“Fuck, Granger, you taste so sweet,” Malfoy says with a muffled voice. He’s got her legs slung around his shoulders, and they’re quaking so violently, he has to tighten the grip of his hands as he devours her. “Do Potter and Weasley know you’re such a slut?”
“Shut up,” she wants to say but it’s distorted by a low moan as he folds her back even further, her calves now bracketing her head. Her limbs start shaking again as his tongue dips into her swollen cunt. He licks along her puffy lips; licks away the juice sliding down her bum and legs and collecting on the mattress below. He licks lower, down, down, down to her sphincter, and Hermione aches to be filled with his cock again. “F—uck,” is all she manages.
“That’s right. I want to fuck you here, too.” His voice is full of reverence, but his eyes are shining greedily. “I want you dripping out of every hole. I want you totally defiled.”
But he doesn’t fuck her yet, even though she can see his cock is rock-hard and leaking. Instead, he uses his tongue to tease her, licking up all the honey that’s been spilling out of her.
Hermione’s so wet. He’s annoyingly good at making a mess out of her, and he knows it, the twat. That’s why nobody must know. She can’t very well risk Malfoy going around bragging about the power he wields over her—or perhaps the secrecy is half the appeal. Hermione’s only knows she doesn’t want this to end because she can never get enough.
“Don’t stop,” she moans, and Malfoy obliges.
She thinks it must be impossible for her body to keep going. Physically impossible. And yet, it always does.
They’ve been going at it forever. She never knows how long, because her brain tends to stop working properly around her fourth orgasm. Outside, the night sky’s brightening, so it dawns on her it’s been hours since they stole away from the Friday pub night. They get lost in this primal dance of their bodies. Malfoy loves this, she knows. He’s proud to render her an inarticulate mess, but she’s certainly no better, which is why he uses her body the way she uses his, until they knock each other out, falling asleep from pure exhaustion.
Not quite yet, though.
Malfoy’s in heaven playing with her anus. His is mouth glistening with the evidence of his prowess and her lust, and a rush of hot lust spikes through her. The way he takes control of her body; the way she can let loose. The way she can be a slut, just for him.
His tongue dips lower, further exploring the place nobody else had wanted to go because they’ve considered it dirty.
But not Malfoy. Malfoy doesn’t think it’s ugly or uncouth. Malfoy wants all her body can give. He wants it all, all the time, but especially her bum. This fixation, it’s a mystery to Hermione. It must be Freudian, she thinks. His cock will be hard and leaking because her bum always gets him going. Whenever they dare touch in public, secretly in brimming lifts or anonymous Ministry crowds, his hand goes straight to her backside. He likes to get a hand-full, his large palms effortlessly holding almost all of her. He’d come up close and whisper all the pervy things he wants to do to her, all the ways he wants her exploding in orgasm, and then, he’d rub his stiffy against her skirt-covered bum, knowing she’ll be a sodding mess.
She gets wet easily. It’s Malfoy’s personal triumph that he’s made her a squirter, and now her reaction’s become almost Pavlovian.
What’s between them, it might be just sex, but the sex is utterly glorious.
Malfoy has lost himself in a haze of lust between her legs. He’s got that manic expression when he’s about to achieve something big. Hermione’s seen it a million times before, in and outside the bedroom, and it’s such a turn on. He’s deliriously sucking at her between her thighs, fucking her arse with his tongue, high on a power trip. Hermione knows that feeling well, too. She could take away his breath right this second, quite literally squeezing the life out of him, simply by snapping her thighs shut.
Their eyes meet and an understanding passes between them: about the power they hold over each other and the rush they get from it.
And then, Hermione senses it coming; that familiar crescendo of energy rising again. It spreads slowly, grows steadily, faster and faster until its presence is undeniable, the energy manifesting in every last cell, every nerve, every atom, taking hold of her entire body, searching for ways to expand until it explodes out of her.
Then, Hermione sees stars. Light bursts between her eyelids and there’s a ringing in her ears.
Her body quakes violently, and she’s helplessly muttering incoherent streams of expletives as the high sweeps through her, leaving her at his mercy. Malfoy’s latches onto her, holding her close. He devours the juices he’s coaxed from her while he keeps fucking her on a finger, pushing it deep, his signet ring a steady pressure on her over-sensitised flesh.
When her brain starts working how it’s supposed to again, Malfoy is smirking at her.
She almost smiles back—but that’s a victory she’s not yet willing to concede.
“That’s it,” she says and she pushes him onto his back. She spreads his legs and settles between them, and his expression is impossibly hungrier than ever.
“My turn.” She sucks on two fingers and pushes them deep into his anus. “No I get to ruin you,” she says proudly and curls her fingertips.
His moan is deep and desperate.
Malfoy’s such a slut.