, sucking as best she could with her mouth stretched to its limit. The pleasure of it shuddered through the elf's skinny frame. His thrusts turned ragged, jerky, the headboard knocking a slow tattoo against the wall.
"Going to fill your throat now," he croaked. "Going to stain your gullet the way Kreacher stained Mistress's. Ready yourself, whore."
Molly couldn't have answered if she'd wanted to. His cockhead wedged past her uvula and lodged deep, her lips sealed to the root, the coarse hair at his base crushed against her nose. She smelled dust, stale lavender, and the animal stink of him, and she looked up past the grey thicket of his hair at the moth-eaten canopy and moaned like a woman possessed.
The first spurt hit the back of her throat with force enough that she felt it. Then came the second, third, fourth, thick ropes of hot elf seed pumping straight down her gullet as his hips stuttered against her face, his balls emptying their enormous load into her belly. He groaned low and long, an ugly, satisfied sound, and ground himself against her face as he finished, her nose pressed into the wrinkled sack of his spent sack.
She swallowed around him, again and again, throat working on the cock still stuffed inside it. What escaped her, what her convulsing throat couldn't take, welled up and drooled out the corners of her lips, running down over her chin to spot the dead woman's pillow.
Kreacher withdrew slowly, savoring it, inch after vein-ridged inch sliding free until his slick, softened cockhead popped from her lips with a wet sound. Molly lay gasping under him, chest heaving, throat raw, her face a glazed, dripping mess of drool and seed. Her lips were puffy and bruised-looking. She had never felt more thoroughly used in her life, and her cunt throbbed with a fresh, insistent ache that bordered on pain.
"Good," Kreacher rasped, settling back on his haunches between her spread thighs. His bulbous eyes traveled over her ruined face with proprietary satisfaction. "Mistress looked just like that. Every night. Kreacher is almost glad the blood-traitors brought you here, Mrs. Weasley."
Molly licked a stray rope of cum from the corner of her mouth, swallowed it, and met his horrible bulging eyes. Her voice came out a wrecked, scraped whisper.
"How many times a night did she take you?"
"Every way a body can be taken, twice over," he said, smearing the last of his seed across her cheekbone with one grey thumb. "You'll learn. Kreacher has thirty years of lessons to teach you, and the husband is away most nights."
He reached down and took her hand, the one still sticky with his balls, and pressed it flat against his half-hard cock.
"Now clean Kreacher properly with your tongue. Then the lesson continues."