*Content Warning: this section contains explicit adult content and language and is much filthier than previous chapters. There are mentions of marking, c*m, unprotected sex and roughness, and themes of kinkiness and degradation are overwhelmingly prevalent throughout. Please do not continue if any of these things might make you uncomfortable!
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Lucius Malfoy silently leads you out of the drawing room and up the set of grand stairs in the foyer, through a long, shadowy corridor, and to a pair of dark, foreboding double doors at its end.
At the turn of a knob, the doors unlatch and open slowly inward, a backdraft of cool air flowing from the dark, silent room as he quietly conjures flames in its fireplace; your eyes wander to each corner of the magnificent room as the dim light spreads to its borders.
A cold, howling wind whips around the windows at the far wall, tiny raindrops carried in its violent gusts, and you listen there, in the comfort of Malfoy's lavish bedroom, as it drones on in the dark dreariness outside.
It is all faultlessly elegant, his bedroom; impeccably well appointed and lavishly decorated, the firelight now emboldening the dark reddish tones of a great Persian rug sprawled across the floor. Above the black marbled fireplace hangs a large, round brass-framed mirror flanked by myriad portraits entrapped within scrolled, golden frames; even the chandelier overhead is encircled by intricate, high-relief plasterwork of floral motifs, every last flourish of which exceptional.
Upon the hearth sit two ornately carved wooden armchairs with dark patterned brocade upholstery; in between them, a little brass mirrored bar cart upon which sit neatly arranged decanters filled with different varietals of rich, indulgent cognacs and brandies, and a few exquisite goblets, the cut crystal of which glittering softly in the blinking firelight.
Beyond the fireplace, Malfoy's bed, in its splendor; tall, carved posts at each of its four corners, a large, ornate wooden headboard, lush off-white sheets tucked neatly beneath a silken duvet. Upon a small table at its side, a book bound in black leather, a heavy, marbled ashtray, and a little silver cigar case and matchbook with the initials LM printed upon its cover, all neatly arranged, nothing out of place.
You wander shyly now over to a great armoire, which stands opposite the fireplace; brushing your fingers curiously along the patterns carved into its doors, you notice at its base a pair of black velvet loafers, their sheen brilliant in the light of the fire.
Approaching the windows now, you pull a long-stemmed flower from the little chinoiserie atop the sideboard there, and, holding it to your nose, walk back to the foot of the bed where Lucius stands, watching you with a secret awe he would not care to admit to.
Peering at him over the cluster of delicate petals for a moment, and smirking mischievously, you drop your hand to the bed, brush it along the footboard. Looking over your shoulder, you walk slowly toward the opposite side of the bed, letting him admire the way the sheer, lacy fabric of your high cut thong and garter belt frame your ass perfectly; after dragging your hand slowly up the bedpost, you pivot around it, climbing onto the edge of the bed. You lock your eyes into his, discard the flower upon the silken duvet.
Slinking across the bed toward Malfoy, you sit up on your knees at its edge, kissing the tip of his nose impishly, then his lips; working your mouth around his jawline and neck, you move downward now and linger at the little hollow at the base of his throat, letting out a low hum as your lips bury themselves into the little notch in between his collarbones.
You feel impassioned by these moments of intimacy, trying to decipher the poetic marriage of scent occurring between the distinctive, lingering notes of his heady cigar and the timeless ease of his cologne, which emanates with warmth over top his pulse points; a sophisticated alchemy of black pepper and woody, herbal notes highlighted with subtle botanicals, dark and wild yet undercut with surprising sensuality and warmth.
Drawing a hand to the placket of his stark white shirt, your fingers work at one of its buttons, slipping it coyly back through its buttonhole; your mouth continues to work outward, sucking firmly along the ridge of his collarbone, his skin flushing bright pink as your lips lift after each kiss.
He is as intoxicating as ever, although, as your lips press into him, you desperately ache for more of him within you; body and soul, physically and intrinsically.
Malfoy draws his hand slowly upward to you now; resting it gently on your neck, he wraps his fingers around to the back, pushes his thumb upward along the ridges of your delicate throat, over the graceful contour of your chin, and along your soft lower lip.
Parting your lips, he thrusts his thumb as far back toward your throat as his grip will allow, being careful not to move his other fingers, which are splayed out in wide range, from the back of your neck.
"These suit you rather well, my dear," he raises an eyebrow coolly, sweeps a single finger along the bow of your collarbone and out to your shoulder, over the soft pink marks which he had earlier imprinted into your skin.
His thumb, pressing down firmly on your teeth now, holds your lower jaw open, and he continues, "You like being marked up like my little slut, like you're my own?"
In another bold and playful attempt at defiance, though, you close your mouth, once again trapping his finger between the two rows of your teeth for a moment. He laughs darkly, pulling your bottom lip downward with the tip of his thumb, which is red and dotted now with imprints from the bite.
"Oh, you'll get exactly what you're asking for," he says, amused at the opportunity to execute a most suitable punishment.
He leverages the control of his fingers, still splayed and pressed into the back of your neck, and forces you suddenly nearer to him, pulling your head in to rest against his heaving chest.
Malfoy lowers his lips to your ear now and your eyelids close slowly, heavily; "Cock hungry little slut, aren't you, darling," he whispers, touching his lips to your temple with a chillingly tender yet dominant kiss.
And then, suddenly and forcibly, his grip tight on the back of your neck, he pushes your face down to his cock, hard now against your cheek beneath his wool trousers.
"Show daddy just how hungry you are."
Quickly opening the button of his trousers, he grabs a greedy handful of your tousled hair, pulling your head backward terribly slowly; his thumb brushes your lips again, parts them, and you look up into his eyes with unending lust as your mouth is filled gradually with his cock.
He keeps his fingers firmly threaded in your hair, controlling the position of your mouth, moving you slowly up his length, then down again and again, as your eyes begin to water, roll backward, their lids fluttering with heaviness.
"Look at me, darling," he says, and you obey, returning your fucked out gaze to him. "That's my good girl."
He pushes his cock to the back of your throat, and you stay there, on your knees for him at the edge of his bed, as his fingers loosen from your hair; his thumb, fluttering over your skin, traces delicate circles around the two little freckles that dot your temple, follows along the contour of your cheekbone, down to your chin tenderly.
"You look so perfect on your knees for me," he praises, "but I know what you really want."
Brushing a stray lock of hair off your shoulder, he pulls himself from your mouth slowly; you draw your cheeks sharply in over his tip, circling him with your tongue, hungry for every inch of him.
He rests a hand, strong and heavy, at the base of your neck now, over the junction of your collarbones, as if he were trying to decide which way to move it; upward, to tighten around your throat, or down over your breasts, to feel their soft sensitivity beneath the delicate sheer panels of your bra. Instead he leaves it, uses it to push your shoulders down to the soft bed below.
Now he leans in, plants his mouth in the center of your stomach, and draws his cheeks in, pulling bright red marks into your skin. His hands trail their way up to your chest, grabbing at your tits, displacing a bra strap; you twirl your fingertips into his hair slowly, massage his scalp delicately as his lips dampen your skin.
"I need you all to myself," he whispers, frustrated at your attempts of defiance, before sucking another mark into your skin. "You belong to me only, do you understand?"
His hands roughly course down your sides, finding their way to the straps of the thong sitting atop the contours of your sculpted hips; without lifting his mouth from your stomach, his fingertips tease at the fragile fabric for a moment before he pulls it aside, lifts his head.
Finally, standing at the edge of the bed, he pushes his cock into you slowly as you writhe uncontrollably before him. Instinctively you point your toes, pull your leg upward to rest gently upon his shoulder; he resists the urge, however, to kiss the top of your little foot, wrapping his hand around your ankle to force your leg back down to the bed, and he tells you to behave.
You want so desperately now to feel his weight on top of you, his chest against yours; instead, he stands firmly, concerned only with his own desires, and with plowing his entire length into you, again and again. Your thighs are tensing, thrashing about beside his waist, and he presses your hips hard into the bed as he fucks you and you whimper; he'll most assuredly have left more dark bruises from his fingertips, slivers of imprints from his nails digging sharply into your skin.
His movements becoming erratic now, he grips you harder and you arch your body back into the bed, grabbing fistfuls of the duvet; at either side of his hips, your legs tense and tremble terribly as they're forcefully kept still.
With a low, throaty exhalation and heavy breaths, he pushes half his length into you and comes, leaving you whimpering on your back, brow furrowed and wanting more.
"Don't stop," you beg desirously, but he pulls himself out, and you can feel the warmth of his cum leaking out of you, mixing with your own ample wetness.
"Oh, I'm not done with you yet, darling," he breathes.
He grips your quivering thigh, pulls your leg across to the other side of your body in effort to flip you over; your spine twists and you relent, allowing your shoulders to turn languidly so that your chest is pressed against the bed now, ass raised in front of him. Lucius, watching trails of his cum drip out of you between your legs, brings a hand to your ass, slapping it and then pressing his fingertips hard into your skin before lifting them off of you.
After a moment, he draws a hand toward you again; brushing a drip of his cum back upward along your silken folds, he plunges two fingers inside of you, eliciting a desperately loud whimper from your mouth that you cry into the bedsheets. Your fingers claw at the covers again, and he brashly begins finger fucking his cum deeper into you; your nose presses into the bed, helping to stifle your desperate whimpering.
Your knees can barely support your body now, and, as you begin to tumble over the edge, you fall on your hip to the side, bringing your thighs together as you come over his fingers.
"Take my cum like a good girl," he says, pleased, slowly pulling his fingers from the mess between your legs.
Lunging forward onto the bed, he rests his body heavily over yours; he kisses your shoulder before placing a hand on your forehead, pulling your head back towards him.
"Whose little cum slut are you?" he questions; I am, you answer, to his satisfaction. "Good girl," he praises.
From behind, he reaches his fingers, drenched in a mess of both of your cum, around to your mouth and pushes them in between your lips, back along your tongue; you draw your cheeks in, humming in bliss at the way you both taste together, sucking him clean, and when he's satisfied with the job you've done, he pulls them out, traces them along your lips, and kisses the corner of your mouth.
You gaze outside placidly now, where little gentle raindrops, iridescent in the reflection of firelight in the window, lightly trail down the diamond panes, and fall into the mist that shrouds the garden below and the moorlands beyond, stretching out into the dark horizon; and within the stately bedroom, and the hazy dreaminess of the champagne-colored firelight, shadows dance upon the far wall as your eyelids flutter closed, heavy, your body warm and safe beneath his.