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Hermione's Sleeping Habits	By : gee25 Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 119 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the great series Harry Potter. AI Generated

Chapter List
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Chapter 4 - A Beautiful Sight
The air in Draco’s private chambers still carried the musky, intimate scent of their earlier joining. Hermione knelt on the silken rug, her body humming with a residual, post-coital calm that felt like her new natural state. Draco stood before her, fully dressed once more, his expression one of cool appraisal.
“You’ve learned your first lesson here beautifully,” he said, his voice a low thrum that vibrated in her bones. “But your training requires more specialized tools. Your mind is a brilliant instrument, Hermione. It deserves the finest conditioning.”
He offered her his hand. She took it without hesitation, rising to her feet. He led her not back to the bed, but to a section of the ornate, dark wood wall. With a whispered word and a touch of his palm to a seemingly blank panel, a seamless doorway materialized, swinging inward to reveal a hidden room.
The air that washed over her was cool and charged with ancient, potent magic. The room was a gallery of exquisite implements, each glowing with a soft, intrinsic light. Gleaming silver restraints hung from velvet cushions. Crystal phials of shimmering liquids sat on pedestals. But it was to the far wall that Draco guided her.
A set of smooth, dark manacles, lined with what felt like the softest black velvet, hung from the stone. They were not ominous; they were an invitation. “Place your wrists in the cuffs, Hermione,” he instructed, his tone leaving no room for question, only anticipation.
She obeyed, lifting her arms. The manacles closed around her wrists with a soft, definitive click. They were snug but not tight, a firm, comforting pressure. The magic in them hummed against her skin, a gentle, resonant frequency that seemed to synchronize with her own heartbeat.
“So perfect for me,” he murmured, stroking her cheek. Then, from a small, ebony box on a nearby shelf, he produced a blindfold of pure black silk. “And now, we remove one sense to heighten all the others.” He tied it securely behind her head, plunging her world into absolute, velvety darkness.
The loss of sight was immediate and total. Every other sense roared to life. She could hear the soft crackle of the hearth in the next room, the even rhythm of his breathing. She could smell the sandalwood of his skin, the ozone-tang of powerful magic, the faint, clean scent of her own arousal. The silken ropes of the blindfold were a whisper against her temples.
She felt him move away, then return. A new scent reached her—something faintly sweet, like rain on dry earth.
“This,” Draco’s voice came from directly in front of her, “is a Augurey’s primary flight feather. Enchanted to heighten tactile sensation to an… exquisite degree.”
The first touch was a shock. It was so light it was almost nothing, a ghost of a caress down the side of her neck. Yet her entire body shuddered in response, a cascade of goosebumps following its path. It wasn't just the feather; it was the magic within it, a spell that seemed to bypass her skin and speak directly to her nerves.
He traced the line of her collarbone, and a moan escaped her lips. The sensation was a hundred times more intense than a fingertip, a thousand times more precise. Every microscopic movement of the feather was a symphony on her flesh.
“And it has one other property,” he continued, his voice a hypnotic lure in the dark. “A synaptic link. Every point of pleasure it awakens… will fire a corresponding impulse in your mind. And that impulse has only one destination.”
He dragged the feather slowly, torturously, down the valley between her breasts. Her back arched against the cool stone wall, a gasp tearing from her throat. The pleasure was acute, dizzying. And as promised, her mind, brilliant and now utterly compliant, provided the linked image: the thick, veined length of his cock, slick and ready.
He traced circles around one nipple, and she cried out, her mind flooding with the sensation of him twitching against her tongue. He trailed the feather down her abdomen, and she imagined the heavy weight of his balls in her hand. Each touch was a dual assault—a physical awakening of impossible sensitivity and a psychological branding of his ownership.
He spent what felt like an eternity on her inner thighs, tracing patterns that had her shaking, her legs trembling to hold her up. She was panting, whimpers falling from her lips with every breath. Her skin was on fire, every nerve ending screaming for more, for less, for something. The images in her head were a relentless, pornographic slideshow: his cock from every angle, in every conceivable context, each mental picture stoking the fire in her core until she was a writhing, drooling mess against the wall.
With a soft click, the manacles released her wrists. Her arms fell limp to her sides, heavy and useless. She remained leaning against the wall, held up by the sheer force of the sensations he was weaving around her.
The blindfold remained.
“What do you want, slave?” Draco’s voice was close, his breath warm on her ear.
Her mind, scorched clean of all higher function, offered only one answer. It was the only truth left in the universe. “Master’s cock,” she slurred, the words thick and desperate.
“What was that?” he asked, feigning distraction. “I was just reviewing a fascinating text on the uses of moonstone in restorative potions. The refractive index is truly—”
“Master’s cock,” she moaned, the words a plea, her hips canting forward into nothingness.
“Hmm? Oh, yes. And the research on the counter-curse for Sectumsempra… the intricacies of the wand movement are particularly…”
“Master’s dick!” she sobbed, her head lolling back. “Please… need Master’s dick…”
Every time she said it, the words themselves sent a fresh jolt of arousal through her, a Pavlovian response of pure, undiluted need. She was a closed loop of desire, every neuron firing toward one singular, glorious purpose.
“Beg,” he commanded, his voice dropping into a tone of dark, possessive pleasure.
“Please,” she gasped, the words tumbling out in a frantic, mindless stream. “Please, Master, let me have it, let me have your cock, I need it, I need to taste it, to feel it, please, I’ll be so good, I’ll be your good girl, please—”
“Where do you want it?” he interrupted, his voice rough with his own arousal.
The question was too complex. Her world had narrowed to a single point of need. “Anywhere!” she screamed, the sound raw and primal. “My mouth, my cunt, my ass, anywhere you want, Master, I’ll take it anywhere, just give it to me, please!”
Her begging was the only prayer she knew.
She heard his low, triumphant chuckle. Strong hands gripped her hips, spinning her around to face the wall. He guided her down, positioning her on her hands and knees on the soft rug. The vulnerable arch of her back, the blindfold stealing her sight, the aching, empty need between her legs—it was the most exposed she had ever been.
She felt the broad, slick head of him press against her entrance, a promise and a threat. He paused, letting her feel the immense pressure, letting her hunger for it.
“Such a perfect, desperate fuck toy,” he growled, his hands gripping her hips possessively. “My perfect little fuck doll, begging for what she needs.”
And with a single, powerful thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside her. The scream that tore from her throat was one of pure, unadulterated relief. He filled her completely, stretching her, claiming the emptiness he had so carefully cultivated.
“Yes! Master!” she shrieked, the words ripped from her soul as he began to move. The force of his thrusts drove her forward, her hands scrambling against the soft rug for purchase. Every inch of him stretched her to the brink, his cock a searing brand of possession as it filled her completely. Her body convulsed around him, a desperate, involuntary response to the sheer intensity of his claim. She was no longer Hermione Granger, brilliant Auror; she was his, a vessel for his pleasure, her every nerve aflame with the need to obey.
“You feel so tight, so perfect,” Draco growled, his voice thick with dominance. His hands gripped her hips with bruising force, pulling her back to meet each punishing thrust. The sound of skin against skin echoed through the room, mingling with her ragged cries and his low, possessive grunts. “This is where you belong, isn’t it? Begging for me, taking me like the desperate little slut you are.” His words were a cruel caress, stoking the fire in her core until she thought she might burn alive.
“Master, yes!” she sobbed, her voice breaking as he angled his hips just right, hitting a spot deep inside her that made her vision white out. Her body clenched around him, desperate to hold onto the fleeting ecstasy he was tearing from her. “Please, don’t stop! I can’t—I can’t—” Her pleas dissolved into incoherent moans as he increased his pace, each thrust driving her closer to the edge of oblivion. The blindfold stole her sight, but it only heightened the sensations, making her hyper-aware of every slide of his cock, every brush of his skin against hers.
“You’ll take everything I give you,” Draco commanded, his voice a dark, delicious threat. One hand left her hip to fist in her hair, yanking her head back sharply. The sting grounded her even as it sent a fresh wave of arousal crashing through her. “You’re mine, Hermione. My fuck toy, my whore. Say it.” His grip tightened, demanding her submission.
“Yours!” she screamed, the word torn from her lips as he pounded into her with relentless precision. “Your fuck toy, your whore! All yours, Master!” The confession spilled out of her like a dam breaking, each syllable a surrender to the pleasure-pain he was dangling just out of reach. Her body trembled violently, teetering on the edge of climax, but she knew better than to fall without his permission.
Draco chuckled darkly, a sound that vibrated through her very soul. “Good girl,” he purred, his voice dripping with satisfaction. He slowed his pace, dragging each thrust out torturously, forcing her to feel every inch of him as he withdrew and plunged back in. “Now beg for it. Beg for your release, slut.”
“Please, Master,” she whimpered, her voice barely audible over the rush of blood in her ears. She was spiraling, unraveling, her entire being reduced to a single, all-consuming need. “Please, let me come. I need it—I’ll do anything, just… please!” Her begging was raw, unfiltered, the last shreds of her resistance crumbling under the weight of his dominance.
And then he gave it to her. With a final, brutal thrust and a guttural groan of his own, Draco pushed her over the edge. Pleasure exploded through her, white-hot and all-consuming, tearing through every fiber of her being. She screamed his name as her body convulsed around him, wave after wave of ecstasy ripping through her until she was nothing but a trembling, whimpering mess beneath him.
“Mine,” he growled one last time, his own release spilling deep inside her as he claimed her completely.
*
The air in the hidden room still thrummed with the aftershocks of their last joining, a palpable energy that clung to Hermione’s sweat-slicked skin. She knelt on the soft rug, her body humming with a deep, satisfying ache, her mind a serene pool of submission. Draco circled her, a predator admiring his most prized possession.
“Your training continues to please me,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration that resonated in her bones. He stopped before her, and from a shelf lined with gleaming magical artifacts, he selected something new. It was a dildo, but unlike any she had ever seen. Crafted from a shimmering, pearlescent material that seemed to hold a smoky, internal light, it was an exact, life-sized replica of his own cock, veins and all. It pulsed with a soft, warm magic. “A simple, yet effective, tool for reinforcement. For when I wish to watch my property enjoy itself.”
He guided her to stand and led her to a low, velvet-cushioned chaise. “Lie back. Legs apart. Show yourself to me.”
She obeyed, the plush velvet cool against her back. The position was one of complete exposure, and a fresh wave of arousal dampened her already slick flesh. He held the enchanted object before her eyes.
“This is keyed to my magical signature. It will not simply mimic my form; it will mimic my exact sensation. The warmth. The texture. The feel of my magic.” His stormy eyes held hers, gleaming with possessive intent. “You will ride it. You will make yourself come on it, again and again, until I am satisfied with your performance. Your only focus is the pleasure I allow this toy to give you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master,” she breathed, her gaze already glazing with anticipation.
He didn’t use his hands. With a flick of his wrist and a whispered word, the dildo lifted into the air. It hovered for a moment, glistening and pulsating, before positioning itself at her entrance. The broad, silken-smooth head pressed against her, and a gasp tore from her lips. It was… it was him. The exact same pressure, the same unbelievable heat, the same thrilling promise of being filled.
“Begin,” he commanded, taking a seat in a high-backed chair opposite her, crossing his legs as if settling in to watch a fascinating play.
Another subtle gesture of his fingers, and the toy began to press inward. It wasn’t a thrust; it was a slow, inexorable invasion, stretching her with that familiar, breathtaking fullness. She cried out, her back arching off the chaise as it seated itself fully within her. It felt so real, so utterly consuming, that her mind readily supplied the image of him above her, his hips pressed flush against hers.
“Move, Hermione,” Draco’s voice cut through her daze, cool and instructional. “Show me how a good slut earns her pleasure.”
A sob of pure need escaped her. She planted her feet on the chaise and lifted her hips, experimentally at first, then with more purpose. The sensation was devastating. The toy moved with her, a perfect, magical synchrony that made it feel alive. Every downward stroke rubbed that exquisite inner spot, every upward stroke made her clench around the delicious emptiness. She found a rhythm, a slow, rolling grind of her hips that maximized the friction, her hands clutching at the velvet beneath her.
“Look at you,” he mused, his voice dripping with dark approval. “My brilliant, swotty little witch, reduced to a writhing, needy animal on a magical cock. It’s a beautiful sight.”
His words, cruel and praising all at once, whipped her arousal higher. Her moans grew louder, more desperate. The coil in her belly tightened with shocking speed, the pleasure building in a sharp, glorious crescendo. She was already there, teetering on the edge.
“Come,” Draco said, the single word a stone dropping into the still water of her mind.
The command triggered her instantly. Her orgasm ripped through her with a guttural cry, her body seizing around the pulsing toy, waves of ecstasy crashing over her one after another. She shuddered violently, her vision spotting, utterly lost in the release.
Before the last tremor had even subsided, his voice came again, hard and uncompromising. “Again.”
The toy, still buried deep within her, began to move on its own, a slow, teasing withdrawal and thrust. Her oversensitive nerves screamed in protest and delight. “Master, I can’t, it’s too much—” she whimpered.
“You can, and you will,” he stated, his gaze unwavering. “Your pleasure is mine to command. Your body is mine to use. Your orgasms are mine to grant. Now. Again.”
The magical dildo picked up its pace, pistoning into her with a ruthless efficiency that brooked no argument. Her second climax was torn from her almost immediately, a sharp, piercing burst of sensation that was more pain than pleasure, leaving her gasping and tearful.
“Again.”
The word was a brand. She was so sensitive it was agony, every movement a tiny torture. But the compulsion he had woven into her very soul was stronger than the physical protest. She forced her trembling thighs to work, lifting her hips to meet each artificial thrust, sobbing with the effort. The third orgasm was a dry, wrenching convulsion that left her feeling hollowed out and used.
Only then did he still the toy with a wave of his hand. He rose and approached her, looking down at her wrecked, trembling form with evident satisfaction. He leaned down and pressed a soft, almost chaste kiss to her forehead.
“Nox Aeterna,” he whispered.
*
Sunlight, warm and gentle, filtered through the windows of an opulent bedroom. Hermione blinked awake, the haze of deep, perfect sleep receding. She was naked, buried under sheets of impossibly soft black silk. The scent of sandalwood and sex clung to the air, and to her skin.
And Draco was there, leaning against the pillows beside her, already awake, watching her. He was shirtless, the sheets pooled around his waist, his expression one of calm ownership.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice quiet.
She stretched, a luxurious, cat-like motion, feeling a pleasant soreness between her legs. She felt… wonderful. Rested. Happy. Blissfully, perfectly happy. Memories of the previous night were a pleasant, sensual blur—a dream of incredible pleasure, of being filled, of his voice guiding her.
“Good morning,” she replied, a soft smile gracing her lips. She should have been appalled, waking up naked in Draco Malfoy’s bed. But her mind, her wonderfully peaceful mind, felt no alarm. Only a deep, resonant contentment. “I’ve never… I’ve never been more happy,” she murmured, the truth of the statement settling into her bones.
Draco smiled gently, a carefully crafted expression of tenderness. He reached out and traced the line of her jaw. “Do you want more of this, Hermione? More of this peace? This pleasure?”
Her answer was immediate, springing from a place deeper than conscious thought, a place he had built and fortified. “This slave gets what you give her, Master.”
The title felt as natural as breathing. It felt right.
Draco’s smile shifted into a smirk, a flash of triumphant predatoriness in his stormy eyes. “Oh, that sounds perfect.” He sat up slightly, his gaze intensifying. “You should always address yourself in the third person when you speak to me. It reinforces your place. But you will need a name. A title for my property.” He watched her, his head tilted. “You seem to get such pleasure from my praise. From being told you’re good.”
Hermione thought, and the answer was so clear, so obvious. He was absolutely right. Praise from him was a drug more potent than any potion.
“From now on,” he continued, his voice taking on that hypnotic, commanding quality she felt in her marrow, “everything I call you, no matter how… degrading… is to be treated as the highest compliment. It is a sign of my attention, my ownership. Do you understand?”
She nodded, a thrill shooting through her. “Yes, Master.”
“And you will address yourself as my slut.”
The word landed in the center of her soul. It should have been a slap. It should have sparked a fire of defiance. Instead, it was a key turning in a lock, triggering a cascade of pure physical delight. A sharp, sweet, mini-orgasm spasmed through her core, making her gasp and her thighs clench. It was a physiological response, hardwired and instantaneous.
Draco’s smirk widened. He had felt the tremor through the sheets. “Very good, slut.”
Another, smaller pulse of pleasure answered the title. Hermione’s breath hitched, her eyes fluttering closed for a second as she rode the tiny wave. When she opened them, her gaze was clear and devoted.
“This slut understands, Master.”
*
The low humming pulse of the enchanted toy was a constant, maddening presence within her as Hermione strode through the Ministry’s Atrium. It was a perfect, silent rhythm of possession, a ghost of Draco’s cock nestled deep inside her, a promise and a torment. Her Auror robes, crisp and authoritative, swished around her calves, the very picture of professional competence. No one could see the secret she carried.
No one, she thought with a private thrill, except maybe a werewolf. Her scent had to be a torrent of pure arousal, a musk of submission that would be as blatant as a neon sign to a sensitive nose. The thought made her clench involuntarily around the toy, a fresh slickness easing its already perfect fit. She bit the inside of her cheek, focusing on the sharp, clean pain to ground herself.
Her desk was a familiar landscape of parchment stacks and case files. She slid into her chair, the polished wood cool even through her robes. The moment she settled, the subtle pressure of the toy shifted. A soft, breathy gasp escaped her before she could stop it. She flipped open a file on cursed artifacts, her eyes scanning the text with forced intensity.
Master’s command: You will do your work perfectly. Outwardly, a professional. Inwardly, mine.
The words echoed in her mind, a soothing balm over the frantic need building in her core. Her hand, holding a quill, trembled only slightly. She began to write a report on a recently confiscated locket, her script neat and precise. But her entire awareness was funneled down, down, to the twin points of magical stimulation.
The dildo was a warm, pulsing fullness, a phantom Draco claiming her from the inside out. The real magic, the true genius of his design, were the thongs. The narrow strip of enchanted silk between her cheeks was more than a harness; it was a conductor of pure sensation. A constant, low-level vibration hummed against her clit, a teasing caress that never ceased, never intensified, just… remained. A permanent state of almost-there. It was the most exquisite frustration she had ever known.
She crossed her legs, a seemingly casual movement, and the shift in pressure made the vibrations flare for a heart-stopping second. Her knuckles turned white where she gripped the quill. She uncrossed them, pretending to stretch, and the sensation dulled to its original, torturous hum. Oh, gods.
Minutes bled into an hour. She annotated reports, signed memos, and even managed to deflect a question from a curious intern about her ‘new, focused energy’ with a placid smile. Outwardly, she was the model of efficiency. Inwardly, she was unspooling.
Her mind was a broken record, playing only one thought on a loop: Master. Master. Master. With every shallow breath, every beat of her heart, the need intensified. The vibrations were a direct line to her pleasure center, and the full, persistent stretch of the toy was a constant reminder of what she craved, of what she was denied. She could feel a fine sheen of sweat on her brow, a heat that had nothing to do with the Ministry’s climate charms.
She shifted again, trying to find a position that didn’t make her want to scream. There was none. Every movement was a fresh exploration of her torment. Leaning forward to reach a file on the corner of her desk made the toy press against a devastatingly sensitive spot deep inside her. She froze, her eyes widening, a strangled sound catching in her throat. She had to stay perfectly, perfectly still until the tremor of near-pleasure subsided.
“Everything alright, Granger?” Robards’ gruff voice boomed from his office doorway.
Hermione’s head snapped up. She willed her face into a mask of calm neutrality. “Perfectly, sir. Just a… a tricky bit of translation on this runic script. Requires concentration.”
He grunted, apparently satisfied, and retreated back into his office.
The close call sent a jolt of adrenaline through her that mixed dangerously with the arousal. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She was walking a knife’s edge, a respected Auror on the outside, a dripping, desperate plaything on the inside. The duality was its own kind of high. She was living a secret right under the noses of the entire wizarding world, and the thrill of it was almost as potent as the vibrations.
Another hour passed. The constant, low-grade stimulation was a form of sensory deprivation. Her world had shrunk to the four walls of her office and the relentless, humming ache between her legs. Her reports were flawless, her logic impeccable, her focus absolute—because he had commanded it. Her body and mind, however, belonged entirely to the game.
She needed to stand, to move, to break the cycle before she genuinely did something unforgivable, like rub herself against the edge of her desk. She pushed her chair back and rose, her legs feeling slightly unsteady. The movement caused the toy to shift again, a delectable little nudge that made her gasp softly. She walked—a measured, calm pace—to the filing cabinet across the room, each step a subtle friction, a tiny escalation of the internal pressure.
As she bent over to pull open the bottom drawer, the world tilted. The angle drove the toy impossibly deeper, and the vibration against her clit intensified with the pressure. A violent, full-body shudder wracked her. A choked moan, too loud for the quiet office, escaped her lips. She caught herself on the cabinet, her head spinning, her cunt clenching rhythmically around the phantom cock inside her. She was so, so close. The edge was right there, a precipice she was forbidden from falling from.
“No,” she whispered to herself, a desperate plea. You cannot come. Master’s order.
She stayed bent over, forehead pressed against the cool metal of the cabinet, breathing heavily. She focused on the coolness, on the mundane smell of old parchment and ink, fighting the tidal wave of sensation. Obedience is pleasure, she chanted in her mind. Denial is a gift. This ache is his. This need is his.
Slowly, agonizingly, the peak receded. She hadn’t fallen. She had obeyed. A wave of fierce, submissive pride washed over her, somehow more powerful than the orgasm would have been. She had pleased him, even here, miles away.
She straightened up, smoothing her robes with hands that only trembled a little. She was still desperately aroused, the thongs still humming their relentless tune, the toy still a heavy, warm presence within her. But she was also victorious. She was his good girl.
She returned to her desk, a new, serene smile on her face. The rest of the afternoon stretched before her, an endless sea of bureaucratic duty and exquisite, hidden torment. She picked up her quill, the image of professional diligence.
In her mind, she was already on her knees before him, telling him all about her day, waiting for his praise.
This slut was so good for you, Master.
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Hermione's Sleeping Habits