Draco
A week later, there is an event at Cypress.
Luna holds something different on the third Friday of each month to allow for people to meet and socialise. The third Friday after Theo and Hermione decide to take a break is a masquerade party.
She isn’t sure she wants to go until she learns that it will be quieter than the last time she’d been on the club floor. Only thirty or so people and no loud music to quash people getting to know one another.
Hermione decides to go Elizabethan with her outfit, which Pansy is more than willing to help her with.
They play around with caged skirts and headpieces but end up going far simpler.
Just the first two layers of a traditional Elizabethan gown. A shift and a corset. It has a square neckline and the shift falls well above her knee, allowing for maximum cleavage and creamy thigh exposure. Pansy’s words, not Hermione’s. The corset is red, as are the leather shoes and silk mask. The shift and the corsets strings are white, lending a sort of innocence to the look.
She buys white knee high stockings to match the outfit too, which Pansy says are very “Hermione Granger.”
By eight on Friday she is trying to figure out how to ask someone to be her new dominant.
By eight-thirty, she discovers there is no need for her planned “What are your kinks and are we compatible?”
Luna is standing at the front of the main club room in a latex suit with long latex gloves to match, announcing the rules for the evening.
“You’ll pull a necklace from the bag and match it to your submissive,” she says to the gathered dominants. Those who don’t want to participate in the matchmaking element have already grasped their necklaces around their submissives.
Hermione shifts, feeling exposed. She’s nervous. Nothing says they have to play tonight. They can have a drink at the bar or trade stock tips.
But she needs this. Her mind is so filled with work and Harry and Ginny and her neighbours' new garden.
“You will each pair off and spend an hour together after which time you can either part ways or find yourselves a corner of Cypress to find pleasure.”
Hermione barely pays attention as the men are called up to the stage.
She’d chosen a red ruby and diamond gold encrusted necklace with a long cross shaped pendant. It had felt appropriate with her outfit.
Pansy is already wearing the necklace she chose, green emeralds to match Harry’s eyes and her Slytherin past.
“Master T,” Luna announces.
Hermione watches as Theo approaches the dais, a hideous demonic mask covering his handsome face.
He picks a blue necklace which matches a curvy blonde.
Had he chosen her necklace, Hermione would have been relieved.
They could have spent one last night together before she was actually forced to spread her wings.
“Lord M,” Luna calls next.
Hermione watches as a tall thin man with light brown hair approaches next.
His mask is one of green stones with horns that curl into the loose strands of his hair. Gives him the effect of Cronus.
She watches him pull out her necklace.
As he holds the cross in his palm before turning to the room, she glances down at her outfit and makes sure everything is in its place.
“The lady in red,” a voice says, fine leather dress shoes stopping in front of her.
She looks up at him and smiles, trying not to come across as nervous.
“May I?” He asks, holding up the necklace.
“Of course,” she nods, gathering her curls up to expose her neck.
He steps around her and lays the chain softly around her throat.
She shivers, unable to keep her emotions hidden from this stranger.
He smells good. Like mint with a subtle smokiness around him.
Once the necklace is securely around her throat he offers his hand.
“Shall we?”
She follows his lead, into the lounge with tables and small alcoves set up for the couples.
He guides her all the way to a dark corner with long red silk hanging from the ceiling.
Lord M.
She’s fairly sure she’s never seen him before. She doesn’t socialise much beyond her friends and Theo. Though she’d need to see his face to be sure.
“Sit,” he says.
She knows it isn’t quite an order, but she smiles to herself anyways.
And then does as he said.
It makes his height all the more obvious.
“You may call me Lord M,” he sits beside her. His pants stretch tight over his thighs and she can’t help but swallow.
“It’s a pleasure, Lord M. Tonight at least, I’m Joan,” she introduces herself with the name she had picked based on her outfit.
Joan La Pucelle. One of Shakespeare’s best women. Joan of Arc.
“Very well. Though I must say that those curls are too easily identifiable if it is anonymity you are going for,” Lord M says quietly, as though keeping her secret from the rest of the room.
So he knows she is Hermione Granger.
It doesn’t really bother her. Except that now she is the only one in the dark.
“I like your mask,” she changes the subject, trying not to dwell on the fact that he is such a stranger. Trying to force hearself not to ask him his name. She doesn’t need to know.
“Thank you, Joan,” he smirks. He doesn’t offer anything about where it is from or why he’d chosen it.
His mouth is gorgeous, lips she is sure are as soft as petals.
The suit he’d chosen is a deep green and the undershirt is embroidered with dark red roses, so dark they could be black.
She can only tell they are red because of the red in her corset.
“Do you come to Cypress often?” She asks.
“Very chatty, my dear Joan. Do I make you nervous?”
She blushes.
“I’ve only recently started on the path towards submission. I’ve only had one dominant,” she shares.
His hand comes to rest on her knee.
“I’d love to help you down the path.”
“You’ve a lot of experience?”
“I try not to quantify things,” he replies.
Hermione isn’t sure how she feels. He isn’t very forthcoming with any sort of information.
“I tend to keep things casual with women I meet here. Not quite one night stands, but nothing overly involved either. I work a lot. Travel for work a lot. All to say that I am just here looking for someone to enjoy myself with, without any strings.”
It is a masquerade, she reminds herself.
He can’t share too much without giving himself up. She should respect that.
“And what sorts of things do you enjoy doing to pass the time?” She asks, wanting to get on with things.
“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
So she does. It is easier than it was just a couple months ago.
He shares too, his love of literature and the theatre and a recent flirtation with the piano.
She stares at his fingers and imagines them on her body. Around her throat, in her pussy.
She blushes and he tells her that she is intoxicating.
They click.
He’s witty and sleek and handsome, at least as far as she can tell with half of his face covered.
They talk about her friends, his work, books they’ve read, places they’ve been.
He’s soft and sweet and she has trouble imagining him as a dom.
Except of course when his eyes darken behind his mask and he gives his opinion as though it is fact.
Then she gets the familiar feeling of pleasure in her lower belly. She wants him.
When the hour is up, he turns to her and asks her if she’d like to be his submissive for the evening.
She says yes without a second thought.
They discuss safe words and the fact that they’ve only just met and he stands up and says, “Trust me. We’ll go slow.”
The words are kind, but there is an edge that runs straight through her. He knows how to command attention.
Hermione looks up at him in his three piece suit and Cronus mask and presses her knees together. She wants to see what he looks like under all those layers.
“Yes, my Lord,” she smirks, feeling a bit cheeky.
“I’m going to get us some refreshments. I would like you to kneel here and wait for me, impudent witch.”
“Yes, Sir,” she nods, the now familiar feeling of giving in to someone's orders filling her.
“I prefer my lord,” he corrects her before turning and walking away.
It makes her cheeks burn and her muscles clench.
She settles onto her knees, grateful for the weeks of yoga that make it easy for her body to hold the position comfortably.
A couple comes over to their corner where there is an empty booth.
They don’t notice her. Or if they do they don’t bother to say or do anything in acknowledgement. So she just remains on her knees, focusing on her breathing as Lord M had told her to.
The anticipation makes it hard to sit still.
“Everyone looks so beautiful tonight. I hope they host more events like this,” the female of the pair says, resting on her partner's lap.
“It isn’t as though the masks truly hide anyone’s identities. Though I’ve seen a few people who are most certainly under some form of charm,” the man replies and Hermione wonders who he is talking about.
“Odd that amongst all these different hair colours the shock of white is noticeably absent,” the woman straddles her partner's waist and makes a show of looking around.
Searching for someone with white hair.
“Malfoy’s hair isn’t quite white. It’s more of a pale blonde. Besides, I’m fairly certain that the man at the bar with the brown hair and the green vest is Malfoy in disguise.”
Green vest.
Hermione lifts her head towards the bar and finds Lord M. Then she scans for anyone else wearing a green vest. Black and red dominate the clothing choices.
“Did you just say that Draco Malfoy is the wizard in the green vest?” She asks aloud, even if it is rude.
The man and woman look taken aback by her interruption.
“Yes, I saw him charm his hair before coming in tonight,” the man confirms. “Keen on him?”
Hermione shakes her head and stands up.
Draco Malfoy is Lord M.
She’d let him touch her. Guide her. Put her on her knees.
She turns, trying to find the exit sign. It is along the far wall, just thirty steps away maybe.
“I told you to wait for me,” a voice comes from behind her. Now it sounds like him.
How had she not realised sooner?
Perhaps because he hadn’t taunted her.
She whips around and reaches for the mask, pulling it from his face before he can register her moving.
It is him. It really is Draco fucking Malfoy.
She doesn’t have any words.
Not one.
Because she should have known. No way in hell was the universe going to let her have her uncomplicated pleasure.
No, she had to be paired with her childhood bully.
She’d asked for him to degrade her. To humiliate her. To offer her praise in exchange for her service. She’d told him how much she wanted all of it. And if the couple hadn’t said anything, she would have let him do anything he wanted.
“Granger,” Malfoy lifts a gentle hand and she steps back, not wanting him to touch her.
“Quiet,” she snaps, using the commanding voice she reserves for meetings with her adversaries. For businessmen who didn’t see her way at first. “I am going to leave and we are going to be done. You are not to contact me regarding this. Ever. Am I understood?”
The woman on the couch lets out a low whistle and the man with the paddle in his hand chuckles.
“Understood.” Malfoy nods his head.
Hermione is out of there in seconds, ripping her coat from its hanger and apparating on the spot.
A dozen white roses arrived at her flat the next day.
She didn’t bother reading the note.
Opting for stuffing them into her bin angrily instead.
He’d lied to her.
She went about her work day, ignored an interdepartmental letter from Harry and then his attempts to get through her door at Grimmauld Place.
Two dozen roses appear the day after. And so on, until Hermione has hundreds of roses filling the day room on the third floor.
Throwing them all away felt wasteful, but she still refuses to read any of the notes.
Luna pairs her with another dom and she manages to move on from the catastrophe of the masquerade.
She enjoys a few weeks of lighthearted play, wrist cuffs and soft floggers. The occasional spanking. No sex.
The next month’s event is a night of debauchery to rival the first one Hermione had witnessed two almost five months earlier. Before even Theo.
She is better equipped for it now. Her eyes take in the scenes of dominance and submission with more experience.
No longer is she bothered by the marks across a male sub’s back as his mistress whips him in the centre of the room. Nor does she mind the loud begging of a pet at the feet of their master.
As more and more people arrive, Hermione finds herself sipping firewhiskey at the bar. She’d chatted up a couple men but hadn’t felt that any of them could be what she wanted for the evening.
“Drinking alone?” The bartender asks, giving her a second pour of Ogden’s.
She nods and sips, grateful for his heavy hand with the bottle.
“I’ve seen you here a few times. That mane makes you hard to miss,” he says, making a cocktail for a dom leaning against the bar with his slave kneeling between his feet.
Hermione can’t help the jealousy that she feels looking at the man so lost in his submission he hardly seems to take in the chaos of the room around him. So deep in subspace that all he can do is nuzzle against the leg of his master.
“I come for the ambience,” she jokes, looking up at the ceiling currently filled with a canopy of trees, birds, and a rain storm held back by charmwork Hermione herself is impressed by.
The theme for the evening was the rainforest and its many beautiful birds. She’d donned a two piece costume of bright blue and green feathers.
“And stay for what?”
He’s flirting. Hermione smiles. He’s good looking. Stocky build, sort of reminding her of Viktor.
“Everything else Cyprus has to offer,” she flirts back, eyeing his bare chest with obvious interest.
He returns her hungry gaze, taking in her low cut top and then resting on her throat.
“I get off at 9,” he says.
“Lucky you,” she smirks at the innuendo.
He laughs and she feels herself come alive at the idea that he might find her when he gets done with his shift.
“Hermione,” she introduces herself, realising she hasn’t even gotten his name.
“Trent,” he nods. “I’ll come find you.”
“I look forward to it,” she says, taking her drink off the bar and walking away, being sure to swing her hips as she does.
She finds her way over to Harry and Pansy. Pansy has Harry’s head in her lap and is stroking her fingers through his unruly locks.
“No luck?” Pansy asks.
“Actually, I think I found someone,” Hermione sits down beside her, trying not to appear as freaked out as she is at seeing her best friend kneeling on the ground in a leather harness and boxer briefs.
“Oh thank Merlin. Baby and I have a lot to do when we get home,” Pansy grins, curling her fingers tight into Harry’s hair and tilting his head back so that he is looking at her.
“Yes Mistress,” he replies, looking at Pansy like she is the sun and the moon and all of the stars above.
Hermione tells them that she won’t be home until late.
They make a fairly quick exit after that, leaving her to drink and wait for Trent to find her.
Earlier in the night she thought she had spotted Draco but she hadn’t seen him since.
“Hotter than hellfire,” Trent says, appearing in front of her with his shirt gone and a chest covered in ink.
“You got all dressed… down for me,” she flirts, trying to seem like she knows what she is doing.
He offers his hand and she takes it, following him towards a more secluded corner of the club where the silks have been drawn across to create some privacy.
She follows him in and shoves away the nerves in her gut.
“You look delicious,” he says, before his lips are on hers.
Hermione is taken aback, but lets him kiss her. His mouth is warm and tastes strongly of liquor. His hand comes up to cup her face and the other moves to her arse.
She pushes lightly at his shoulders and he stops.
“Too fast?”
She nods, smiling.
“Dumb slut,” he swears, his hand tightening around her neck and pushing her against the wall.
She loses her footing and pushes him away harder.
“Stop,” she says, turning her head to the side.
His mouth latches onto the side of her neck, along her jaw.
She’s panicking. She doesn’t want this.
“Nox!”
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t step back like he is supposed to.
This isn’t a scene for him. He’s not going to stop.
“The golden whore,” he growls against her neck.
His hands are so strong and she feels so trapped. He pushes her down until her knees hit the floor, cracking and setting off the pain receptors in her mind.
“No, I don’t want to! Nox!” She is pushing and pushing but it doesn’t do anything.
“Fucking suck it, whore.”
She pushes against his thighs with everything in her as panic overwhelms her ability to think.
“Let her go or I will castrate you where you stand,” a voice threatens, cutting through the terror with the promise of being saved.
And then Trent's body is gone.
And Hermione can breathe, even though they come in heavy chest moving pants.
She looks up and gasps, filling her lungs as she sees who came to her rescue.
Malfoy is standing there with his wand pointed threateningly at Trent’s neck, his other hand tight around his throat.
Hermione stands up and leans against the wall, bringing a hand up to her own throat where she can still feel Trent’s mouth.
Two other wizards, bouncers of a kind, take Trent from Draco’s grasp and drag him outside.
“Are you alright?” Draco asks, maintaining a blessed and respectful distance.
Hermione nods, though she isn’t sure that is true.
“Breathe. In, slowly,” he instructs, his voice soothing.
She tries.
“Get Luna?”
“I don’t want to leave you here like this,” Draco says, taking a tentative spot towards her.
She can understand that. Nobody else seems to have noticed that she was just assaulted.
And it is dark in the club.
“Fine. Get me out of here,” Hermione says, offering her hand, stretching it out so he doesn’t have to get too close.
He is slow and quiet and takes her hand with a softness that she is grateful for.
Tears spring to her eyes. She shouldn’t be grateful to Draco Malfoy.
He pulls her towards the door and into the softly lit hallway with its sweet smelling air and quiet ambience.
Luna is walking out of her office, looking more present than Hermione has seen her since school.
“He’s gone, Hermione. I promise. He’s gone and he’ll never be back here. Ever. Are you hurt?” She asks, coming close. Too close.
Hermione nods again, lying for no reason.
She needs to sit down.
“Sit,” Malfoy says, a chair appearing behind her.
She collapses, her hands curling around her torso.
“Thank you.”
“Please don’t thank me,” he shakes his head, uncomfortable.
She holds her tongue lest she repeat her gratitude.
“Can I get you anything? Harry? Ron?” Luna asks.
“No!” She blurts.
Harry is busy with Pansy.
Ron.
If she called him, he would come.
“Water,” she says.
She isn’t thirsty. In fact, she could throw up.
Luna turns around and leaves.
“Breathe,” Malfoy repeats.
She inhales, her hands shaking.
“If you hadn’t been there,” she exhales.
“But I was. And it is over. You are safe. Breathe.”
“Stop saying that!” She snaps, hysterical.
He stops speaking entirely.
Luna returns with a glass of water.
Hermione sips at it slowly.
Her heart rate returns to normal and her hands go still.
She is okay.
And she doesn’t need Ron. They aren’t together anymore. With what she has discovered in herself as of late, they probably won’t ever be together again.
She needs to figure out how to do things on her own. Everyone thinks that she is the one who made sure Ron and Harry didn’t die, but that isn’t the whole of things. They all kept each other alive. For over a decade now.
Malfoy doesn’t leave. He just stands five feet away, pretending not to stare.
“I’m going to help you home,” Luna says after Hermione insists that she is alright using actual out loud words.
“I can’t go home. Harry and Pansy are,” she lifts her eyebrow to make it clear that returning to Grimmauld tonight is not an option.
“What about the white room?” Malfoy asks.
Luna looks at him like she hadn’t realised he was still there.
“Of course. Absolutely. The bed is all made up. It’s yours,” Luna reassures Hermione.
She stands and runs her hands up through her hair, stretching her hands over her head.
“Could I walk you?” Malfoy asks.
Luna steps between them but Hermione waves her off.
“You can,” she swallows.
She can have this conversation. Maybe it will help her even. She knows how she feels about what Malfoy had done. Whereas she hasn’t even begun to wrap her head around tonight.
He walks her slowly down the long hall to the private rooms and she blushes at the sounds that leak from some of the rooms. Whips, cries of pleasure, and begging.
She pulls the hem of her skirt down.
“I would like to apologise for lying to you about my identity. I should have been clear from the start,” Draco says.
“Yes, you should have.”
“I thought if I could have one night, I'd be able to move on.”
They are stopped in front of the door to the white room. Soft sheets and featherlight pillows await her.
But his words throw her.
“What does that mean?” She asks.
“You deserve more than me. I know that, you know that. The whole world does. I couldn’t waste the opportunity to talk a night away with you like I wasn’t me and you weren’t you. I didn't think it would go beyond that. I swear I didn’t.”
“But it did,” she reminds him, remembering how awful it had been when she’d been on her knees for him. When she’d found out who he was.
“Because an hour isn’t enough. And neither is a night. I thought it would be, but it isn’t.”
She hates these words. They are genuine and flowery and intoxicating in a way that Draco Malfoy is not meant to be.
“I should have told you. I hid behind your willingness for anonymity because it was convenient. I am deeply sorry.”
She believes him.
Can accept that he does in fact feel bad for what he had done.
“You violated my trust. Went out of your way to make sure I didn’t know it was you. Because even then you understood that I wouldn’t want to have that sort of interaction with you. It was near impossible for me to put myself out there like that and you treated it like nothing.”
“I would never,” he defends himself. “Seeing you on your knees like that was like seeing Athena lower her spear and shield. No less ethereal. No less a goddess. I treasured it, and I was a man too mortal to resist the lure of it. For that, I cannot apologise.”
Hermione looks up at his face and can’t help her heart from beating faster. He is striking. She hasn’t seen him a lot in the past couple of years.
He called her a goddess in a way.
And the party was meant to be a masquerade. And he is sorry about betraying her trust. But not sorry for wanting to share a scene with her.
“I’m tired,” she says.
Draco nods and pulls open the door for her, bidding her good night and watching her walk through the doorway before closing it securely behind her.
She is so distracted by his words that she barely thinks about Trent or the events of the night.
Hermione tells Harry what happened and he kicks into best friend mode quickly. There are tears and chocolate and a fort built with Teddy Tonks.
She is given a self defence lesson by Pansy. Is questioned by an auror about what happened.
And receives a dozen red roses from Draco Malfoy.
The days move slowly, with Hermione spending hours going over what Malfoy had said.
She reaches out to old classmates and coworkers. Digs up dirt on what the Malfoy heir has been doing since the end of his probation.
Everything that she finds out coincides with what her Cronus masked mystery man had shared about his life. Malfoy had been honest about everything except his name.
Hermione had called herself Joan.
By Friday, she is thinking about going back to the club. Maybe asking him for another hour. A drink and a chance to talk; with both of them knowing who they are talking to.
He’s so different from the boy that she knew.
So maybe he deserves another chance. Another night.
Late in the afternoon on Friday, she gets an owl from Malfoy. She knows it is from him because of the wax seal, pressed with the Malfoy coat of arms.
If you accept offerings at your altar, come to Cypress, Goddess.
There is another party tonight at the club. And he’s inviting her.
She leaves work early to visit Luna, needing advice on how to handle this.
She apparates to the club and finds the street dead quiet. For a minute she thinks about turning around, still not sure how it will feel to be back in the club. Terror runs up her spine every so often and she remembers Trent’s hands on her.
Instead, she pushes through the fear and heads inside.
Luna is in her office, treating a long coil of rope with oil.
“Afternoon, Luna,” Hermione greets, pasting a pleasant smile on her face. She glances at the photos of people wrapped up in similar rope and is pleased to find that the familiar thrill runs through her.
“Draco is waiting for you in the plum room,” Luna says, setting the rope down and returning Hermione’s smile.
“What?” Hermione asks.
Draco didn’t know she was coming here this afternoon.
He’d invited her to the club sure, but not until tonight, right?
“Why is he waiting?” She wonders aloud.
“I’m not sure,” she shrugs, clearly not as interested in Draco’s motives as Hermione.
Hermione pushes away from the doorway and heads for the white room, finding Draco standing shirtless in the middle of the room, not facing her.
She walks in but he doesn’t react.
“What are you doing?” She asks, crossing her arms over her chest to give herself something to do. She walks around his form, expecting him to answer.
He is just standing there with his eyes lowered and a piece of leather laid across his open palms.
“Malfoy,” she huffs.
He kneels.
She opens her mouth to ask her question again when it becomes clear.
“Anything you want, Goddess,” he says, lifting the piece of leather- a collar- and tilting his head back to expose his pale pale neck.
He’s giving her the power. The decision.
Letting her dictate what happens between them.
She takes the collar from him and smiles as he crosses his wrists behind his back.
He’s so beautiful like this. She can understand why he so enjoyed seeing her on her knees.
Supplicant, with his hair falling across his forehead and his form solid but submissive.
Hermione isn’t a mistress. Nor a dominant.
So instead of putting the collar on the man kneeling before her, she lifts it to her own neck and slips the end through the metal hook.
“I need a hand, Sir,” she says.
He looks up at her and his eyes heat, his face breaking into a smirk.
Standing, he reaches for the collar and gently moves the leather into the proper slot, the small metal hook locking it shut around her throat.
“I’m so sorry I lied to you,” he says, his voice thick with emotion.
“I know,” she replies, her left hand moving to the back of his head, pulling his lips to meet hers.
The kiss is intoxicating.
His warmth and the soft feel of his lips against hers send a shiver down her spine.
It might be too fast, too much, too weird, but she can’t think about any of that now.
His kiss is firm and domineering, but it doesn’t ask anything of her. She tilts into him, her muscles softening and her back arching into his chest. He looms over her, his hands landing on her waist, barely there.
When she pulls back, letting her fingers slip from his jawline, he straightens and steps back.
“You got my note.”
She nods.
How long would he have waited for her to come? All night?
“Would you like to have a drink with me?” He asks, tipping his head towards a cart against the wall where there is ice and a bottle of something brown and a couple of chilled glasses.
“Here?” She asks, taking in the rest of the room. It is more bare than the room she and Theo played in. With just two leather chairs sitting against one wall and the rest of it covered in wallpaper that looks almost velvety to touch. Dirigible plums printed beautifully amongst green vines.
“Quiet enough for us to talk,” Draco says.
And they do. It is different from the first night. They sit apart, with the leather chairs creating a clear line.
Hermione repeats some of what she had told him before, feeling like it is more important for her to say now.
How she’d found her way to Cypress. What she is looking for within its walls.
He repeats things as well, reframing them through the lens of his transformation after the war. Hermione finds all of it just as interesting and noble as she had just a couple weeks ago.
Draco Malfoy is enchanting, the visage of Cronus comes to life.
He’d called her a goddess. And goddesses should only kneel to titans.
Hermione and Draco meet for dinner a couple times a week for a month. It isn’t quite dating. She enjoys it far more.
She only lasts the month before she asks him to be her dominant.
He says yes with bright eyes.
They reserve a room at Cyprus. One that Hermione hasn’t been in before.
“After you,” Draco says, opening the door for her, a small bag in his other hand.
She ducks in and takes in the strange space.
The room is cylindrical and the ceiling is a reflecting pool, rippling gently as Draco closes the door behind them.
In the centre of the room there is a table, low to the ground.
“This is it?” She asks.
“Unimpressed, little witch?” Draco asks, setting his bag down on the table.
“No, Sir. Just surprised,” she replies, remembering that their scene began when the door closed.
Like Theo, Draco expects respect.
He steps in front of her and places his finger beneath her chin, tilting her face up.
“Eyes on me, Goddess,” he murmurs.
A shiver runs through her.
Unlike Theo, Draco loves eye contact. Wants to see her pupils dilate. Her brow furrow. Tears spring.
Hermione pushes Theo from her mind, focusing on the man in front of her.
“There are eight different lengths of rope in that bag. I’m going to start with thirty.”
Hermione nods, excited.
They’d discussed what their first scene should be a dozen times. At first she was shy about it, barely admitting that she wanted to be tied up, teased, and humiliated.
“Climb up onto the table, little witch,” he commands, his voice even.
She does as instructed.
Today, she had worn a white blouse and a green skirt. Pale white underwear. A lacy set she had bought just for him.
She’d taken her shoes off already, left them with her robes in the dressing room.
“You look so perfect up there. My little deity,” he smirks.
The praise rolls over her and she grins.
“Thank you, Sir.”
“I want you to strip for me, Hermione. Slowly,” Draco says, pulling his bag off the platform and unzipping it.
She pulls her blouse over her head, being careful not to smudge her makeup. She had let Pansy do it, giving her a sultry look with dark shadows on her eyes and a deep red across her lips.
“The skirt next,” Draco says, pulling soft green rope through his fingers. She should have known he wouldn’t have chosen red.
Pushing her skirt to her ankles, she realises how chilly it is in the room.
She folds her clothes and sets them on the corner of the table.
“Kneel,” he orders before she can reach for the straps of her bra.
He’s testing her.
She kneels. Hermione can do as she is told. Wants to do as she is told.
He drops the rope in his hands on the opposite corner and reaches for her knees, pushing them farther apart.
“Press your palms together.”
Again, she does as she is told.
“Good little witch,” he praises.
His hands envelop hers and he lifts them so that she is kneeling in a prayer position.
“You are going to kneel there and watch me wrap my rope around your hands. And then I am going to tie your torso. And then your legs. My little doll to manipulate as I want. Watch,” he speaks slowly, with control and clarity that Hermione can’t help but respond to.
She is grateful he let her keep her knickers on. Already wet from the promise of what is to come.
He stands in front of where she kneels on the table and ties the green rope around her hands and wrists, between her fingers so that her palms press against each other.
The air is silent with nothing but her rushed breathing and his sparse instructions to focus on the feel of the rope against her skin.
When he tightens the knots, she gives short little gasps.
For the second tie, a chest harness, he moves behind her, his hands reaching around her and brushing against the sensitive skin of her nipples over her bra as he knots the rope until a star forms across her chest.
She inhales deeply and enjoys every strain against the rope that doesn’t do anything more than support her chest and give her the sweet feeling of being restrained.
“Look at me,” Draco says when he finishes, coming back around and standing tall above her.
She lifts her hands slightly higher and straightens her spine.
“Good girl,” he smirks, pressing his lips to hers quickly.
Draco’s hands move to her hips and he lifts her, moving her body the way he pleases.
Hermione watches in fascination as he lays her on her side and bends her right leg up so that her heel is pressed to the back of her thigh, near the crest of her leg.
“This is called a frog tie. I’m only going to do it on this leg, so you’ll have to hold the other one open for me on your own. Showing me your wet cunt.”
Her skin flushes and she nods. “Yes, Sir.”
“How does it feel to be tied up for my pleasure? To be made so accessible to me?”
She thinks about it for a moment even as his hands tie rope around her thigh, her ankle, her leg to cinch them tighter so that she can’t move the limb on her own.
“It feels good, Sir. The ropes are soft but… rough at the same time?”
He doesn’t answer. He just continues wrapping her in green rope until it is done.
“Now that you’re all trussed up for me, let’s see what that little pussy likes,” he reaches into his bag again and pulls out a vibrator.
Hermione sighs and Draco looks up at her, their eyes meeting.
“Do you want me to touch your dirty cunt?” His voice is gravelly and she is certain that he is just as affected as her.
“Please, Sir. Please touch my pussy,” she nods, her hands stretched out in prayer and her knees splayed open.
“How good you are at begging,” Draco says, two of his fingers brushing over the fabric of her knickers. “I’m going to need a lot more before I press this vibrator against your clit and finger fuck you until you leak your filthy cum all over my fingers.”
She strains against the ropes, feeling them, wishing her hands were free so that she could show him exactly what her pussy needs.
But he wants her words.
They’d talked about gags, during their discussions about the scene.
Draco had told Hermione that he had no intention of using a gag with her. That her mouth was his favourite thing about her and that he didn’t want to miss out on anything she might say.
“Sir, please touch my needy cunt, I need your touch to cum, Sir. Please let your dirty whore show you how much she needs your touch,” she begs, her voice heady and her heart thumping loudly in her ears. She arches her hips up against his fingers and he presses into her panties.
“Please take off my panties, Sir,” she adds, needing his skin on hers. Hating the barrier.
His fingers grab at the crotch of her knickers and pull the fabric away, but then he lets go.
Hermione whines, arching her back now and tossing her curls back as she does.
She catches her reflection in the ceiling.
It is soft, like water, but she keens at the image Draco has created. She looks beautiful, so pale and pliant beneath him.
Lifting her hands, she presses her palms tighter.
“I’m begging you to let me cum, Sir.”
Draco’s hand cups her chin and pulls her gaze back to his, back to the table and the ropes and the heat between them.
“Please,” she whispers, holding his gaze and watching the fire dance in them.
“You beg so well, little doll. My fuckdoll,” he licks his lips and clenches his jaw.
Finally, his land slips under the fabric of her panties and pulls the fabric to the side.
Her labia are slick as he runs a finger between her lower lips and she burns with the humiliation of how wet his ropes have made her.
Draco plays with her pussy until his fingers are coated in her wetness.
“Lick,” he orders, pushing two of his wet digits into her mouth.
She sucks his fingers, running her tongue over them and tasting herself.
“Such a filthy fuckdoll, sucking your own pussy juices off your master’s fingers,” Draco teases her.
He pulls them back and kisses her, the taste of her still on her tongue.
Even as they kiss, his fingers return to her mound and he slips a digit into her cunt even as his tongue pushes into her mouth.
Hermione wants him inside of her. In her every hole.
Fucking her, hard.
When their lips part this time, she can’t help but lean into him.
“You’ve earned this, little witch,” he says, turning on the vibrator and bringing it to her clit, two of his fingers curling inside her.
Hermione moans loudly and grinds her pussy against the vibrator, her core clenching at the intrusion of his fingers.
Draco knows just what he is doing.
And then the contact disappears.
“What are you doing?” She cries out, practically humping the air. She was so close.
“It’s called edging, slut. And you didn’t address me properly,” Draco chastises, and then he slaps her left tit, sharply.
“Ah!” Hermione gasps. “I’m sorry, Sir!”
Draco slaps her tit once more and she gasps.
He brings the vibrator back to her clit and this time presses three fingers into her channel, moving them against her gspot and coaxing her ever faster to the edge.
Once.
Twice.
A third time, pressing so tantalisingly.
“Please let me cum, Master, please, please,” she looks into his eyes.
He withdraws once more, as her body spasms in pleasure, and her orgasm disappears from her grasp.
“You devil,” she exclaims, not being able to stop herself.
He chuckles darkly and she can tell he likes the role she has cast him in.
She pulls her left knee in, closing her legs and hoping the warmth doesn’t dissipate.
Draco tuts at her like a disappointed school teacher and pries her legs apart.
He spanks her pussy, the sound of his hand against her moist skin loud in her ears.
“You are so wanton, you cannot do as your master bids? You think only with this,” his hand taps her mound. “And not your brain?”
Hermione has no answer. It was true that she had been so lost in the pleasure that she hadn’t thought of the rules. His demands.
Draco unties the rope around her leg quickly, and then stretches it out, massaging the muscles in her thigh and calf before turning her onto her stomach. He pulls her so that her legs can kneel on the ground, her torso and arms stretched across the table. Her still tied hands in front of her face.
“I must remind you that you are mine, little witch. Mine to command and pleasure.”
Rope slips around the back of her thighs and ties her in her place, hips pressing against the edge of the table.
“Please remind me, Master,” she whispers, the cold gone from the room.
“You will count each stroke, and you will not cum without my permission,” Draco instructs.
Hermione answers him and then asks herself why she would come from the pain of the cane. Sure, she enjoys the bite against her flesh, but it is always the lead up to stimulation.
And then Draco presses the vibrator the fabric of her panties and the slick skin of her pussy. It is lower than it had been just a few minutes ago.
She bucks, but cannot move very much with the rope around her body.
“Count,” his voice comes from behind her.
She hears the cane whistle through the air and then yelps at the strike of it against the flesh of her arse.
“One, Master. Thank you!”
“Perfect girl,” he compliments her, bringing the cane down again.
“Two, Master. Thank you!”
The lash is harsh and it leaves welts behind, but she is half distracted by the buzzing against her pussy.
Every nerve ending in her body is on fire and it is all thanks to Draco Malfoy.
She counts each lash and bucks against the table like an animal until he stops whipping her, kneels behind her and orders her to cum.
“Cum for me, fuckdoll. Come for your master,” he says, pressed against her, the vibrator getting stronger and his left hand snaked around to finger fuck her.
“I’m cumming, Master! I’m fucking cumming. Oh Gods, fuck me,” Hermione screams and clenches around him, thrashing as she squirts all over his hand and down her thighs.
“Fuck, Goddess, you are perfect,” Draco murmurs in her ear, her hair brushed aside so he can turn her face and kiss her.
“Thank you, thank you,” she says against his lips, going slack in the ropes and praying he isn’t done with her.
Draco goes quiet as he unties her. He puts the vibrator away and rewraps the pieces of rope until she is laying there, catching her breath.
“Stand up,” he says when his bag is repacked.
She stands quickly, not wanting him to think she is too tired to carry on.
Draco descends on her, cupping her face gently and kissing her roughly, nipping at her bottom lip.
She melts into him and grabs at the fabric of his shirt, wishing he would strip down and take her. Be with her in the same way she is with him.
“I want you naked,” Draco says, his voice husky.
Hermione thanks Merlin that he isn’t finished with her.
She reaches behind her and unclasps her bra, dropping it quickly and pushing her panties to her ankles with equal rush.
“Good witch,” Draco smiles. He reaches for his shirt collar and begins to unbutton it, slowly. “Help me with my belt.”
Hermione’s hands are still as she unbuckles his belt.
Draco instructs her to strip him.
She takes care with his clothes. Pulls his shirt from his shoulders, fingertips skimming over his pale skin.
She kneels to unlace his shoes and then reaches up and helps him out of his trousers and pants, until they are both naked.
Her on her knees and him standing above her.
“Suck.”
Just one word and she is leaning forwards and taking his huge cock into her mouth, salivating at the pleasure of knowing she can make him feel as good as he has made her feel.
She takes one hand and wraps it around the base, trying to take more of him than just the tip.
His hand rests on her head and curls into her hair but he doesn’t push or pull her, allowing her to do what she pleases.
Hermione likes the power that sucking his cock gives her. The ability to control his pleasure.
Serving him this way feels like nothing else.
“You can take more than that, whore,” he chastises her.
She focuses on his hard cock, and sticks her tongue out, gliding over the bottom of it and sucking in her cheeks.
He groans and tightens his grip and she knows she is doing a good job.
“Better,” he moans.
Hermione bobs back and forth until the taste of his precum salts her tongue and she looks up at him.
He is staring, and she swallows, wanting him to take control.
Instead, he pulls her off of his cock and orders her to stand.
Then he helps her onto her hands and knees on the table, just tall enough that when he steps close, she can feel his throbbing cock against her arse.
“I am going to fuck your tight cunt now, whore. I want to hear you,” he growls.
His hands grip her hips roughly and he lines up his cock, pushing against her labia.
“Please fuck me, Master,” Hermione begs, wanting him to fuck her so hard that she goes weak in the knees.
Draco has no problem obliging. He pushes into her wet cunt and fucks her hard, one hand going back to her hair and pulling her head so that she has to arch her back.
She hisses from the pain of it but then moans loudly as his cock hits deeper, fucking her.
“Such a dirty little fuckdoll for your master,” Draco praises as he moves faster and faster.
Hermione is going to cum again, but she can barely form words.
“Don’t cum without permission,” Draco reminds her, fucking her harder.
“Can I cum, Master? Please?” She asks, knowing that he must be close.
She clenches around him and he lets go of her hair, bringing his hand around to play with her clit.
“Cum, slut,” he orders.
She pushes back against him and his hips piston against her.
“I’m cumming, Draco, fuck!” She shrieks, slamming her hand into the table and shuddering, feeling him cum in the very same moment, flooding her cunt with his cum.
He slaps her arse and slows, going still, his cock still deep in her pussy.
“Gorgeous, goddess,” he says, caressing her hips and pulling her back so that her back is against his chest.
She can feel his heavy breathing in tandem with her own.
Leaning her head back on his shoulder, she looks back at him.
“My goddess,” he whispers, eyes fluttering as he catches his breath.
“Thank you,” she whispers back, her own body steeped with pleasure and exhaustion.
Draco steps away just for a moment to store the cane and zip up the bag.
Then he picks her naked form up and carries her from the plum room to the white room, obviously not worried that anyone will see their naked bodies.
When he sets her down she can’t help but press a hand to the centre of his chest, feeling his heartbeat.
“I’ll be right back,” Draco presses a kiss to her forehead.
She doesn’t reply, just smiles and thinks about crawling beneath the covers.
Draco returns with her silk shift.
“Arms up,” he orders, his dominating tone gone with the cane and the restraints. He’s gentle like this.
Hermione does as told, letting him lower the shift over her head.
It is very soft and light, but she still hisses as the fabric passes over her arse.
“Take a deep breath for me,” Draco says, taking her hand in his.
She inhales and exhales slowly.
“Good, come on,” he murmurs, pulling her over to the bed.
He helps her under the covers and then brings her a glass of water, a lot like Theo had the first time they had done a scene together.
“Finish that.”
Hermione nods, not yet finding her voice.
Again like Theo, climbs into the bed on the opposite side and kisses her, for a long time.
When he pulls back, he makes sure to stay close.
She drinks deeply from the glass.
The cold water sates her thirst and some of it drips down her neck.
She brings a hand up and smiles to herself at the memory of his hands there.
“Finish,” he says again, bringing his hands to her waist and tapping gently.
She does, setting the cup down and letting herself be pulled close.
Draco massages her arms, her legs, her back.
He twists his hand into the hair at the nape of her neck and helps soothe the tightness from her body.
It feels amazing and she can’t help a few soft moans from escaping her.
“You were so good, Granger,” he says in a dozen different ways, bringing her back to herself.
It takes almost a while for her to find her voice.
“I never knew it could be like that,” she whispers.
She glances up and smiles because he is smiling back.
“Me neither.”
Draco’s arms encircle her and they burrow further into the luxurious blankets and pillows, melding into one another.
Theo had left.
After he’d calmed her down and brought her out of subspace, he’d left to let her rest. Always.
Draco isn’t leaving.
Everything she had been afraid of had come to pass and she was wrong about most of it.
Draco Malfoy wouldn’t humiliate her unless she asked.
Wouldn’t hurt her unless she begged for it.
Wouldn’t do anything more than what she yearned for.
Hermione is infinitely glad of those facts.
They both doze off, his soft snore soothing her into a dreamless sleep.