Work Text:
The afternoon heat draped over the estate like a heavy, luxurious blanket. Draco lounged across a vast, king-sized pool chair, the cream linen cushions sighing under his weight. The shade from the broad white parasol cast a cool wedge over him. His fingers, elegant and deliberate, scrolled through a construction contract on his tablet, the blue light reflecting in his pale, focused eyes.
Beside him, Hermione drifted.
She was laying next to him on the lounger, her breathing a deep, slow rhythm that barely stirred the fabric of her dress—a sin of sheer, white silk chiffon, a garment designed for the illusion of modesty that delivered only provocation. The thin straps slipped down her shoulders, the neckline plunging between her breasts, the material so fine over the slopes of her tits that the dusky rose of her areolas was perfectly visible, the nipples soft in her sleep. The silk clung to the slight curve of her stomach, then fell loosely over her hips, only to grow treacherously transparent again where it was stretched taut across the rounded swell of her ass.
She had gotten used to taking pills in the afternoon. It was meant to unwind the relentless knot of schedules and flashing lights, to silence the grind. It pulled her into a heavy, velvet warmth where every sense was muted, yet her body hummed with a low, persistent ache. A soft, incoherent murmur escaped her lips as she shifted, the movement slow and syrupy. The breeze from the pool felt like a sigh against her heated skin, and she arched into it slightly, the damp chiffon whispering secrets against her thighs.
A near-empty bottle of Château Margaux and a single used glass sat on the table. She'd taken the pill with the last of her wine, her words already slurring with impending lethargy. Now, her heavy-lidded gaze found Draco, glassy and unfocused, filled with a helpless, wanting confusion. Her fingers twitched against the cushion, as if reaching for something just beyond her grasp.
She was adrift in the chemical tide, caught between the urge to sleep and a desperate, gathering need.
Draco's thumb was poised to swipe to the next clause of the contract when a notification bloomed silently in the corner of his screen:
Foryoureyesonly is live.
A slow, predatory smirk lifted the corner of his mouth. He dismissed the document with a tap and opened the alert.
The screen split into two crystal-clear video feeds, the quality so high-definition he could see the individual beads of moisture condensing on her wine glass. The left view was a side angle, perfectly framing the profile of her body. The sheer dress was rendered utterly pointless; the camera lovingly detailed the full, heavy weight of her breast, the pucker of her nipple, the delicate veins beneath pale skin. The right view was a frontal shot, aimed directly at the V of her thighs. Her legs were bent, knees together and tilted to the side. This position kept the camera's gaze locked on the tantalizing obscenity of the thin silk stretched over her mound, the precise outline of her pussy lips just obscured by the bend of her knee and the shadow it cast.
Draco glanced at the view count: 87,891. And climbing.
A warm, proprietary thrill coiled in his gut. He remembered a year ago, stumbling upon the site in an encrypted corner of the web. The views had been a mere trickle then, a few hundred desperate souls. The footage had been grainy, shaky—clandestine clips of her in a trailer, a sliver of skin as she changed; a muffled, secretive video of her urinating in a public stall; static night-vision shots of her sleeping form. It had been exciting in its raw violation, but amateur.
Draco had seen the potential.
He had begun to cultivate the unseen photographer. He started simply: leaving the blinds of her home office deliberately open, ensuring the angle from the hill was perfect. He 'forgot' to close the ensuite bathroom window after a shower, the steam billowing out like an invitation. He bought her that loose, silky robe she loved and encouraged her to wear it with nothing underneath while she made morning coffee in the sun-drenched kitchen.
Then, he began to actively collaborate with the live feeds.
When a notification popped up while they were home, he would engineer a spectacle. He'd ask her to wear those tiny, frayed denim shorts from her university days, the ones that clung to her ass like a second skin, then 'playfully' spread her legs as she napped on the sofa, granting the hidden lens a pristine, unobstructed view of the cotton of her panties, dampening with her heat. He would suggest topless sunbathing by their pool, knowing the telescopic lens from the wooded hill across the valley could capture every sweat-slicked curve, every time her fingers idly traced her own skin.
The quality of the equipment improved accordingly. The views climbed—first to the thousands, then the tens of thousands. The money, anonymously funneled, was clearly being reinvested.
The feeds became steady, multi-angled, professional.
The audience grew hungry, demanding, lavish with their tips and comments that scrolled in a discrete box Draco kept minimized. That was when Draco had decided the game needed a new, more decadent tier.
The memory unfurled in Draco’s mind, sharp and potent as the day it happened, a filthy foundation for the empire of voyeurism he’d since built.
The lift doors had slid open on a cloud of Hermione's perfume and expensive vodka. Hermione was a beautiful, giggling wreck in his arms, her sequinned dress a shimmer against his austere black suit. The zipper down the front was a tantalizing invitation, already lowered a dangerous few inches from the party. He’d steered her to the kitchen, her heels scraping on the polished concrete, his phone buzzing in his pocket like a live wire.
Foryoureyesonly is live.
The notification was a bolt of pure, electric anticipation. He abandoned the glass of water inside the sink, his fingers steady as he opened the feed. The screen showed a rear view from outside their floor-to-ceiling window, breathtaking in its simplicity: Hermione slumped over the island’s cold marble, her cheek pressed to the stone, her short dress ridden up to expose the sinful curve of her ass encased in flimsy red lace. The sequins of her dress glittered like a thousand watching eyes.
A slow heat spread through Draco’s veins. He placed his phone on the counter, propping it up against a fruit bowl, ensuring he could see the feed. Then he moved to her.
“C’mon, darling,” he murmured, his voice a low hum. He didn’t ask. His hands settled on her hips, pushing her further forward until her torso was flat against the marble, her ass tilted up, presented. She whined, a soft, drunken sound of protest, but her limbs were liquid.
“Shhh. Just relax.”
With deliberate slowness, he gathered the hem of her tiny dress, lifting it up and over the swell of her hips, folding it onto the small of her back. The red lace panties were now the only barrier, a flimsy scrap of fabric soaked dark at the center with her arousal. The camera feed showed it all: the full, round globes of her ass, the shadowed cleft between them, the delicate lace clinging to the swollen lips of her pussy beneath.
Draco let out a soft, controlled breath. He traced a single finger down the line of her spine, over the lace, and then lower, slipping into the damp, heated space between her thighs from behind. He didn’t push the fabric aside, not yet. He simply pressed the pad of his finger against the soaked lace, right over her slit, and began to rub.
A thick, groggy moan vibrated through the marble. “Draco…?”
“Be a good girl,” he commanded, his voice firm. He continued the motion, a slow, grinding pressure through the wet lace. Up and down, following the shape of her pussy lips. He could feel her heat, could feel the lace growing slicker with every pass. He shifted his focus, circling the hardened nub of her clit through the fabric, and her whole body jerked, a weak, involuntary thrust back against his hand.
“That’s it,” he purred, glancing at the phone screen. The high-definition feed was obscene. The dark, wet patch on the red lace had grown, a blatant stain of her desperation. His own finger, when he lifted it slightly, gleamed with her moisture in the low kitchen light. The view count was a blur of rising numbers, rocketing, for the first time, to 10,000. The comment box was a frenzied scroll of emojis and crude, demanding praise.
>> she's so fucking wet
>> her cunt is begging to be fucked
>> fuck she needs a cock inside if her
He hooked his fingers into the sides of her panties and peeled them down her thighs, past her knees, letting them fall to a damp puddle around her ankles. Now, she was fully exposed to the unblinking eye of the camera: her bare, glistening cunt, pink and swollen, the tight furl of her asshole just above. The scent of her, musky and sweet, filled the space between them.
He turned her around, her back against the cold counter. Her eyes were glazed, her lips parted.
“Draco?” she slurred, confusion and arousal warring in her hazy expression.
“Be a good girl,” he repeated, a mantra of control. His hands went to the front zipper of her dress. He pulled it down in one smooth, relentless motion. The fabric fell open, and with a soft, weighty drop, her tits spilled out—full, heavy, and tipped with hard, puckered nipples that begged for attention. A gasp hitched in her throat.
He didn’t touch them. Instead, he guided her down, a firm pressure on her shoulder until her knees hit the floor. She looked up at him, dazed and pliant. He unbuttoned his trousers, freeing his cock, already thick and aching. He dragged the swollen head over her cheek, down to her chin, smearing a trail of his pre-cum on her skin before finally pressing it against her lips.
“Open up.”
She did, and he slid inside, into the blissful, wet heat of her mouth. The camera feed, from its angle, was a masterpiece of degradation. He could see it over her head: her tear-filled eyes, wide and unfocused, looking up at him. The way her stretched lips glistened around the thick base of his cock. The obscene bounce of her bare tits with every thrust he made into her face.
He set a brutal, punishing pace, his hands fisting in her wild curls, controlling the motion. He fucked her mouth with deep, measured strokes, each one hitting the back of her throat, making her gag and choke. Tears streamed down her flushed cheeks, mixing with her saliva and his pre-cum.
“You’re a born actress, Hermione,” he murmured, driving deeper, feeling her throat convulse around him. “But this… this is going to be your most popular role, your most watched performance. Every one of these men is going to empty his balls to the sight of you being used like the perfect little cocksleeve you are.”
He could feel his climax building, a tight coil in his gut. Her mouth was a furnace, her tongue a desperate, wet pressure along his underside. The sounds were filthy: wet sucks, choked gags, his own guttural groans, and the slick slap of his balls against her chin. On screen, the view was a symphony of depravity: her bouncing tits, the drip of her own arousal making a sticky mess on her inner thighs, the absolute ruin of her mascara-streaked face.
“Take it,” he commanded, his voice breaking. “Swallow every drop for your audience.”
With a final, deep thrust that stilled his hips, he came, jet after hot jet flooding her throat. He held her there, impaled, as he emptied himself, watching her throat bob as she struggled to swallow. When he finally pulled out with a wet pop, she collapsed forward, slumping on the floor.
The tableau was more obscene than any hardcore fuck. She was slumped on the floor, a puddle of sequins and ruined makeup. Thick, white cum dripped from her swollen lips and down her chin. Her tits were still out, nipples hard and pebbled. Between her thighs, her cunt glistened, a slick trail of her own excitement leading down her leg. Her eyes were half-lidded, vacant, and yet a stupid, drunken smile touched her ruined mouth.
Draco tucked himself away, zipped his trousers, and picked up his phone. The view count had surged past 15 thousand. The comment box was a single, screaming wall of ecstatic praise and financial tributes. He knew, with cold certainty, that at that very moment thousands of men were spilling their own seed into their fists, toilets, and partners, their climaxes owed to the beautiful obscenity he had made of his wife.
He looked from the screen to the real, broken woman at his feet, and back to the screen. The potential was no longer just potential. It was a mandate. And he was just getting started.
**
An escalation of his game happened during the live on his birthday. He'd requested a "cozy evening in," a simple, romantic notion. He'd opened the vast, floor-to-ceiling blinds of the living room, revealing the darkening garden and the first stars. He'd asked her to wear the gift he'd given her: a robe of sheer baby-pink chiffon, its only modesty two delicate silk gardenias sewn over the nipples and a larger one over her mound. She'd laughed, a blush coloring her cheeks, but had obliged, the actress in her always game for a bit of theatrical intimacy.
He'd turned the large, plush sofa to face the window, a wall of glass now reflecting the warm, dimly lit room back at them. "I just want to relax," he'd murmured, pulling her down beside him. "Chat. Have a view of the sky with you." Romantic. Cozy.
Her first glass of champagne had been clean. The second, and the third, he'd spiked with a compound he'd acquired from a discreet apothecary, the same she would begin to take some afternoons to relax. It was a subtle, powerful thing: a heavy languor paired with a sharp, relentless arousal followed by amnesia.
She had succumbed to it beautifully. They were lying entwined on the sofa, her skin was fever-hot, a deep flush spreading from her chest up her throat to her cheeks.
Soft, broken moans escaped her lips, a constant, needy soundtrack.
Her hips made small, unconscious circles against the cushion, seeking friction. The sheer robe was a mockery; the gardenia over her pussy was darkening, soaked through, and the silk over her breasts clung to hard, pebbled nipples that strained against the floral covering. The cushion beneath her was damp, a testament to the waves of pleasure already crashing through her drugged system. Her head lolled back against his shoulder, her eyes closed, long lashes fluttering against her cheeks. Tears of pure, overwhelmed sensation traced her cheeks.
His phone, face-down on the sofa beside his thigh, chimed once. A soft, innocent sound.
Foryoureyesonly is live.
Draco smiled. The game was afoot.
He had shifted, gently easing her off him and laying her back against the cushions. She whimpered at the loss of contact. “Shhh, darling," he soothed, his eyes flicking to the tablet he'd propped on the side table. The screen was alive.
The feed was a masterpiece. The camera, from its hidden vantage point, had a pristine, high-definition view straight through the window. It captured everything: Hermione sprawled in decadent abandon, the robe doing nothing but accentuating the geography of her desire. The close-up on her parted thighs was obscene. The gardenia was a pathetic, wet scrap, plastered to her swollen flesh. The skin of her inner thighs glistened. Her cunt, just visible at the edges of the silk flower, was a flushed, puffy, and glistening pink, already well-used from her grinding against the couch. She looked utterly ruined and yet virginal in her helplessness—a perfectly debauched plaything, begging to be used.
Draco's eyes flicked to the minimized comment box.
>>holy fuck look at that cunt its begging for it
>>shes dripping on his furniture like a bitch in heat
>>i'd give my entire bank vault to smell that couch
>>those tits are unreal is she real??
>>she looks so out of it its perfect
>>hope he fucks that wet pussy for us
The view count was soaring: 18,432. 18,901. Climbing by the second. Draco knew, with a visceral thrill, that tens of thousands of cocks were being pulled out, stroked, already leaking at the sight of the Golden Girl in such a state.
"Such a pretty thing," Draco murmured aloud, his voice a low rumble for just the two of them. He trailed a finger down her sternum, over the damp silk. "You want me to make you feel good?"
Hermione's body arched, a silent plea. A ragged "Please" tore from her throat, raw and needy, fueled by the chemical fire in her veins.
"Mmmh,” Draco hummed. His hand slid down, his thumb brushing aside the sodden gardenia.
The sight was even more lewd uncovered. He let the tip of his index finger penetrate her, just an inch, while his thumb found her throbbing clit. Her reaction was volcanic. Her back bowed off the couch, a loud, broken scream ripping from her throat, echoing in the spacious room.
"No," Draco said, his voice firm. He withdrew his hand completely, leaving her clenching around nothing. She cried out in protest. "It's too soon for them," he chided, as if instructing a child. "We can't rush these things. It won't be fun."
He moved with purpose then.
He grabbed her pliant body and turned her over, pulling her up until she was on her knees, her torso slumped against the high back of the sofa. Her arms dangled over the top, her head resting on them, face turned to the side, eyes shut. The pose presented the perfect, pale globes of her ass to the window—and to the camera. The delicate pink pucker between them was clenched tight, a tiny, forbidden rosebud.
Draco's breath hitched. He'd never taken her here before. The anticipation was a drug. He dragged a dry finger over the tight ring of muscle, watching it flutter in response.
"Fuck," he breathed, closing his eyes for a second to savor the intention. It looked impossible. Delicate. He wanted to wreck it.
He spat on the entrance, the act crude and deliberate. The saliva glistened in the low light. He let the first flange of his index finger press against it.
"Draco?" Hermione mumbled, her face contorting in vague, drugged confusion.
He shushed her, his hand lifting and coming down in a sharp, stinging slap on her dripping cunt.
The sound was crisp, wet. Her body jolted, and a guttural, deep moan of surprise and shocking pleasure tore from her. She grew visibly wetter, her juices coating his palm.
"Be a good girl," he crooned, landing another slap, then another. "I know you want this. Look at you. So filthy. So wet for it."
>>YES SLAP THAT SLUT
>>shes loving it look at her leak
>>fuck her ass right after i wanna see her cry
>>ruin her perfect little hole
The comments scrolled, a digital chorus of depravity.
He returned to his work. He spat again, and this time, with relentless pressure, he pushed the tip of his finger past the resisting ring, in to the first knuckle.
"Fuck,” he moaned, his own arousal a painful tightness in his trousers. "So fucking tight, baby."
He didn't stop. He pushed slowly, inexorably, until his knuckle was flush with her body, his finger buried inside that impossibly hot, clenching channel.
Hermione screamed, a raw, animal sound. “Draco!” she slurred, a line of saliva escaping her parted lips and dripping onto the sofa back.
“Do you like that?” he growled, twisting his finger slightly.
A garbled moan was her only answer.
He pulled his finger out, the slow drag making her whine in desperate protest. From under the couch, he retrieved the small bottle of lubricant he'd hidden earlier. He squeezed a generous amount onto her exposed entrance, the cool gel making her gasp. He smeared it with his fingers, massaging the tight ring, working it in with obscene, slick sounds.
When he was satisfied, he didn't hesitate. He pushed his lubricated index finger back inside in one smooth, brutal motion. Her body jolted, but the scream was caught in her throat, replaced by a continuous stream of whines, moans, and choked sobs. Her eyes remained shut, lost to the chemical and physical onslaught.
He began to fuck his finger in and out of her, ruthlessly, setting a pace designed to brutalize and stretch. Then, he added a second. The stretch was obscene, beautiful. Her body fought him, the pale, delicate skin around the intrusion flushing a deep, angry red. It looked like defilement. It almost looked wrong.
Almost.
He scissored his fingers, stretching her open, the tight ring yielding millimeter by millimeter. He added a third finger, then, with a groan of effort and lust, a fourth. Her ass now gaped around his knuckles, a stretched, wet, red hole.
Hermione's cries were constant, a mixture of pain and a pleasure she couldn't control or escape.
Her cunt dripped a steady stream of arousal onto the couch and down her trembling thighs, a lewd testament to her body's confused betrayal.
>>>holy shit hes gonna fist her ass
>>look at that hole its fucking gone
>>shes gonna feel that for a week
>>worth every dollar i tipped
"They want me to fuck you," Draco hissed, his voice ragged. He was speaking to her, to himself. "They want to see you get wrecked.”
""Aco," she mumbled, senseless.
"You want it too, don't you?" he panted, pumping his fingers. "Want my cock to stretch you wide open for them to see."
He pulled his fingers out, leaving her gasping, empty.
Draco’s fingers, slick from her ass, hooked into the delicate chiffon of her robe. With a sharp tug, he ripped it from her body. The gardenias tore away, leaving her completely bare except for the faint, pink marks of his hands and the deep flush of arousal and exertion that painted her skin. She whimpered as the cool air hit her fevered flesh, but she was too far gone to offer any real resistance. He slid an arm around her waist and helped her walk the few steps to the vast window, turning her until her back was flush against his front. He adjusted his grip, one arm banded across her chest, his hand finding and cupping her breast, his fingers roughly pinching and rolling her swollen nipple. His other arm locked around her midsection, holding her upright; her legs dangled, useless.
He pressed her forward until her breasts and cheek met the cool glass. “Let them get a good look at you,” he murmured into her ear, his voice a dark caress.
On the tablet screen, the feed adjusted. The camera zoomed, capturing every detail. Her flushed, marked breasts were flattened against the window, the nipples hard, dark peaks distorted by the pressure. Her tear-streaked face was turned to the side, lips parted and glistening, eyes screwed shut—all were displayed in high-definition clarity against the backdrop of their lit room, a lewd exhibit for the night.
>>put her tits against the glass again i wanna see them smash
>>fuck look at those marks hes marked his property
>>shes just a doll for him to pose
>>that body is unreal i’m gonna fucking cum just looking
>>her face is perfect ruined little slut
After a long moment, Draco pulled her away, leaving two faint, damp prints on the glass where her breasts had been.
He carried her back to the main seating area. He chose a different sofa, one that offered a three-quarter view to the hidden camera. He bent her over it, arranging her so her chest was pressed into the plush back, her arms dangling over the sides. Her head rested on the cushions, face turned toward the window. Her spine formed a deep, helpless curve, and her ass was raised, perfectly presented. The camera, with its expert angle, had an unobstructed view of her slick, reddened cunt from behind, and, more prominently, the tightly furrowed pucker between her cheeks, now glistening with lube and stretched from his fingers, flushed a deep, angry red.
Draco stepped back, drinking in the sight. He unfastened his trousers, freeing his cock, which was painfully hard, flushed and leaking. He gave himself a slow, tight stroke, his eyes fixed on her. On the feed, he saw the camera zoom in further, focusing with pornographic precision on her vulnerable entrance. The sight of his own thick length in his fist, poised before that ruined, little hole, sent a jolt of pure, animal possession through him.
He moved forward, the head of his cock nudging against the tight, resisting ring. He watched, enthralled, as he began to push. The initial penetration was a slow, breathtaking conquest. The camera captured it all: the way her body tensed for a second, a faint, choked sound escaping her, and then the obscene, gradual yielding as the broad crown of his cock stretched the fluttering muscle wide, forcing its way inside. He watched, his breath caught in his throat, as her body yielded to him. He watched the way her delicate, puffy pucker was forced to stretch around his girth, how her flushed flesh clung to him, how she opened for him millimeter by obscene millimeter, as her most forbidden part was stretched to accommodate him. It was the most arousing thing he’d ever seen—the visual proof of his ownership, of her total surrender. The tight, hot clasp was unbelievable, a velvet-stranglehold that made his vision blur.
He watched himself disappear into her, her body reluctantly giving way until his hips were finally flush against the sore, red curves of her ass.
As he finally seated himself to the hilt, a violent, full-body shudder racked Hermione. A broken, sighing sob was torn from her, and her inner muscles fluttered wildly around him in a powerful, involuntary climax. The resistance in her body melted completely. She went utterly limp beneath him, her insides becoming a soft, warm, impossibly tight sheath, pulsing weakly around his cock. Her moans became a continuous, soft, breathy stream, devoid of sense or pause.
Draco didn’t wait. He pulled back almost all the way and slammed back in. A groan of pure, unadulterated pleasure ripped from his throat. He set a ruthless, pounding rhythm, fucking into her limp, pliant body with single-minded focus. The only sounds were the wet, rhythmic slap of his skin against hers, the creak of the sofa, her ragged, sobbing breaths, and his own guttural moans.
He leaned over her, one hand tangling in her hair to hold her head up for a second, the other groping and squeezing her breast, mauling the soft flesh in time with his thrusts. Her body jolted with every drive of his hips, her breasts swaying heavily, her cries punctuating each impact. Drool coated her chin and the cushion beneath her. Tears streamed from her closed eyes.
“That’s it, take it,” he snarled, his voice ragged with effort and ecstasy. “Such a perfect, tight little ass. Made for this. Look at you, so wrecked. So fucking perfect for me.” He punctuated his words with deeper, harder thrusts. “My wife. My filthy, used-up wife.”
His eyes flicked to the tablet screen, to the smaller picture-in-picture showing the live feed. He saw himself, a powerful, driven figure, relentlessly pistoning into the utterly helpless, beautiful woman bent over the couch. The view count flashed: 22,478. More than twenty thousand strangers witnessing this ultimate intimacy, this absolute violation. Twenty thousand cocks being stroked to the sight of his wife being fucked senseless. The thought was a lightning bolt to his arousal. She would walk red carpets, smile at premieres, shake hands with executives and fans—all of them would look at her polished, brilliant smile and see only this: her stretched, dripping holes, her glazed eyes, her body used as his personal toy for their consumption. The hand she shook would have, for many, just been wrapped around a cock, stroking to the memory of this very moment.
The white-hot coil in his gut snapped. With a final, brutal series of thrusts, a roar tore from Draco’s throat as he came, pouring himself deep inside her ass, his body shuddering with the force of his release. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, as the pulses subsided.
Slowly, spent, he pulled out. The obscene sound of his exit was followed by a soft, wet trickle.
He stepped back, heaving for breath, to view his handiwork. Hermione was slumped, unconscious, over the back of the sofa. Her ass was in the air, a stark, pale landscape now dominated by the vividly red, gaping entrance between her cheeks. It was stretched wide, puffy, and abused, a glistening, spent hole. A thick, pearlescent trickle of his cum began to seep from it, tracing a slow, lewd path to ger abused cunt. She was the very picture of absolute, filthy ruin.
>>HOLY SHIT HE CAME IN HER ASS
>>that hole will never close right again
>>shes gonna wake up sore and full of his cum and not know why
>>look at that hole its destroyed
>>it’s fucking gaping wow
>>dream wife material right there wrecked and filled
>>lucky bastard owns that cunt and that ass
>>she’s not walking right for a week god
Draco reached out, running a possessive, gentle hand over the heated skin of her back.
He arranged her with a possessiveness that was almost tender, rolling her limp form so her hips were elevated, ass presented to the dim room. He watched, enthralled, as his own release seeped from her, a white trickle against her flushed, used skin. A low sound of approval escaped him. With two fingers, he gently scooped the escaping fluid and pushed it back inside her, feeling the warm, clenching resistance of her unconscious body. He wished, fervently, that he could cork her with a plug—keep his claim sealed within her, let it simmer inside her all night. But the narrative for tomorrow required ignorance, a shared, hazy memory of too much champagne.
With a sigh of regret, he stood and walked to the large glass door, unlocking and sliding it open. The cool night air swept in, a contrast to the feverish heat of the room. He retrieved the garden hose from its discreet reel, attached a gentle spray nozzle, and brought it inside.
The water was cool. He adjusted it to a soft, lukewarm stream. Positioning himself behind her again, he directed the spray at the small of her back, letting it run down the cleft of her ass. He watched, fascinated, as the water mingled with the remnants of his release, creating milky rivulets that ran down her thighs. He then brought the nozzle closer, spreading her cheeks with his free hand. The gentle spray played directly over her stretched, puffy entrance, washing it clean.
He inserted two fingers into her slack, sensitive hole, the water aiding his entry. He worked them in and out, slowly, methodically, ensuring every trace of him was flushed from inside. Her body, even in unconsciousness, clenched weakly around the intrusion, a ghost of a response that made his breath catch. He repeated the process, finger-fucking her gently with the water, until all of his cum was wasged away.
The sight was impossibly erotic: this clinical, necessary cleansing feeling like a deeper, more intimate violation.
When he was satisfied, he turned off the hose, discarded it, and carefully dried her with a soft towel, blotting her skin until it was just damp. Then he retrieved a small jar of healing cream, a rich, odorless balm used by professional players after rigorous games.
Scooping a generous amount onto his fingers, he began to apply it. First, he circled the swollen, reddened ring of muscle, massaging the cool cream into the abraded skin. She flinched in her sleep, a tiny, pained hitch in her breath. He soothed her with a hushed whisper, "Almost done, darling."
Then, he pushed his cream-slicked finger inside her.
The sensation was obscenely erotic. The cream, slick and cool, met the incredible internal heat of her. He pushed his finger in to the knuckle, rotating it slowly, coating the inner passage. He pulled out, gathered more cream, and pushed back in.
In. The tight, heated clutch, even in her unconscious state, was exquisite.
Out. Coating the inner channel with the soothing balm.
In. Again. A slow, deliberate piston motion, ensuring every millimeter of stretched, sensitive flesh was covered. His own breath grew ragged. This was not meant to arouse him, this aftercare, but it did—profoundly. He worked a second finger in alongside the first, stretching her gently once more to apply the cream thoroughly, watching the puffy flesh glisten.
He watched, enthralled, as her abused muscle accepted his finger easily now,
He applied more cream, working it in with the same slow, relentless rhythm, until he was satisfied she was thoroughly treated. Finally, he withdrew his finger for the last time, giving the swollen, glistening entrance one final, proprietary stroke. Her entrance looked less angry now, just well-used, glistening with ointment.
He cleaned his hands, disposed of the evidence, and lifted her into his arms. She was a dead weight, breathing deeply. He carried her to their bed, dressed her in soft cotton pajamas, and tucked her in, placing a glass of water and a packet of painkillers on the nightstand.
In the living room, he reset the sofa, closed the blinds, and powered down the tablet. The live feed was over. The archive was already encrypted, saved for his private collection, and available for a steep, exclusive fee to a select few.
He slid into bed beside her, pulling her warm, unresponsive body against his. He nuzzled her hair, inhaling the clean scent that now overlayed the faint, phantom echoes of sweat, sex, and cream. Tomorrow, she would wake sore, confused, with hazy, pleasure-soaked memories he would carefully shape with murmured half-truths. "We had a lot to drink, my love. You were incredible. We got a little carried away."
And she would blush, and ache, and believe him. The game was not afoot. The game, for now, was perfectly, silently won.
**
In the year since that pivotal night, Draco had refined his craft into an art of exquisite denial. He had given his audience everything: her mouth, her ass, the space between her tits, the soft skin of her inner thighs. He had presented her in every vulnerable, lewd, and glorious angle. But he had never, not once, fucked her cunt on camera. It was his masterpiece of withheld gratification. The comments were always a chorus of desperate, furious want.
>> when will he fuck that perfect pussy
>> I need to see that cunt be stretched
>> she's dripping for it
>> her pretty pussy looks so lonely
>> id pay anything to see her get fucked
He let the hunger build. It made every show more potent, every tip more generous. They were paying for the possibility, the tormenting almost. And now, on the lounger, with over half a million tuned in, the game was at its sweetest peak.
Hermione mewled, a soft, lost sound. Her body was a landscape of heat and flush, the sheer white chiffon a scandalous second skin, rendered completely transparent by the dampness at her core. The fabric was dark and sticky where it clung to her mound, a blatant advertisement of her need. The viewer count ticked upward: 63,110. 68,450.
Draco's hand slid from her stomach to cup her breast through the damp silk, his thumb sweeping over the nipple. She arched into the touch with a guttural moan, her back leaving the cushion. He smiled, then hooked a finger into the neckline of her dress and pulled it down, baring her breast to the warm afternoon air and the two unblinking lenses. The nipple was a hard, dusky peak, begging for attention.
He leaned down and placed a soft, almost chaste kiss on the very tip.
A shiver racked her.
"Draco," she breathed, the word thick and syrupy.
That was all the invitation he needed. He opened his mouth and took her in, his tongue swirling around the stiff peak before he began to suck, hard. He wasn't gentle. He was claiming, devouring. He laved it with broad, wet strokes, then bit down gently, making her gasp, before soothing the same spot with his tongue.
He alternated—sucking deeply until the areola pulled tight, then flicking rapidly, then grazing with his teeth. He pushed her pleasure into overstimulation, his mouth a relentless engine on her sensitive flesh.
Hermione's cries escalated from moans to broken sobs. "Draco-ah! Please-too-too much-" Her hands fluttered weakly, pushing at his shoulders one second and clutching his hair the next.
Tears tracked from the corners of her eyes into her hairline. His name fell from her lips between ragged gulps of air, a mantra of overwhelmed sensation. "Draco... Draco... stop... don't stop..."
>> fuck look at those tit I wanna suck on them until she cries
>> just pinch them and watch her scream
>> they are the perfect size to fuck
>> I need to feel around my cock, want to jerk off with them fuck
When he finally pulled away, her breast was glistening, marked with reddened love bites, the nipple so hard and puffy it looked painful. He gave it one last, proprietary squeeze before moving.
He took her ankles, his grip firm, and lifted her legs. He planted her feet flat on the lounger, then pushed her knees apart, spreading her wide. With a deliberate slowness, he took the hem of her dress and lifted it up and over her knees, letting the transparent waterfall of fabric pool in her lap. Finally, he exposed her.
The frontal camera zoomed in with silent precision.
Her cunt was a breathtaking, lewd painting. Pink, swollen outer lips glistened with her arousal, parted slightly to reveal the darker, slick inner folds. Her clit was a swollen, flushed pearl, visibly throbbing. Her own wetness was smeared in shiny trails down her inner thighs, and a fresh, thick bead of it welled from her entrance, beginning a slow, tantalizing drip down towards the cleft of her ass and the cream cushion beneath.
A low, helpless moan tore from Hermione's throat as the breeze ghosted over her exposed, hypersensitive flesh. Her hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk.
>> holy fuck look at that pretty pink pussy its glistening like fucking honey
>> so puffy and wet she's ready to burst
>> I wanna lick that clit until she screams
>> just impale her on my cock right now and stretch that thigh hole
>> look at how she's dripping I want to lick her clean
Draco began to tease. He traced a single finger down from her navel, through the damp curls, and dragged it slowly through her soaked slit, from perineum to clit. He circled the swollen bud once, twice, a feather-light touch that made her whole body tense, before sliding back down. He repeated the motion, a torturous cycle, never applying the pressure she clearly needed, never dipping inside.
"Draco," Hermione cried, her head thrashing side to side. "Please... please..." She was begging, but her glassy, drugged eyes held no specific request, only a bottomless, consuming need.
"Please what, darling?" Draco murmured, his voice a low hum. "You're so wet. You must want it so fucking bad.”
He knelt before her, between her spread legs, the perfect position for the cameras. He leaned forward, and with a deliberate, crude grace, he spat. A glob of saliva landed directly on her clit and slit, glistening for a moment before it began to melt and mix with her own juices, streaming in silvery lines down her folds.
Hermione whimpered.
Draco used his thumbs to spread her lips wider, exposing the dark, fluttering entrance. He spat again, this time directly into her hole. The spit disappeared inside for a second before more wetness seeped out. Then he lowered his head and licked, a long, flat stroke from the very base of her entrance all the way up to her clit.
"Draco!" Her back arched violently, her hands fisting in the cushions.
He hooked his hands under her knees and dragged her forward, pulling her to the very edge of the lounger until her ass was barely on the cushion. Her legs were spread impossibly wide.
The front camera's high vantage point was perfection. It showed Draco's head between her pale thighs, the focused intensity of his posture, and the breathtaking, intimate detail of her splayed, dripping sex. He inserted his index finger inside her, curling it slightly, and simultaneously brought his mouth to her clit, sucking it into the hot cavern of his mouth.
Hermione screamed, a raw, unfiltered sound of shock and pleasure.
Draco began to fuck her with his finger in a slow, deep rhythm, his thumb now rubbing firm, tight circles on her clit as he sucked. He ate her with a focused, carnal hunger. He lapped at her entrance, drinking her juices, then plunged his tongue inside, fucking her with it in shallow, rapid thrusts. He returned to her clit, alternating between sucking it hard and flicking it with the very tip of his tongue, all the while his fingers worked inside her—one, then two, scissoring, curling, finding the rough patch inside that made her jolt and sob.
He was merciless. The sounds were obscenely wet—licks, sucks, the squelch of his fingers moving in her soaked channel, her broken, continuous cries. She was so sensitive, so overstimulated from the pill and the teasing, that every touch was amplified, walking the razor's edge between unbearable pleasure and pain.
"I can taste how much you want it," he growled against her flesh, his breath hot. "You're dripping for them. They can see how badly this pretty cunt needs to be filled.”
Her only response was a guttural, sobbing moan. Her hips rocked helplessly against his face, seeking more, seeking release. He gave it to her. He doubled his efforts, sucking her clit with fierce pressure while driving three fingers deep inside her, palm pressing against her swollen lips.
Her climax hit her like a seizure.
Her body bowed off the lounger, a strangled scream ripped from her throat, and her inner walls clamped down violently on his fingers in a rapid, fluttering series of contractions. She shook, her thighs trembling against his ears, her toes curling. A fresh gush of arousal soaked his hand and chin.
He gentled his mouth, licking her through the aftershocks until she was a whimpering, oversensitive mess, pushing weakly at his head.
>> she came so fucking hard look at her twitch
>> she's so fucking gone
>> look at her pussy twitching around nothing she needs a cock to fill her up
>> she's ready to be fucked and filled
Draco slowly pulled his fingers from her, watching them gleam in the sun. He looked up at her flushed, tear-stained face, her chest heaving. He smiled, a slow, knowing smile, and brought his wet fingers to his own lips, tasting her.
The camera captured it all: her utterly ravaged, satisfied, yet still-empty cunt, and his expression of pure, teasing ownership.
"Such a pretty, messy girl,” he purred, his voice a low thrum that vibrated through her. He grasped her wrists, his grip unyielding. "Let's give them a better look, shall we? Show them what they're begging for.”
In her pliant, drugged state, she offered no resistance. He guided her hands down, hooking her own arms under the backs of her knees, pulling her legs up and apart, forcing her to hold herself open. The position was brutally vulnerable, exposing every inch of her glistening, pink folds and the tight, quivering entrance of her cunt to the unblinking eye of the frontal camera. Her muscles trembled with the effort and the exposure.
>> HOLY FUCK LOOK AT THAT GAPE
>> she's holding herself open for us so fucking pretty
>> i can see her little asshole too fuck
>> that pussy is begging to be ruined
>> spread wider you whore let us see everything
Draco stood and walked to the polished chrome cooler beside the lounger. The ice shifted with a crystalline sound. He reached in and pulled out a long, white popsicle, perfectly formed, already beginning to sweat in the heat.
"Look what I found," he said, his gaze locked on her helpless, lost expression. “Something to cool you down. You're burning up, darling.”
He knelt between her widely spread legs again. The popsicle hovered at her entrance, the cold radiating from it in a palpable wave that made her flinch and gasp. With agonizing slowness, he pressed the blunt, frozen tip against her soaked, sensitive flesh. A sharp, shocked cry escaped her. He applied pressure, circling her swollen opening, coating the tip in her arousal, making it gleam.
"So tight," he murmured. "Even for this. Look how your cunt fights it."
He pushed.
The cold was a shocking, brutal invasion. Hermione cried out, a sound of overwhelmed sensation—pain, pleasure, intense, shocking fullness. Her inner walls convulsed around the freezing intrusion.
Draco fed it into her inch by relentless inch, watching her face contort, until the entire length of the popsicle was buried inside her, only the wooden stick protruding obscenely from her stretched pussy.
He held it there, deep, for a count of three. Her breath came in ragged, sobbing pants.
Then, in one smooth, cruel motion, he pulled it almost all the way out, leaving just the tip inside. The slick, wet sound was amplified in the quiet afternoon. Her cunt clenched around nothing, fluttering empty and desperate.
"Please,” she whimpered, her eyes screwed shut.
"Please what?" he asked, his tone conversational.
>> fuck her with it you cocktease
>> SHE WANTS IT SO BAD
>> look at her pretty pussy pulsing
He answered their demands. He slammed the popsicle back into her, hard and deep. Hermione screamed, her back arching off the lounger.
He established a ruthless rhythm, fucking her with the frozen confection. In and out, with long, smooth strokes, then short, brutal jabs. The sound was filthy—a wet, squelching, sucking symphony punctuated by her broken moans and sobs. Each thrust spread the cold deeper, each withdrawal pulled her flushed, heated flesh out slightly before stuffing it back in. Her juices mixed with the melting ice, creating a slick, creamy mess that dripped from her stretched entrance onto her ass and the cushion below.
"Draco! Ah! God-Draco!" His name was a chant on her lips, a plea and a prayer to the only god in her universe.
He fucked her with it until the popsicle was noticeably smaller, softened by her body's heat, its edges rounded. He finally pulled it out completely, a shortened, glistening, obscene thing. He held it up in front of her face, coated in a mixture of clear melt and her creamy arousal.
"Open up,” he commanded, his voice dark.
Dazed, Hermione obeyed, her mouth falling open. He pushed the wet, cold popsicle past her lips, fucking her mouth with the same rhythm he'd used on her cunt. The taste of herself—sweet, salty, musky—flooded her senses, mixed with artificial fruit flavor. She gagged lightly, tears springing to her eyes again as he pushed it deep, rubbing it over her tongue, against the back of her throat.
"Taste how sweet you are," he growled, watching her intently. "Taste how desperate your little cunt is. They all want to taste it, but only you get to. You're so lucky."
>> I want to fuck her mouth fuck she's so good at it
>> she looks so good with a cock in her mouth
>> swallow it you slut
After a minute of this vulgar mouth-fucking, he withdrew it.
He let her suck on the end cleanly, then tossed it aside.
Without a word, he returned to the cooler. This time, he pulled out a second popsicle. It was thicker, wider, a more substantial challenge.
He positioned himself again. The thicker tip pressed against her well-used, stretched opening. She was already loose and wet from the first, but this was bigger. He had to push, slowly working the frozen girth into her. Hermione's moan was a continuous, stretched sound of protest and ecstasy as her body reluctantly, painfully, beautifully accommodated it. He sank it all the way in, until her pussy lips were stretched taut around the base, and only the wooden stick remained outside.
He left it there.
"Now," he said, sitting back on his heels to admire the view. The wooden stick stood upright from her sex, a flag of his conquest. "Now, you wait. Let it melt. Let all that sweetness fill you up.”
He moved to sit beside her on the lounger, one hand resting possessively on her inner thigh, his thumb stroking idly. He picked up his tablet, swiping to the live chat, a satisfied curator.
The audience was rabid.
>> fuck its gonna melt inside her
>> her poor stretched hole
>> want to lick it all out of her
>> she's a human dessert dish
It began to melt. Slowly. Torturously. Hermione could feel it, the unbearable, tickling drip of cold sweetness deep inside her channel. A shiver wracked her, but she couldn't move, couldn't close her legs, held immobile by her own arms and his command. She could only lie there, a vessel, as the popsicle dissolved within her.
A thin, clear, sticky stream began to leak from around the edges of the stick, tracing a path through her folds. It dripped onto her perineum, then further back, cooling the tight pucker of her ass. It pooled on the cream cushion beneath her, a growing, sugary wet spot.
Draco watched, enraptured. He leaned close, his lips brushing her ear. "Listen to them," he whispered, his voice thick with dark pride. "They're losing their minds, watching a popsicle melt in your cunt. You're the most obscene thing any of them have ever seen."
He let it melt until the stick finally slipped from her loosened entrance and fell onto the lounger with a soft, wet tap. A final, thick gush of sugary liquid, now mixed thoroughly with her own essence, flowed out of her, a slow, shameless seep onto the soiled cushion.
The camera's close-up on her spent, gaping, dripping pussy was the final, vulgar masterpiece. Utterly filled, then utterly emptied. Used. A beautiful, ruined thing.
Draco watched her for a moment, his pale eyes gleaming with dark pride. The view count was a blur of climbing numbers, the chat a frenzied scroll of hunger.
He leaned forward, his hand sliding through the soaked, sticky ruin of her pussy, coating his fingers thoroughly. He brought them to his nose, inhaling deeply the mingled scent of her arousal and artificial fruit, before tracing a wet path lower, over her perineum, to the tight, fluttering pucker of her ass.
"So messy everywhere," he mused, his voice a low, intimate rasp. He circled the rim with a slick finger, applying gentle, insistent pressure. Her body, so pliant and oversensitive, yielded easily. He pushed the tip of his index finger inside, feeling the intense, clenching heat. He fucked her slowly with that single digit, in and out, watching the tiny entrance become pinker, puffier, stretched around him.
>> look at that little thing its begging for it too
>> fuck her ass with something already
>> she's so open everywhere what a used up slut
>> I want to see that asshole gape
"You see that?" Draco murmured. "Even here, you are so hungry. You need to be completely filled. Isn't that right, darling?"
Hermione's only response was a broken sob, her head lolling to the side. Her eyes were glassy pools, tears and mascara smudged down her cheeks. A thin line of saliva had dried from the corner of her mouth. Her nipples were hard, dusky peaks against the flushed skin of her breasts, pebbled tight from the breeze and the relentless attention.
Satisfied with the preparation, Draco reached for the cooler once more. He selected a new popsicle, this one long and thin, a sleek, frozen promise. He pressed the chilled tip against the puffy, prepared rim of her ass.
"This will help," he told her. "You need to be full. Every part of you."
He pushed, and the frozen intrusion into this most forbidden hole wrenched a new, ragged scream from her throat. It was a sound of pure, shocking violation. He worked it in slowly, relentlessly, until an inch of the white stick protruded from her clenched, flushed rosebud. The visual was staggeringly obscene: her body splayed and held open, her cunt a wet, gaping ruin, and now her ass, penetrated and stuffed with a frozen treat.
She looked utterly wrecked. A perverted, beautiful doll.
Draco finally attended to himself. He undid his trousers, freeing his hard, aching cock. It stood thick and flushed against his stomach. He gave himself a few slow, deliberate strokes, his eyes feasting on the scene before him—the living pornography he had created.
"Look at you," he breathed, his voice thick with lust. "You were made for this. Sculpted for it. To be used, stretched, and penetrated. To be a spectacle. You're perfect.”
He positioned himself at her entrance, the head of his cock nudging through the slick, sugary mess. He paused, letting the anticipation build in the chat, letting her feel the blunt pressure. Then, with a groan that was half pleasure, half triumph, he sank into her.
The feeling was exquisite. She was so wet, so warm, so utterly open from the popsicle's melting invasion, yet still perfectly, tightly her. He sheathed himself to the hilt in one slow, deep thrust, burying his face in her neck as her body convulsed around him.
He started slow, drawing almost all the way out before plunging back in, a deep, claiming rhythm that punched soft, continuous moans from her lips. He sucked on her neck, marking the pale skin, then moved to her breasts, taking a nipple into his mouth and worrying it with his teeth and tongue as his hips rolled against hers. Her cries pitched higher, a helpless melody of overstimulation.
>> she's taking it so deep
>> she's made to be fucked
>> I want to wreck that pussy
But slow and deep wasn't enough. Not for the finale. His control began to splinter. He pulled out, his cock glistening, and turned her roughly onto her hands and knees. Her arms, weak from holding herself open, immediately buckled, and she collapsed onto her forearms, her ass high in the air, presenting both violated holes to the cameras in a lewd, breathtaking display.
He entered her again, a hard, driving thrust that made her shriek. He set a brutal, faster pace now, shallow, punishing snaps of his hips that slapped their skin together. The popsicle stick in her ass jiggled with every impact.
With a grunt grasped it. As he fucked her cunt, he began to work the popsicle in her ass, pulling it almost all the way out before plunging it back in alongside his own thrusts. The obscene, wet sound of dual penetration filled the air.
"Two holes filled," he panted, his voice ragged. "Is that what you needed, you greedy slut? Is this finally enough?"
She couldn't form words, only animalistic sounds of overwhelming sensation. He could feel her inner walls fluttering, trying to cling, trying to make sense of the dual assault.
He abandoned the popsicle, leaving it lodged inside her, and focused all his energy on fucking her pussy, now overstimulated, sore, and impossibly responsive. Each thrust was a claim, a branding. He flipped her again, onto her side, hooking her top leg over his shoulder, opening her at a devastating angle. The side camera captured it all: the violent jiggle of her breasts with each pound of his body into hers, the sweat-slicked pleasure on his face, the utterly vacant, desperate ruin on hers.
"You're mine," he growled, punctuating each word with a thrust. "This cunt is mine. This show is mine. Every scream, every drip, every fucking view. You are perfect like this. Wrecked. Used. Beautiful.”
His climax built, a tight, coiling pressure. He drove into her one last, final time, burying himself to the root as he came. A raw, guttural shout tore from his throat as he pulsed inside her, pumping his release deep into her well-used cunt, mixing with the residual sweetness and her own fluids.
He stayed there, embedded in her, for a long moment, his body shuddering with the aftershocks.
Then, slowly, he pulled out.
The camera's close-up was the final, vulgar masterpiece. His cum, white and thick, began to seep immediately from her red, puffy, gaping entrance. It dripped onto the mess of melted popsicle and her own arousal already staining her thighs and the cushion, a creamy stream of absolute ownership. The popsicle in her ass had melted further, adding a thin, clear rivulet to the mix. She was a vision of pure, wanted violation—every hole filled, every boundary transgressed, her body a canvas of sweat, tears, saliva, and the evidence of his possession.
**
The climax of the poolside broadcast wasn't the end; it was the rocket fuel. Hermione's career, once a steady climb of respected indie films and intelligent theatre, became a vertical ascension into the stratosphere of global stardom. It was inexplicable, unprecedented. Her face, once known for its clever sharpness, was now hailed as the epitome of a new, relatable goddess-approachable yet untouchable, intelligent yet sensual.
Her movies, thoughtful dramas and big-budget blockbusters alike, shattered box office records.
Analysts scratched their heads.
She was talented, certainly, but so were others. The secret, of course, was the devotion of a shadow demographic. Men from all walks of life—CEOs, construction workers, professors, mechanics—flocked to her films. They bought out premium seats, purchased endless streaming copies, and drove merchandise sales into the millions. The studios, delirious with profit, gave her unprecedented control, bigger budgets, and final-cut approval. She was hailed as a new kind of feminist icon: powerful, bankable, and authentically herself.
The headlines sang her praises:
"Granger Is Gold: How Hermione Became Hollywood's Most Sought-After Star"
"The People's Princess: Why Audiences Feel They Know Hermione Granger"
"A Return to Old Hollywood Glamour: The Unassuming Power of a Modern Icon"
Meet-and-greets at premieres became the hottest ticket in town, auctioning for thousands of dollars. Men in bespoke tuxedos would wait in line for hours, their palms sweating. They'd take her hand, their grip lingering a second too long, and look into her warm, brown eyes with a feverish intensity she mistook for fandom.
"Your performance moved me so deeply," a financier would say, his voice oddly thick, thinking of the video where she'd sobbed around Draco's cock on the kitchen floor.
"I feel like I know you," a tech mogul would breathe, his mind filled with the image of her ass, red and gaping, pressed against the living room window.
She would smile, gracious and unaware, her skin flushed from the flashbulbs, not from remembered shame. The moment the interaction ended, these men would often slip away, disappearing into the opulent, marble bathrooms of the venue. Locked in a stall, they'd fumble with their belts, their expensive cufflinks clicking against the porcelain as they freed themselves, stroking furiously to the memory of her—not the smiling actress, but the drugged and pliant wife, her pussy stretched around a frozen treat, her husband's cum leaking down her thigh. They'd spill onto the immaculate tile, their climax a silent, stolen tribute to the secret they shared.
At home, couples would snuggle on the sofa to watch her latest period drama. Wives would sigh, "She's so empowering. Look at her strength!" while their husbands, with a peculiar tightness in their throats, would nod, their eyes fixed on the screen. Their favorite film, unbeknownst to their partners, was never the Oscar-winning biography. To their wives, it was a tense story of marital intrigue. To them, it was the film she'd been promoting the week Draco had, for seven consecutive nights, used her sleeping, pill-heavy body as a canvas. They'd watch her remembering the footage of him slowly, methodically pushing a thick cucumber inside her as she lay passed out on their couch, the vegetable left to nestle within her for hours, her legs deliver a poignant monologue and splayed open in a parody of sleep, the obscene green tip just visible at her stretched, dripping entrance. Her Oscar-worthy tears on screen mirrored the real, unconscious ones that had tracked down her cheeks that night.
The public speculated about Draco Malfoy—the reclusive, devastatingly handsome husband who shunned the spotlight. Was he a supportive partner or a controlling enigma? Did he know about the secrely filmed videos, the whispers of a secret, the underground feed? The consensus was that he must be oblivious, a cuckold of epic proportions, his most private marital moments being sold on the dark web. There was a faint, pervasive pity for him, mixed with a bizarre, unspoken envy. The mystery only added to the allure. No one intervened. No one exposed the truth. The ecosystem was too perfect, too profitable. The audience had their goddess and their whore, and the line between them was the most exhilarating secret they'd ever kept.
And so, Hermione Granger walked the sun-drenched red carpets, a vision in silk and jewels, her laugh bright and clear. She shook the hands of her adoring, trembling fans. She gave speeches about artistry and authenticity. And in the quiet, plush darkness of thousands of screens worldwide, she was forever spread open, filled, wet, and used—the ultimate star, whose most defining role was played entirely without her knowledge, for an audience that loved her in a way she would never, could never, understand. The contract was the most lucrative in Hollywood history, and she had never even seen the terms. Draco held them all, every clause, every page, in the palm of his hand.