Chapter Text
The black silk blindfold was the first thing he put on her that evening.
Draco’s fingers were slow, deliberate, as he tied the knot at the back of her head. Hermione’s breath hitched when the world went dark—every sound in the manor suddenly sharper: the crackle of the fire, the low murmur of voices from the drawing room down the corridor, the soft clink of his signet ring against the silver buckle of the collar he was about to fasten around her throat.
“Arms up, pet,” he murmured against her ear.
She obeyed instantly, lifting them so he could slide the sheer black lace bodysuit over her head. It was obscene—crotchless, backless, the fabric so thin her nipples were already visible through it, dark and peaked from the cool air and from anticipation. He tugged the straps into place, then stepped back to look.
“Turn.”
Hermione pivoted slowly on bare feet. The bodysuit had a high-cut leg that framed the curve of her arse perfectly; a thin silver chain ran between her legs, nestling against her already slick folds. Every step would rub it against her clit.
Draco made a low, approving sound in his throat.
“On your knees.”
She dropped without hesitation, knees parting on the thick Aubusson rug. He crouched in front of her, cupped her jaw, tilted her blindfolded face up.
“You remember the rules tonight?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Say them.”
Her voice came out breathy, eager. “I belong to you. I speak only when you allow it. I come only when you allow it. I thank you for every touch, every word, every cock that uses me tonight.”
He smiled—sharp, possessive. “Good girl.”
He clipped a thin silver leash to the front of the collar, gave it a light tug. Hermione’s lips parted on a soft moan.
Then he stood, adjusted the prominent bulge in his trousers, and led her from the bedroom.
The drawing room doors were already open.
Six people waited inside—three men, three women, all pure-bloods of the old circle, all people who’d once sneered at her Mudblood status and now paid obscene amounts of Galleons for the privilege of watching Draco Malfoy ruin the brightest witch of her age.
They went quiet when Hermione crawled in on all fours beside him.
Draco didn’t speak at first. He simply walked her to the centre of the room, stopped, and gave the leash another tug so she knelt up, back arched, breasts thrust forward.
“Look at her,” he said to the room, voice calm and proprietary. “My perfect little slut. She begged for this tonight. Didn’t you, Hermione?”
She swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
“Louder.”
“Yes, sir,” she said clearly, cheeks flaming beneath the blindfold. “I begged to be dressed like a whore and fucked in front of everyone.”
A ripple of appreciative murmurs.
Draco circled her slowly, letting them see every angle: the way the chain disappeared between her swollen lips, the way her thighs already glistened, the way her nipples strained against the lace.
He stopped behind her, fisted her hair, yanked her head back so her throat was exposed.
“Spread your knees wider.”
She did.
He reached between her legs, hooked two fingers through the chain, and pulled it taut. The metal pressed hard against her clit. Hermione whimpered, hips jerking forward involuntarily.
“Already dripping,” he observed to the room. “Pathetic, isn’t she? So desperate to be used.”
He released the chain, stepped in front of her again, and unbuckled his belt with deliberate slowness. The sound alone made her shiver.
“Open.”
Hermione parted her lips immediately. He fed his cock into her mouth—thick, hot, already leaking—and didn’t stop until her nose pressed against his pelvis. She gagged softly, eyes watering behind the blindfold, but she didn’t pull away. She never did.
He fucked her throat in shallow thrusts while he addressed the guests.
“Anyone who wants her cunt or arse tonight has to ask nicely. She’ll take all of you, but only after I’ve reminded her who she belongs to.”
He pulled out abruptly, strings of saliva connecting her lips to his cock. She gasped, panting.
“Thank you, sir,” she whispered automatically.
Draco smirked, wiped the head of his cock across her cheek, then turned to the nearest guest—a tall, dark-haired wizard who’d been watching with hungry eyes.
“You first.”
The man didn’t need to be told twice.
He stepped forward, trousers already open. Draco kept the leash taut, forcing Hermione to arch her back further as the stranger gripped her hips and sank into her in one brutal stroke.
Hermione cried out around the sudden fullness—loud, shameless. The man groaned, set a punishing rhythm. Every thrust pushed her forward, made the chain rub mercilessly against her clit.
Draco crouched beside her, fingers sliding into her hair again.
“Look at you,” he purred. “Taking cock like you were born for it. My filthy little Gryffindor whore.”
She moaned around the next thrust, body shaking.
“Tell them who you belong to.”
“You—fuck—you, sir—only you—”
The man behind her came with a grunt, spilling deep. He pulled out; another took his place immediately. This one went for her arse—slow at first, then harder when she pushed back against him, begging with her body.
Draco watched every second, stroking himself lazily.
When the second man finished, Draco finally moved behind her.
He didn’t prep her further; she was already soaked, open, used. He lined himself up and slid home in one long, claiming stroke.
Hermione sobbed his name.
He fucked her hard—harder than any of them had—each snap of his hips driving her forward onto her palms. The collar bit into her throat with every tug of the leash.
“Say it,” he growled.
“I’m your slut—your dirty little slut—please—”
“Come,” he ordered.
She shattered instantly—screaming, clenching around him, thighs trembling so badly she nearly collapsed. Draco didn’t stop. He fucked her through it, then pulled out and came across her back in hot, thick stripes, marking her in front of everyone.
When he was finished, he tugged the leash gently, guiding her to kneel up again.
She was a wreck—sweat-slick, flushed, come dripping down her thighs and painted across her spine, blindfold still in place.
Draco removed it slowly.
Hermione blinked against the sudden light, eyes glassy, lips swollen. She looked up at him with something so close to worship it made his chest ache.
He cupped her cheek, thumb brushing over her bottom lip.
“Mine,” he said quietly.
“Yours,” she whispered back, voice wrecked and happy.
He leaned down and kissed her—slow, deep, filthy—right there in front of them all.
Then he straightened, reattached the leash, and looked around the room with lazy satisfaction.
“Round two starts in ten minutes. She doesn’t get a break.”
Hermione shivered, already spreading her knees wider.
She smiled.
She loved him.
She loved this.
And she couldn’t fucking wait.