Three
It hadn’t been long, hours maybe. The rusted creak of door hinges preceded Dolohov’s entrance, and cool magical light licked shadows across the small room.
“Hello, koshka.”
Hermione didn’t stir, eyes staring at the wall opposite where the man was. The echo of boot steps sounded and she could feel him leaning over her. One leather toe nudged the thin skin of her back.
“It is impolite to ignore people when they speak to you.”
She closed her eyes against the burning glint of his gaze. “I’m tired.”
The boot was almost warm against the chill of the dungeons as it prodded insistently at her. “You have had ample time to rest, mudblood. Now get up.”
“Why?”
“Your presence is called for upstairs.”
That told her exactly nothing, though the small hairs on her body stood at attention. “Why?”
Hermione gasped as she was wrenched up by one bony wrist. She tugged weakly, trying to situate her feet beneath her legs and stand under her own power, but her muscles were ineffectual resisting the man. “I had thought you would be grateful to leave the cell.” She yanked at her arm as one c hand curled around her bicep. “Stop being difficult, mudblood.”
She stumbled as he tugged her the few feet out of the cell and wondered whether she should grab the doorframe to resist, but dismissed the idea as she thought of it; it would do no good. Her shins banged and feet flailed as he dragged her up the stairs. “Would you slow down? I can’t keep up.”
“I’m hardly walking fast, mudblood.”
“I’m hardly in shape to walk at all.” Hermione hadn’t been healed following the battle, bruised to her bones, covered in lacerations and burns from her enemies, skin mottled by the man pulling her along. She’d had exactly one paltry meal in that time and had been thin from a year on the run as it was.
The slide of polished floors slipped against her bare feet so she banged a knee before Dolohov jerked her up again. They traversed a hall lit by flickering candles, then swept into a cozy sitting room.
Her blood ran cold as too-wide eyes drank in the men at ease. The Lestrange brothers, the older Nott, Augustus Rookwood, Lucius Malfoy, all had glasses of what she assumed was alcohol. They were well-dressed, clean, whole, though signs of wear were present on some more than others.
Lucius Malfoy gave a sneer that would put his son’s to shame as cool eyes flicked over her. “You don’t clothe it, Antonin?”
The Russian wizard shrugged. “Why bother? Unlike a house elf, I quite enjoy the sight of her naked.”
“She’s too thin.” Rookwood scanned her impassively as he savored a glass or something amber and shining. “Do you feed her?”
“When she behaves. Perhaps if she’s a very good girl, I will feed her something more substantial than oatmeal tonight.”
“I’ve got something substantial for her.” Rabastan Lestrange leered at her with yellowed teeth.
Hermione growled and yanked at her arm, her other curled across her hunched form as though to shield herself.
They only chuckled and Rookwood said, “Feral little thing. Haven’t tamed her yet?”
She was dragged toward one seat, held in place as Dolohov lowered himself into it. He did not release her once he was settled. “She’s fun enough like this. I have no need to rush the process.”
The elder Lestrange’s gaze was weighted as he considered her, lingering on the bruises painting her flesh in green, brown, yellow, purple. “How is she?”
“Quite good. It was worth the wait.” His voice was layered with something warm, thick, sickening. “Abstaining until I took her after the battle,” Dolohov explained. “It was enough just to see her virgin blood on my cock, but she was tight and hot, and delicious when she came around me.”
Hermione’s ears burned with each word. “Go to Hell.”
“Mind your tongue.” Mr. Malfoy’s cup was nearly drained now, his cheeks pink from the alcohol or the conversation or both.
Long fingers turned her chin back to her captor. “I can think of other uses for her mouth, since she so clearly wants to put it to use.” She tried to move her head, hot tears shining in her eyes. Dolohov shoved her to her knees, long legs caging her between them. His hand finally left her bicep, fingertips smoothing over her cheek before he fisted her hair. “Be a good girl, now.”
Hot tears trembled as they breached the edge of her eyes to trail down scarlet cheeks. Hermione could see, feel, smell nothing but the horrid man, shoved between his thighs as she was. Cedar, fire, the slight musk of sweat and body all wafted to her nose. Warmth radiated from the skin below the cloth that rubbed against her nakedness.
She had thought about doing this before; not with Dolohov, obviously, but with a boy she might like and all hypothetically. Some girls apparently liked it, though she couldn’t imagine why. The idea of slobbering and gagging over a boy’s appendage was not her idea of a fantasy. Boys were notoriously less fastidious in their hygiene, and that was what they used to pee.
He is certainly not a boy.
Hermione shuddered as the hand fishing her hair pushed her further into his crotch. There was a hot pulse beneath his trousers and she flinched away, only for the vice on the back of her skull to tighten painfully.
“Get on with it, koshka. If you do a good job, I may even give you a blanket tonight.” A humiliating burst of hope sparked in her heart, sinking down to churn in her stomach. This was going to happen, she knew. Her only choice was how painful the outcome could be.
Shaking hands smoothed over the soft material covering his thighs as she plucked up the nerve for what she had to do.
This is practical, Hermione chanted. She was starving, freezing, battered, isolated. There was no Harry in the dungeons, no information they were seeking, no reason to hold out for rescue. Just maybe he’ll feed me after this.
Her salivary glands prickled and a wash of spit coated her dry mouth as she tugged his trousers open, tiger-bright eyes flicking up to the man who was eagerly watching her. One benevolent hand gestured for her to continue, emphasized by a loosened pulse at the back of her head, the tension made bearable in encouragement. Then she pulled aside the fabric with his assistance and her breath choked in her throat as she saw it.
It was growing as she watched, thick and long and proud, dark hair curling at the base. A dribble of fluid leaked from the dusky end. Her fingers hovered uncertainly above it.
“Has she never seen a todger before?”
She could feel their gazes like spiders trailing webs across her skin as she brushed the wrinkled flesh with hesitant fingertips.
“Just this one. Here, koshka.” Dolohov’s palm engulfed her smaller hand, wrapping their fingers around the base. “Hold it firmly. Pump like this.”
Hermione pushed back the burning humiliation and tried to focus on his instructions, tightening her grip, twisting her wrist just so. He was fully hard now and it felt like she was massaging hardened muscle under soft, warm cloth.
“There’s a good girl. Now stick out your tongue.”
A flurry of chortles tickled behind her, but she slipped her tongue between her lips. The hand at the base of her skull shoved her forward until the flat of it touched the sticky tip of his organ. He tapped it against her, then pushed it against her lips.
“Open wide.”
It was a slow, agonizing moment in which she widened her trembling lips. And then he had pushed his way to the back of her throat and she was gagging, tears and snot overtaking her.
Dolohov hissed out obscene, foreign words above her and the pressure from his hand increased until he was seated as deeply in her mouth as she could handle.
“Don’t you just love training a new whore?” The words rang in hot ears.
“I prefer mine experienced. The new ones might throw up.”
Dolohov chuckled and she could feel it against her, around her. “Not a problem with this one. She’s got nothing in her belly.” He guided her back with a fist in her hair, tacky spittle stretching from the base of her tongue to his length. “Relax your throat, mudblood.” A second was all she had before he slammed her back down, the spongy head of his member pushing against her soft palate and into her throat. Her stomach spasmed violently and he laughed, setting a brutal pace where each thrust tried to push deeper down her throat.
I’m choking. I can’t breathe. The panic needled across her and her hands flew to his thighs, pushing away from him in butterfly-weak strokes.
“I thought you were trying to find a way for her to be useful,” drawled a hated, familiar voice. “She seems to be struggling with even the basics of proper oral sex.”
The pace slowed and Hermione attempted to gain some headway in the respite, rounding the back of her mouth to allow easier passage and learning to breathe through her nose as she was able. Which was not often, his thick length blocking her airway as he thrust inward. His fist was pulsing against her scalp in time with his thrusts, almost a massage guiding her head now.
“That’s it, good girl,” Dolohov crooned before turning his eye toward the aristocratic man. “She’s already learning. And I can be patient while she does; she has two other holes. And her cunt is divine, like she was born to be a whore for Death Eater cock.” A twist of his fist held her still. “Please, feel free to try for yourself.”
Hermione jerked back from him, drool clinging to her cheeks as she turned away. “What?”
The dark man stroked her cheek. “Shush, mudblood. I told you, you’re my whore. Now be a good girl and perhaps I’ll fill that little belly of yours.”
A fine quake began at her lips and surged through her body as Hermione sat back on her knees. Her eyes shimmered and widened, and she sucked in her bottom lip to chew through the nervous grinder of her teeth. The marble pale Lucius Malfoy edged into her vision, sickle-bright eyes considering her frail, shaking form.
“I’d prefer her bent over furniture; I’ll not get on the floor for the likes of her.”
Dolohov’s hand disappeared from her curls, wrapping around her wrist to jerk her toward his lap. Before she could gain her footing he had her bent over his lap. He sat back in the cushy chair and his thighs supported the slight weight of her torso. Her arse was now on display, cheek pressed against his wet member.
“There you are.”
Hermione jumped against the man when he settled a hand on her back, but she could not pull from her position. “Wait, please.”
Dolohov’s palm sat heavily between her shoulder blades. “Be a good girl. Come, now, arse up and mouth back on my cock.” His other hand tangled in her curls, adjusting her head so his length rubbed against her mouth.
In that terrible moment Hermione realized she was afloat, clueless, frozen and with no thought on what she could do to change her situation. There was nothing, unless she wanted to worsen her plight. There was nothing.
Her lips parted and the soft slide of skin eased into her mouth.
“There we are.” Dolohov bobbed her head halfway down his shaft, just teasing the back of her throat. “You should start before I begin fucking her throat. Her cunt will be too tight when she chokes.”
Fingertips smoothed over her lower back and down her arse cheeks. They stroked across her skin feather-light, then two heated palms gripped either cheek, kneading painfully deep into her flesh. “A bit then even for my tastes, but she has a delightful little arse for a mudblood.” There was something soft, buttery about his cruel grip. “Another stone heavier and she’d have the perfect body for a whore.”
She tried to tune out the words, but they rang like bells through her ears. Hermione clenched her eyes shut, unable to transport herself in her mind. It was too much sensation, too much…
...like that day.
She cringed as something prodded at her core. Gloves, she realized. Lucius Malfoy was wearing gloves.
Of course. He wouldn’t touch me with his Pure hands.
How would he reconcile with what he was invited to do?
“Lovely.”
Despair clenched her heart as the inevitability set in. There was shuffling behind her. And she felt something thicker nudge the joinder of her thighs. She braced herself against the man holding her in his lap.
And cried out, spice arching and muscles straining against all of the hands anchoring her. Her voice was muffled by the rod in her mouth, her hips tugged back into place with fingers that bruised to her bones. Hermione was taut between them, her hands desperately gripping Dolohov's shirt and her body wanting to flee the pain of the sudden intrusion.
"Sweet Morgana's tits." Malfoy's thumbs stroked her hips. "She's making me work for it." His hips slowly retreated, her insides dragged along his length before slamming forward, deeper.
A chuckle vibrated through her as Dolohov began directing her head once more. "She is almost too tight, yes?"
Malfoy worked her open with even strokes, each inward thrust bumping the end of her and stretching her wide. "Does it hurt, mudblood?" he groaned. "Is my thick Pureblood prick too much for you?"
She was lost between them as they developed a steady pace, one in and the other out and again and again. She would gag as Lucius' length pulled away, inhale sharply when he pounded into her cervix. It stopped being painful before she had realized and she just felt full.
More warmth glided across her back, down one shoulder over her arm. Her fingers were peeled from Dolohov's dark button-up and guided up and over, wrapped around a hardened bar. Her eyes popped open, Hermione couldn't see whoever had started using her hand; all she could see was him. Still him.
"Up and down, sweetheart, that's it."
How could she possibly keep up with everything that was happening. There were too many hands on her, too many dirty words groaned, filthy insults dropped on her, sensations inside of her. They were building a fire inside of her, smouldering right on the precipice of something dangerous, something that would demolish her.
The hands in her hair quickened, Dolohov's hips tilting up to go deeper into her throat. She couldn't make out his words, but it was a low, dirty growl. And then he held her mouth to him, her nose pressed against his pelvis, his cock throbbing against her as something thick spurted down her throat.
Lucius Malfoy behind her was brutal in his own pace, slapping at her buttocks as she choked. When Dolohov finally lifted her head from him, mouth slavering with drool and his spend, she sobbed at the freedom of her lungs to breathe--
Only for her neck to jerk violently at a harsh angle and another length pushed into her mouth.
She could feel his hand bruising her lips, the man fisting his own length and only the end of him in her mouth. He came quickly, bitter fluid coating her tongue.
"Here, give her here." It was whoever was using her hand, and her face was turned to him just as he groaned and spent himself, so her lips caught most, but a string clung, lurid and thick across her face.
There were too many hands stroking her now as she was forced into a standing arch, fingers pinching prurient nipples, rubbing circles on her nub, mouth sucking, biting, all while the Death Eater behind her pounded into her.
She cried out as fingers dipped over her lips to shove more spend inside, sucking desperately as her whole body tensed and the world exploded into a photo negative, every sense thrumming with pleasure that crossed the border to painful.
And still they continued, wringing it out of her. A hand wrapped around her throat-- Lucius's hand, still slick in its leather sheath-- and her vision sparked and fizzed in after-images of what had transpired.
His thrusts became staccato, he leaned forward and sank his teeth into her, pain blindly delicious, and emptied himself.
The world stilled. The hands became softer. Some pulled away. Hermione felt her arse patted, then slowly, gently lowered to the floor, her head cradled in Dolohov's lap. Fingers stroked through damp curls.
"That was perfect, koshka," rumbled against her hair.