The cow was back. They had thought they were finally rid of her last year, and they had been quite happy about that fact. Only the Great Madame Hufflepuff’s mandate to treat all the students of Hogwarts like they were her own children, like they were heirs to the estate, had kept them from expressing their true displeasure while she was here, but once they’d been certain she was gone and would no longer be coming down to offend them with her scandalous remarks, they had celebrated. Indeed, their jubilation at the cow’s premature departure from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had surpassed any celebration that had occurred at the end of that school year, when it was learned that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was dead for good.
But she was back. The cow had returned, to their umbrage, and she had become no less obnoxious in the intervening time. Apparently, she had come back to Hogwarts to finish her schooling despite being over-age. In the eyes of the house elves, she was no longer a student and no longer protected under the benevolent aegis of their legendary benefactor, the Great Madame Mistress Hufflepuff, who had given them this wonderful home with so much splendidly fulfilling work. There was always cooking and cleaning that needed to be done, always some respectable task to which an elf could apply himself. For house elves, Hogwarts was like Valhalla and Shangri-La mashed together. It was their earthly paradise, and they refused to let anyone take that away from them.
For three years, Hermione Granger had harried and traumatized the house elves of Hogwarts with her repugnant advocacy of things like freedom and self-determination. Such base, deviant notions! The world only worked when things were all in their place; there was a higher order to existence, and even if other races tried to deny it, house elves knew and remembered. They respected the right and proper way of things. They lived to serve their masters, as their masters lived to serve their masters, on and on up the hierarchy of creation. House elves were servants because everyone were servants.
The cow didn’t understand how things worked. She didn’t appreciate where she stood in the world. She had to be taught what she really was. But as long as she had been a student of Hogwarts, the house elves could not have dared to touch her. The students were as good as masters, even if the teachers and the headmaster were above them. And once the cow had left, they had been willing to leave it at that. As long as she wasn’t troubling them, they could let her keep up whatever delusions she wished to entertain. But with her return, they remembered their past ire—and with her return, she was no longer protected.
Hogwarts’s magic was old, and it worked differently from the bureaucracy. Once a student came to Hogwarts, they were imprinted with the school’s magic, which would last seven years unless erased by expulsion. This duration was tied to the passage of time (more specifically the movement of the stars) and it did not matter to the school’s magic if a student was gone for one year and came back to make it up later. On paper, Hermione Granger might have returned as a student to complete her final year of schooling, but she was no longer marked as a student by the school’s older magics; and it was the old magic of Hogwarts that defined The Rules for the house elves, not anything that might have been written up in later years.
Hermione was no longer mistress or lady or madame or miss. They did not have to obey her orders, and they did not have to endure her nonsense. She had trodden a very fine line up to now, and they remembered every blasphemous exhortation she had pronounced, telling them to “wear clothes” and “choose for themselves” and “live their own lives”. They hadn’t forgotten any of her disgusting heresies, and they hadn’t forgiven even the least of her transgressions. But they weren’t going to do it out of malice. Their anger was just, and what they did to the cow would only be what needed to be done.
And when they were done, they would “free” her.
… … … … …
Hermione was dazed, not entirely sure what had just happened. She blinked, staring up at the ceiling of the Hogwarts kitchens. She recognized her surroundings from the many past times she had come down here, either on her own to try and unionize the elves, or with Harry and Ron as they snuck in some food. She saw the four great tables set up in the same positions as the tables in the great hall, and she saw the huge ovens and stoves, the wash bins for dishes, the immense cupboards and cabinets.
She also saw many, many house elves crowding around her. Their small, wrinkled bodies were naked, and their bulbous eyes were narrowed, bat-like ears lowered and twitching in a way that reminded her of a cat giving a warning before it started to hiss. Their bony arms were bent at their sides or crossed over their chests, the elves standing side-by-side all around her. They formed a ring, and they seemed almost menacing in their great numbers.
Despite herself, Hermione felt just a little bit nervous.
“Um, hello,” she said weakly. Her head was hurting as she tried to remember what had happened and how she had got here. Her limbs were oddly leaden, unresponsive to the commands her will gave them. It didn’t feel like she was under any kind of leg-or-body-binding curse, but she didn’t think this weakness was completely normal. Had she drunk an odd potion at some point? “Do you need something?”
The expressions of the house elves worsened at her words.
“The nerve of her,” some muttered. “Asking us if WE’S is needing anything.”
“Horrible girl,” said some others. “Worse than swineses. The sow. The cow!”
Hermione’s spirits wavered at the muttering and grumbling of the elves. She glanced a little nervously from one side of the room to the other. She swallowed.
Her head was still throbbing. She felt muddled, although her clarity was gradually returning.
“Do any of you know what happened? I can’t remember how I got down here…”
Hermione tried to rise into a sitting position, but she found this to be too difficult. She lay back down with a soft whine, cringing. She wasn’t in pain, exactly, but it was uncomfortable to move. It felt like she was being restrained, although she didn’t know by what. This didn’t feel like any jinx or curse that she recognized.
One of the house elves stepped forward and addressed her. This was the largest elf, almost a giant among them. If she had been standing, he would have come almost to her hip, where most of his peers would barely rise past her knee. He was still diminutive, of course, his limbs lean and his body looking frail, but he was definitely the biggest and strongest elf. Hermione wondered if that made him their leader. She then wondered if house elves had leaders.
She had no idea.
“We broughts you,” said the elf. His voice was deep compared to other house-elves, more a nasally whine than a high-pitched squeaking. There was even a bit of a growling on his lower notes. “We’s be needing to have words with you, cow.”
Hermione blinked. She wasn’t sure how to take that kind of address. If another human had been calling her a cow, she would have slapped or hexed them without a second thought. But she wouldn’t dream of hurting a house elf. That would be unthinkable. Still, the elf’s tone made it clear that he was saying this rudely.
“Er,” she said. It took her a moment to process the answer. “You brought me? For what?”
“TEACH HER A LESSON!” shouted one elf in the back, shaking a tiny fist over its fellow’s heads. “PUT THE PIG IN ITS PLACE!”
Several other elves cheered, echoing this sentiment.
Hermione looked bewildered.
“What?” she said. “What’s all this about?”
“You’s been insulting us for too long,” said the head elf, swaggering forward. “You’s been axing us to give ups our homeses. But we’s is happy house elves. We like work. We want work! We knows our places, but you don’t.”
“Your places? You don’t have a place,” Hermione said. Then, realizing how that sounded, she spluttered and said, “You don’t have to be pigeonholed, I mean! You should be free to choose what you want to do. Elves who want work should be able to work. Elves who don’t want to should also—”
“BE PUNISHED! BE KILLED!” shouted the elves en masse. “DEVIANT! ABOMINATION! NO ELF DOESN’T WANT WORK!”
The head elf waved a hand and stamped one of his oversized feet, silencing his peers.
“You is not understanding nature-al order,” said the head elf. “Elveses work. Elveses cook and clean. And what does cows do?”
“But I’m not a cow,” Hermione said, now growing a touch indignant. “I’m a witches. Er, a witch.”
The elves clucked and clicked their tongues. Many heads were shaken, causing their ears to flap, and countless bulbous eyes fixed on Hermione’s chest. As this collective stare dragged on, the brunette began to grow slowly, uncomfortably aware.
She looked down at her bust with a faintest blush. While not the type to obsess over her figure, she was conscious of having a larger than average breast-size. And being a year older than the next oldest students currently attending Hogwarts, as well as being very famous for her exploits during the recent war, had made her more aware than ever of the relative plumpness of her bosom. And those months of hard living on the run had slimmed down her waist, too, which further emphasized the swell of her bust and the flare of her hips.
She swallowed, thinking she was starting to understand what the meant. She didn’t agree with them, but she saw their perspective.
She opened her mouth to say something.
This was when it first really clicked for her that the elves were naked. She had noticed it before, of course, but the fact hadn’t truly registered as significant until this moment. With her mouth hanging open, her mind coming to a grinding halt as numerous elves stared at the front of her robes, she recognized a number of pinkish and brownish things standing up between bowed, spindly legs—these were remarkably large things relative to the overall size of the elves, large enough to compare with human endowments.
She saw the many penises of the elves gripped by their bony hands, rising angrily erect. The shape of the dicks was unmistakably like that of humans, and Hermione really wasn’t sure what to make of this. As she looked around at the elves, she grew more and more uncomfortable, and she tried harder to move.
One of her fingers twitched. It wiggled in the air. A moment later, her hand flexed. A moment after that, her arm was able to rise up, and finally Hermione could move. A little stiffly, she planted her hands against the floor and pushed herself into an upright sitting position.
She started to rise from that, but the eyes of the head elf arrested her. She saw his cock, too. It was even bigger than the others’ cocks.
Her mouth worked dumbly, opening and closing.
“Wh-What are you doing?” she asked. She felt nervous despite herself. She didn’t want to suspect the elves of anything untoward, but this scene really was just looking…
“We is going to teach you,” said the elf.
“We’s going to teach you!” echoed the other elves, closing the circle tighter around her.
“Teach me… what, exactly?” Hermione was leery, seeing all the elves approach her with their cocks rock-hard and their mouths coldly grinning.
The head elf snapped his fingers. Hermione felt her arms snap back down to her sides, and she heard a shredding sound as her robes magically exploded off her body. Her eyes bugged out as she realized the source of her earlier restraints, as well as why she hadn’t recognized it. Nervously, she glanced down at her body, where she saw the fluttering rain of the black tatters of uniform fabric drifting in the air, a quickly thinning cloud that only partially obscured her nakedness.
She inhaled deeply, a fearful gasp, as the head elf gestured at her legs, scissoring two of his fingers. Her soft, milky thighs separated of their own accord, obeying not her will but the command of elfin magic, and in doing so they exposed her naked sex. She had a curly bush of pubic hair crowning her crotch, and somewhat plump labia that stayed partly together even with her legs splayed like this. Her buttocks flexed, and her asshole clenched, drawing tightly closed.
Hermione squirmed as the elves came nearer and nearer. She was paralyzed by the head elf’s magic, and she was beginning to drip with a cold sweat. Her face was nearly white, and her large breasts hung down, looking even larger in comparison to the small bodies of the elves. The first row of the closing circle had surmounted her feet, and elves were beginning to climb onto her, advancing determinedly up her body like a mass of swarming insects.
The head elf looked her in the eye and tilted his head like a dog considering a novel sound.
“Your place, of course.
The first elves were up to Hermione’s chest, and their accumulating weight forced her to finally topple backwards.
At last, Hermione allowed herself to feel truly terrified.
… … … … …
Her wrists were bound with coarse, grimy towel cloth, old rags dense with years of collected grease and filth, and with her hands tied together, her arms were suspended over her head, the binding rags snagged on a drying hook mounted in the wall. Her bare back was pressed to the stone, which was still warm from its proximity to a huge brick oven that was only just cooling off from recent use.
Her nipples were tightly pinched by wooden clothespins, the old-fashioned kind that were a solid piece of wood. Her ass was a foot and a half above the ground, her legs spread and trembling, bent at the knee like she was seated on an invisible chair. But her thighs and ass cheeks were round at the base, not partially flattening as they would have if actually resting on an invisible seat.
Hermione’s hair was a little shaggier than normal, and her face was ruddy. She was gritting her teeth, staring into the distance as she tried to make sense of this nonsensical scenario. A corncob was shoved into her pussy, spreading the lips and making her insides feel very unpleasant.
Several elves were standing before her in a semi-circle, ringing her in with ominous expressions. Even apart from the mortifying obscenity of her present position, Hermione felt slightly uneasy about the looks on the elves’ faces, and she squirmed, trying to get into a less uncomfortable position. But her restraints were deceptively strong, and they did not give.
The head elf had Hermione’s wand. He didn’t look like he was planning to use it. He was merely keeping it safely out of her reach.
“You is a very naughty bitch,” he said.
“NAUGHTY! NAUGHTY!” crowed the other elves, dancing like cannibal pygmies who had captured an explorer to toss in the pot. “BITCH! BITCH! BITCH!”
Shamefacedly, Hermione blushed. She tried to say something through the rag that had been stuffed in her mouth, but this proved to be impossible. She grimaced, tasting the foul flavor of collected, congealed filth and scum. It was indescribable.
“Yes, yes,” the head elf nodded emphatically, gesturing at her breasts. “Look! What big fat boobs you has! Why isn’t you making those useful, now? Big cow—and a cow you is. What’s those for except being milked and bred and eaten? You is the same, cow! If you won’t put udders to use, we will use them. They fry up nice and good for students. Could feed a whole table with each of those boobs, once they’s been enlarged a little.”
Hermione was distressed by the elf’s talk. She wasn’t sure how much of it to take seriously, since the topic was so surreal, but it didn’t escape her notice that the other elves were nodding and licking their lips. She shivered. She tried to ask why they were doing this to her, and how far they meant to go with this insanity, but she still couldn’t get the words out past the gag.
One of the elves sprang up and grabbed the corncob. He tugged it, pulling it partway out with his weight, then braced his feet against her thighs and pushed, shoving it deeper into her pussy. She saw stars, jolting and shivering.
In spite of herself, Hermione’s pussy tingled and gushed, leaking arousal. She came, and the elves all saw it. She felt weak from the orgasm, despising the glow of pleasure that she felt, and she looked away from her own body, away from the encircling elves, trying to forget where she was and what was happening. This was all so humiliating. She couldn’t stand it.
Her legs were shaking. Sweat dripped down her nose.
“You is in violation of nature-al order, meat. Girlies like you is for brooding and breeding. If they don’t know that, they is for using and disposing. Do your duty until you die! That’s all there is to life. Masters do what they please, and elves serves them loyally. We is happy with that. We like that.”
The other elves cried emphatically, assenting to their spokesman’s words. They shook their knobby fists and stomped their oversized feet, making a racket of hoots and hollers.
The head elf snapped his fingers, and the clothespins pinching Hermione’s nipples began to move and flex. They clicked and clacked, twisting around and moving magically back and forth. Hermione’s eyes bugged out at this, and she screamed from the sudden assault of her nipples, the noise loud enough to be heard even through her gag. Her face was red, and she kicked and thrashed with everything she had, smacking her body against the wall and making herself swing precariously from the hook. Tears were streaming down her cheeks as she screamed through the cloth.
Undaunted, the clothespins continued their torment of Hermione’s nipples, relentlessly afflicting them with sensations that the girl could begin to handle. It was driving her crazy, and she howled and howled and thrashed and thrashed, looking like a complete madman. The elves laughed and cheered at her torture, clapping their hands in celebration. It was like they were spectators cheering on a Quidditch match, and if she weren’t currently so preoccupied with the ungodly storm of sensations surging through her bosom, Hermione might have wondered what kind of sport they hoped to make of her in the end.
Finally, her flailing was too much. The loop of the rags binding her wrists jumped up that little bit too far, rising up off the hook, then swinging forward, her hands falling down so that her arms sandwiched her tits between them, pushing the great hills of flesh together, and she fell, her knees giving way. The voluptuous form of the bushy-haired bookworm toppled to the floor, and she landed in a hot, sweaty, whimpering sprawl, still bound and gagged and under the assault of those awful, animated clothespins. Worse still, her fall shoved the corncob a bit farther into her cunt, so that almost the whole thing was swallowed up by her pussy, with just one end of it sticking out.
The elves drew back a little, not wanting to end up kicked by one of her wildly swinging legs. Still, they looked pleased as they watched her arch her back and flail on the floor, and they shared looks of satisfaction with one another, sniggering with an entirely appropriate amount of schadenfreude. They watched as the clothespins continued for a little bit longer to pinch and tweak and twist her nipples, magically moving and manipulating the poor, abused nubs. Hermione’s nipples were swollen from the rough treatment, and her breasts were flush, jiggling a little between her arms, pushed together and jostled about by the twisting, turning clothespins.
With woeful, watery eyes, Hermione shuddered and came a second time. The onslaught was too much. Her vaginal walls contracted spasmodically, and the corncob popped clear out of her pussy, shoved back by the muscular action of her convulsing cunt. She sprayed her arousal in a clear, fragrant arc, and with her puffy nipples and swollen clit and blushing, twisting face, she lay weak and trembling before the elves. Her chest heaved, and her puffy, tearstained eyes peered ruefully, hopelessly around at her captors.
She was beginning to understand why they were doing this. She didn’t want to accept that this was the reason, but it seemed to match up with everything they were saying. Indeed, it matched their words so well that Hermione honestly couldn’t even think of a better explanation.
She whimpered, slumping in something like defeat. She hadn’t completely given up, but she knew that she was too weak to keep fighting it. In her present state, it would be better for her to go along with the elves. At least for now.
Two elves came up and took the rag out of her mouth. She gasped, her lips wet with spittle, and she panted, breathing laboriously through her mouth.
“I…” she slowly, weakly murmured. “I’m sorry. I never meant to upset you. I… I just wanted to help.”
“You wasn’t helping,” said the elves curtly.
They gave her icy looks that caused Hermione’s insides to twist.
She glanced away, feeling a pang of guilt on top of her more general sense of misery.
“We is elves,” said the head elf. “We like that. You think we’s slaves, and you think being slaves is bad. But we’ll show you how good it is. You will learn your place, cow.”
“I’m sorry,” Hermione said. “Please, just let me go. I’ll leave you alone from now on. I… I don’t want to be a slave.”
The elves laughed.
“You don’t know what you want!” they jeered. “We’ll teach you what’s good for you, meat!”
“When this is over,” said the head elf. “You will thank us. You will be begging us to send you to join the other cows. You is a broodsow, and you is meat. We will break you and milk you and roast you. And you will thank us for it like a good slave.”
He then walked up, planted his hands on either side of Hermione’s head, and forced his cock down her throat. Without hesitation, without foreplay, without even asking permission, he started to fuck her face with his disproportionately-sized cock, somehow able to move that big, meaty thing with his frail elven hips.
Hermione whined, tasting the dick in her mouth. Yet compared to the vile rag, she couldn’t deny that this tasted much better. The difference was so great that her mouth began to water.
Almost without thinking, Hermione moaned and began to suck. Her head started bobbing with the elf’s movements.
She still didn’t like what was being done to her… but…
A very tiny, very secret part of her was starting to enjoy this.
… … … … …
Hermione spent the next couple of school days in a confused, hazy state. The elves had permitted her to leave not long after her apology, although they had made it clear that this wouldn’t be the last she saw of them. Still, her next few days were peaceful, and she noticed neither hide nor hair of the elves. She was grateful for this.
She didn’t know how to process what had happened. She barely understood half of what the elves had been saying, even now. She was embarrassed about what had happened to her, and she was deathly afraid that someone might learn about it. Every time somebody addressed her suddenly, she tensed with the dread that now, at last, it had been discovered what had happened, and everyone would hear of it and look at her with disdain.
It was a crippling fear, even if she tried to convince herself that it was irrational. The elves were plainly angry with her, and they obviously wanted to punish her for offending them so many times in the past, but surely they wouldn’t go so far as to spread the story of what they had done to her. After all, mightn’t they get in trouble for that? Hermione couldn’t imagine that McGonagall or one of the other professors would be too happy to learn about what the elves had done.
But she wouldn’t tell on them, at least. Not only because it would be embarrassing to recount her degradation and humiliation, although this fact certainly did play a role in her decision. No, even now, Hermione felt empathy for the elves. She was convinced that they weren’t really responsible for their actions. Not that they weren’t intelligent enough to take accountability for wrongdoing, per se, but because surely they were simply so deeply indoctrinated that they couldn’t help but get angry and lash out when somebody challenged their worldview.
She was convinced that freedom would be good for the elves, in the end. She still wanted to get through to them, even if she was sorry that she had offended them. Especially as more time passed since that encounter, she regained more of her confidence in the cause of house elf liberation. But she had realized that approaching it so bluntly had been a mistake. Her past efforts had confused and alarmed the elves, causing them to close off to her. But if she could demonstrate her goodwill, her sincerity, maybe she could get them to gradually warm up to the idea that she was just trying to help.
Once they understood that she had their best interests in mind, she could begin to educate them. That was what Hermione sincerely believed. If she could only teach the elves about freedom… and she had been doing a good deal of extracurricular reading. She’d been studying up on the arguments of enlightenment philosophers, determined that when the time came, she would be able to make a more compelling case for liberty, fraternity, and equality than just helplessly appealing to some default cultural sensibility that didn’t even exist in the wizarding world.
But, anyway, she waited for the next time the elves sought her out, not knowing when or if they would summon her again. She expected it, and she feared it, and maybe a very tiny part of her looked forward to it. Only so she could have another chance to show the elves that she meant well, of course. It wasn’t like she had… ah… enjoyed that treatment. Goodness, no! Of course not…
It was a few days before she received the next summons.
Hermione was in the library poring over textbooks when it appeared.
At first, she wasn’t sure what to make of the object that had suddenly materialized out of thin air. It was spherical in shape, bright red, with small black slits at its poles. Along one hemisphere was written INSERT THIS SIDE INTO MOUTH in block print, big and obvious.
Hermione blinked, bemused.
“What’s this?” she said to herself, picking up the ball. It was slightly smooth, firm with only a little softness. It had a rubbery texture and a slightly sweet smell, and in color it was possibly the most brilliantly appealing shade of red she had ever seen. She turned it over in her hand once. She took out her wand and cast an identification spell. It didn’t show any signs of curses or dark magic, but it was heavily charmed. It seemed benign, at worst some kind of petty prank object like might sold at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. “Hmm. Where did it come from?”
After a moment, she thought of the house elves. Might they have sent it?
Hermione considered the object more closely. She lifted it to her nose, seeking a closer whiff. Its smell was very pleasant, and it calmed her to inhale it. A property like charmed incense, then. It was relaxing her muscles, she noticed. It was making her languid and unworried.
The smell made her wonder, a little foolishly perhaps, how it tasted. It had a fruity fragrance, and she suspected it would be quite sweet, very nice. And it did say to insert into her mouth, so it probably wasn’t poisonous…
Maybe the fragrance was having some effect on her judgment. Maybe the boredom of study—boring even for her—was making her just desire any possible stimulus, no matter how ill-advised.
Whatever the case, Hermione took the ball and inserted the side with the text into her mouth. It was small enough to fit easily, at first, and she was worried about swallowing the whole thing.
But then the ball expanded halfway into her mouth, explosively swelling and almost cracking her jaw. Snakelike, black and leathery straps shot out from the sides of the ball, whipping out around her head and under her robes, binding her suddenly and inescapably. Hermione’s wand dropped from her hand, and she toppled out of the library chair, magically bound and gagged.
Madam Pince made a sharp hushing sound, before returning to sorting through stacks of books.
Hermione lay helpless on the library floor for a few seconds. At least until she saw a trio of house elves standing before her with vindictive expressions.
Then, she was seized and transported from the library to the kitchens with a loud POP.
… … … … …
Hermione was lying on the stone floor in a familiar position. She was now naked, her robes having been extracted from over her bonds. Her skin was bare but for the black, writhing thongs of the enchanted gag, the cords of which wrapped around her body in a pattern that accentuated her private places, leaving her helpless. She was blushing as the elves leered at her great pillowy breasts and her huge wobbling ass. Her waist was a little thinner than it had been last time, but her bust and hips were maybe an inch bigger.
Hermione had noticed the change, but she hadn’t thought anything of it. Apparently, though, the elves had been expecting this to happen, and they nodded among themselves.
“She’s feeding up well,” they murmured. “Fattening the bestest parts.”
Hermione’s blush deepened. She tried to say something, but the gag filled her mouth and muffled her words. She was helpless to get anything out.
One of the elves jumped up and prodded her hip with one of his fingers. He nodded, then sprang back to converse with his fellows. A couple others were rubbing their hands and eyeing the handle of an old, careworn broom. One elf brandished a feather duster and ran up to tickle the soles of her feet, making Hermione seize up and squirm, although she couldn’t move much. Tears pricked at her eyes, and she was extremely uncomfortable as that elf tortured her feet. Still others considered her, some carrying whisks and others holding wooden spoons. One of the elves had one of those things they used to beat the dust from rugs. Hermione didn’t know the name of it, but it looked menacing.
“Does you know your place yet?” asked the head elf, coming up with his hands behind his back. “Or do we needs to teach you more?”
Hermione squirmed. Again, she tried to speak. She tried to assure the elves that she understood why they were upset, and that she would do her best to respect them and avoid offending their sensibilities. It probably would have come out sounding rather condescending, so that her attempts to comfort the elves would have angered them instead, leading them to punish her harshly. It was, then, fortunate for her that she was gagged, although she didn’t see it that way.
The head elf got the gist of what Hermione was trying to say, regardless. Anyway, he could see it in her eye that she had not yet broken. They still had much more work to do.
He nodded and turned to the others.
They didn’t need him to say a word.
A pair of elves came up and forced Hermione’s legs apart. They were carrying a sizable radish between them, and Hermione blanched when she realized where they meant to put it. But her bonds held her in place and prevented her from moving or breaking free. The radish’s tip was pressed to her privates, and it was thrust inside her pussy.
The root was cool against her flesh, and its touch sent a thrill through Hermione. Not a pleasurable thrill, per se, but a thrill nonetheless. She struggled vainly as the radish was inched further into her, spreading her labia centimeter by centimeter. Her pussy was pushed wider and wider open by the radish, which the elves pushed against with their shoulders, leaning in with all their weight to shove the root up Hermione’s cunt. She felt like she was going to lose it in response to this, but somehow, she was able to bear it. Somehow.
"N-Nooo…” Hermione moaned into the gag. It muffled her words, but what she was saying could be made out. “Mmmggfff…!”
Her face reddened. She heard the elves cackling amongst themselves as they pushed harder, harder, harder, shoving the root into her as far as it could go. The base of the radish was too thick for her poor, abused pussy to accommodate without tearing, but that was fine with the elves, apparently, because they simply used this as a handhold with which to jimmy the thing around inside her, driving her fucking insane by fucking her with the radish, moving it first up and down and side to side, then beginning to pull it out, inch by inch, until it was almost completely out of her.
She had tears of relief on her cheeks, and she was sighing weakly into the gag.
That was when they forced the radish back in, shoving against it once more. Hermione’s ensuing scream left her throat raw, and it could be heard quite well even with the gag in her mouth. She was weakly whimpering, and she squirmed around, panting and moaning. The coloration and contortion of her features seemingly amused the spectating elves, who clamored for her to be fucked harder. The elves manning the radish responded agreeably to those cries, and they began pumping it in and out of Hermione with force and vigor, assaulting her cunt without even the barest semblance of mercy. They wrecking and ravaging her pussy, assailing it in ways she couldn’t begin to get used to. This was too much. Far too much for her to handle.
The thrusting continued, obliterating Hermione’s wits. She lay there on the floor while the elves swung the radish like a battering ram, pummeling her pussy like they were trying to reduce it to a pulp. She bucked, her body jerking slightly in response to these thrusts, her hips leaping not just from the force of the plunging radish. Almost automatically, Hermione’s body was moving to meet these strokes, even as Hermione’s mind curled into a fetal position and tried not to break down completely. Her breasts bobbed, rubbing the smooth cords that wrapped around her body, rolling ponderously with the slight movements of her frame. Despite the fact that it was chilly on the floor, beads of sweat were rising up on Hermione’s body, streaking over the goosebumps.
While her pussy was under attack, the elf with the feather duster sprang back up and started once more tickling the soles of Hermione’s feet. She laughed perversely, not wanting to laugh but unable to help it, laughing more from her fear and discomfort than anything else. She twisted and turned her body, trying to kick her feet and throw back the elf who so cruelly attacked them, but she still could not move enough to do that. Indeed, the harder she tried, the more tightly the cords wounds around her, constricting her body warningly. Even she soon learned her lesson, and though it was difficult, she forced herself to lie still and take it, knowing that any resistance, conscious or not, would merely worsen her treatment.
It was hard, though. She was in agony as the radish was rammed in and out of her cunt, as her feet were tickled, as—one of the elves sprang atop her breasts, his feet sinking an inch or so into the soft, yielding flesh, and he swung down a spatula, slapping it against the side of her left teat. He pinched her nipple between his toes and worked the pillowy flesh of her bosom with his feet, and he smacked her tit again and again with the spatula, sending ripples through the white, creamy flesh. His swings left red marks on her bosom, the elf holding nothing back, and he went to town on her tit like a beater knocking a bludger clear out of the pitch. Her breast warped and wobbled from this onslaught, and Hermione shivered, feeling much pain from the abuse she was getting.
Pain wasn’t the only thing she was feeling, though. Despite herself, however much she might have wished otherwise, Hermione could feel the pangs and twinges of perversely glowing pleasure that gradually spread through her body. It was an awful thing, tormenting her so that she could barely stand it, and she hated to feel it, no matter how good it felt. But it wouldn’t go away, no matter how much she willed it to, and it stayed in her body and knocked on her brain, demanding to be let in, insisting that she accept it. The more the elves thrust the radish in her pussy and tickled the soles of her feet and slapped at her breasts with that spatula, the more that Hermione felt the unwanted yet undeniably pleasurable stimulations.
Some twisted part of her was enjoying this. Her body, at least, was starting to like this treatment.
Hermione blushed shamefacedly. She trembled from head to toe, hearing how the elves heckled her from all around, feeling how they ravaged and molested her, assaulting her with everything they had. More elves came up, and they started stamping on her flanks, kicking her and spitting on her and calling her all kinds of horrid, humiliating names. They exerted too little force to really harm her, but all this was more than enough to hurt her pride, and she suffered from it dreadfully. She tossed her head and howled into the gag, and even she no longer knew how much of that was because of pain, and how much because of pleasure. She could hardly conceive of a worse torture than this, nor could she imagine a more sublime ecstasy.
Not in that moment, at least.
Hermione shuddered. Her vaginal walls contracted. Her whole body seized up, surrounded by elves, abused and degraded and tormented by them. A rush of pleasure went through her, beginning with a bloom of heat in her abdomen and spreading out all across her body, filling her with unimaginable, indescribable sensations. She twisted and moaned and threw her head, feeling like she was about to finally lose it if this went on any longer than it already had.
She came, gushing her nectar all over the floor. The elves yanked out the radish, feeling her orgasmic convulsion, letting her juices spray freely, forming a disgraceful little puddle between her legs. They sneered at this, and the other elves paused to appreciate the fruits of their labor. They all jeered and cheered, appearing to see this as a victory.
Hermione was shivering. Her bosom heaved with her labored breathing, and her eyes were glassy and rolling up in a witless fashion to stare at the ceiling, not really seeing what they looked at. She felt weak. Indescribably weak and faint.
She felt the head elf walking up her front, and she was aware of the other elves pulling back to give him room. His feet clapped against her skin, and he climbed up the indecent swell of her bosom before springing back down to land on her collarbone. He straddled her neck, stooping to lightly press his fingers to the sides of the bright red magical gag in her mouth.
The cords retracted. The ball shrank, letting Hermione’s sore jaws relax.
The girl was free to move. She was free to speak. Strangely, she felt just a little bit uncomfortable with that fact. For some reason that she daren’t examine, the removal of the bonds and the gag left her feeling suddenly vulnerable. Up until this point, those restraining cords and that muffling ball had been her excuse—and a very good excuse, to be sure—for not stopping the elves from doing all of this to her. The absence of that tightly constricting embrace left her feeling weird and loose and timid. She wanted to shrink in on herself, and not just because of the embarrassment from everything that had been done to her.
Hermione looked at the head elf, who stared down at her with his dark, bulbous eyes.
“What is your place?” he asked her.
“It… I… y-you…” She didn’t know what to say. She guessed what the elf would want to hear, certainly, but she wasn’t sure if she was ready to say something like that. No, it was too early. It would be too horrifically embarrassing. “…you know what it is,” she lamely finished. “I’m… a witch.”
“Yes,” said the head elf. “And what is witches for?”
The other elves clamored. They called her a cow, a sow, a broodmare, et cetera. They declared her to be meat, a bitch, a whore, a toilet. She was garbage, an object, something to be used and used until it was finally discarded. They had a very clear idea of what Hermione was, and they spared no details regarding what they believed her to be for.
But Hermione couldn’t bring herself to echo their cries. That would have been too far. She didn’t quite agree with them.
Not yet, anyway.
“They’re…” she began to say, then stopped. “I’m… I don’t know.”
“You do,” said the head elf. “Naughty, naughty. Don’t think you can get away from saying it forever, cow.”
He then grabbed her hair and lunged forward with his pelvis.
It took Hermione a moment to realize what had just happened. She smelled something pungent, a musky odor. She tasted something dirty on her tongue. She felt something long and phallic in her mouth.
And of course the thing felt phallic. It was, after all, exactly that: a phallus.
The head elf had shoved his dick in her mouth.
It was a very big dick, for an elf, and little above average for a human. More than enough to impress Hermione, who had little sexual experience. Or maybe impress was the wrong word. Maybe appall was better. Or terrify.
At any rate, her eyes were wide as the elf began to thrust. He pumped himself back and forth in her mouth, beginning to fuck her face. His hands were buried in her brown bushy hair, clasping the sides of her head as he humped her oral cavity, rubbing his cock against her tongue. Hermione gagged at the taste and the feel of it, but she didn’t try to spit him out or pull away, and it never even crossed her mind to bite down. Not seriously, anyway.
The elves around her hooted and hollered. They waved their bony fists in the air and stamped their feet on the floor, and they stormed back upon her. Like last time, they were all naked, having discarded their doilies and teacloths, and they swarmed in against her body. They were dozens in number, and they attacked her from every direction. The elves with more normal endowments (for their species) focused on their hands and their mouths, biting and slapping, licking and squeezing. Those with cocks of more impressive proportion took positions between Hermione’s legs, while two or three of their fellows on either side hoisted up her hips.
One elf climbed up between Hermione’s thighs and took tight hold of her hips as he pressed his pelvis down to her pubic region, thrusting his cock into the witch’s pussy. Hermione gasped, feeling this, her eyes going wide, but she did not thrash or struggle. Mostly, this was because she didn’t want to risk seriously hurting any of the elves. They were so small and frail, and if she moved too violently, it might injure them. Even in this position, under these circumstances, her pathetic feelings for the elves kept her back from seriously resisting or retaliating, even as they began to rape her more literally than ever.
Another elf positioned himself under Hermione’s uplifted hips, and he pressed his dick up between her plush, meaty buttocks. The tip of his dick prodded her clenched, puckered asshole, sending a spasm through the witch’s body, and her eyes snapped wide open. She squealed into the cock of the head elf as he fucked her face, while this third elf thrust his cock into her ass. It was a big enough cock for that penetration to hurt, and Hermione’s eyes watered, her vision blurring. She felt hot and dizzy and humiliated as she was gangbanged by these elves, as she was groped and ravished and beaten from every corner, over every inch of her voluptuous body.
She felt like she was going to go insane. There were innumerable dicks rubbing against her skin. There were uncountable tongues licking her body. Numberless hands were slapping and stroking her, attacking and manipulating her curvaceous body. She shuddered weakly between all the elves, feeling them rape her, rape her, RAPE her. It was getting beaten into her head, the reality of her situation. At first it was so surreal that she couldn’t believe it, even after everything else. She hadn’t completely wrapped her head around the fact that her face was getting fucked, that she was being anally and vaginally raped while elves abused and molested her entire body. Her eyes rolled crazily in her sockets, looking this way and that as if in search of an escape route.
But there was no way out of here. Not, at least, without using physical force. And even if she did get free, she was completely naked, and she could hardly just go into the castle at large without clothes. Also, where was her wand? She vaguely remembered dropping it when the gag activating, binding her up in the library. Had one of the elves picked it up? If so, what might they have done with it? She would really prefer not to have to get a new wand on top of everything else.
Her mind was roaming, trying to escape the reality by flitting off into unrelated thoughts. But she wasn’t permitted even that freedom. Every slap of the dozens of palms, every thrust of those hips grinding against her, every smack and squelch and slurping sound forced her to remember what was happening. She was under siege, encircled by an army of house elves, and they would stop at nothing to tear her down into a degraded and useless ruin of a human being. It seemed so horrible to her as to be unspeakable, but plainly the elves had no compunctions about doing all of this. They believed it was for her own good. As far as they were concerned, they were in the right.
That unbreakable conviction of one’s own virtue was what had enabled some of the worst atrocities in history, but Hermione was too afraid to try and disillusion the elves. They wouldn’t have listened to her, anyway. She understood that much now, at least. It was too late for her to make them trust her. It was too late for her to try and change their minds. All she could hope for, in the end, was that she could satisfy their anger, that she could endure this punishment until the elves were done. Let them vent their spleen upon her and cover her from head to toe in their semen. Let them beat her and rape her and insult her as they liked. If this would, at some point in the distant future, mean that they eventually were content and no longer angry, that would be enough.
Something inside Hermione had broken, and nothing could restore it. She had lost her innocence among the sweaty, jerking bodies of the elves, and that idealistic part of her which had hoped she could someday set them free withered away and died. She was wiser, now, than to think that would ever happen. No, the elves would never accept it. The best she could hope for…
…well, it was that they would eventually get tired of raping her.
Hermione whimpered, shrinking among all the elves. She waited listlessly for them to finish.
When it was finally over, she was sore and bruised and covered in semen.
The head elf thrust Hermione’s wand into the dazed, dizzy, weary girl’s hand and told her to leave.
“We’ll tells you when to come back.”
She barely had the presence of mind to try and clean off the cum from her body or conjure herself a new set of robes, and the eyes of the elves were too unsettling for her to linger long enough to do that. Naked and covered in spunk, Hermione stumbled out into the hallway, and the painting of the bowl of fruit swung over the hole in the wall behind her.
She was a fifth of the way back to Gryffindor tower before it even occurred to her to remedy her nakedness.
… … … … …
Hermione found it hard to focus on her studies in the following days. Her textbooks no longer interested her the same way as they once had, and she couldn’t find the same motivation she once had to put her all into her schoolwork. The professors noticed this, and her grades were beginning to drop.
After a week, McGonagall took Hermione aside and asked if something was bothering her.
“I know how difficult it is to return to the normal daily routine after a war. It’s hard to look around and think of all the people who ought to be there beside you. They’re gone and will never come back. But we can’t afford to let that keep us from living our lives.”
“It isn’t that,” Hermione said, waving a hand vaguely. She half made for the door of the Headmistress’s office. “Nothing like that.”
“Well, there must be something,” said McGonagall. “Heaven knows a bright witch like you doesn’t suddenly start doing so poorly in her classes without something big on her mind. What is it, Hermione?”
“It’s nothing, professor,” she insisted. “I’m just thinking about… I don’t know. The house elves, I guess.”
McGonagall let out a sigh.
“You know, they don’t exactly appreciate your… well…”
“I know,” Hermione replied. “They hate me.”
“Oh! I’m sure they don’t hate you,” said McGonagall. “They’re sweethearts, the elves. Just leave them be and let them do their work, and they’ll be happy.”
Hermione stared at McGonagall for a moment. Very briefly, she considered telling the woman about everything. But, no. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she rejected it. That would be too much. Too much by half.
“…I’ll try to keep that in mind, professor.”
“Right,” said McGonagall. “Anyway, this is your last year at Hogwarts, so I’d advise you not to worry about, er… spew, or anything of that nature. Just focus on your schoolwork and leave everything else for later.”
Hermione wondered if that was actually good advice. But she shrugged, accepting it anyway.
“Sure,” she said. “I’ll try.”
McGonagall afforded her a rare smile.
“You’re a brilliant girl, Hermione. I’m sure you’ll go far, as long as you continue to apply yourself.”
Hermione walked out of the headmistress’s office.
… … … … …
She didn’t take McGonagall’s advice. She continued to obsess over the elves, to fret and fuss and worry about them and their view of her. She was sure that they hated her. McGonagall didn’t know anything of what Hermione had seen and been through. If she had… maybe her diagnosis would have been different. But she didn’t.
Hermione continued to think about what the elves had done to her. It absorbed more and more of her mind, and she focused less and less on her schoolwork. She barely even tried to pay attention in class, thinking so long and so hard about everything the elves had said and done, replaying it over and over again in her mind ad nauseum. She thought about the names they called her, about how they beat and raped her. They thought about many of the things they had insinuated, some of them too outlandish for her to even consider.
Again, and again, and again, she replayed the past events in her mind. It was quickly becoming an obsession of hers. Sometimes at night, when she was in her bunk, she would cast muffliato before murmuring some of the elves curses and insults to herself, slipping off her pajamas and beginning to tentatively touch herself. The first couple times she did this, she stopped short of going all the way, astonished at herself for starting to do such a thing. She came back to her senses.
But eventually, she slipped too far into that dreamlike intoxication, cupping her swollen breasts (which had been continuing to grow larger until her old robes no longer properly fit, and the other girls had taken notice, too), teasing her puffy nipples, causing a little milk to dribble forth while sliding the fingers of her other hand up and down between her labia, rubbing herself, touching herself, slipping them finally inside and fingering herself to completion, gasping aloud and calling herself a cow and a whore and a worthless piece of meat.
It thrilled her to do all of that, and soon she was doing it every night. Sometimes she refrained from casting muffliato and silently dared her dormmates to awaken and hear her, to hearken to her words and realize what she was doing. The thought that one of them might realize that she was masturbating excited Hermione in spite of everything she had once tried to believe about herself, and she spoke a little louder and masturbated a little longer and harder each night, going at it for multiple sessions, all but actively TRYING to awaken the other girls.
She had gone insane. Surely, this was the only explanation for her behavior. The only one that made sense, at any rate. But she found that she couldn’t complain about her new madness. Really, she had to say that it didn’t seem like such a bad thing…
It felt too good for it to really be bad.
This was her true nature.
Was that what the elves had wanted her to see?
… … … … …
When they came for her again, Hermione was ready. She sensed the elves in the common room, where she had stayed up late past everyone else. Ostensibly she had been studying, but in reality, she had been waiting for the elves to come. Somewhere deep down, she had known that tonight was the night. So she had waited, watching the fire gradually dwindle, going down and down and down until it finally died. And, when the hearth was dark and the ashes cold, she heard the patter of elven feet.
They surrounded her in the chair, and she smiled and set aside the book that had been sitting in her lap. In a single motion, she stood up from the chair and shrugged her shoulders, casting off her robes. They felt black and fluttering about her feet, pooling around her ankles. She stood naked before the elves, voluptuous and obedient. Her breasts had grown to an obscene degree, huge and fat and almost comical in their plumpness. Her ass was likewise inflated, many sizes larger than it had once been. Her hips were wider, and her waist was thinner—so thin that only magic could explain how she was able to stand up straight without breaking her back.
In fairness, she didn’t stand up straight for very long. Only long enough to take her wand and snap it in her hands, then cast it into the fireplace.
Then she dropped down onto her hands and knees, panting and blushing and groveling before the elves.
“I understand everything now,” she said. “I see. I see why you’re so happy to be slaves. I agree. It’s… simply wonderful❤”
The elves considered her suspiciously for a moment. They hadn’t expected her to break this soon. Of course, this long time between sessions had been meant to strain her nerves and give her time to reflect, but they hadn’t really expected her to accept what they were trying to teach her. Not this easily, at least. The elves looked at each other, silently debating what they should do.
The head elf came forward.
“Does you?” he said. “Prove it, then.”
“How?” Hermione asked. “I’ll do anything.”
The elf grabbed one of her tits. He snapped his fingers, and Hermione’s melons swelled another couple sizes. They were twice the size of her head by now, simply obscene. In the same moment, another couple elves scurried forward with a very large bucket.
“Milk yourself,” said the elf. “Fill the bucket. Then walk up into the boys’s dorms and give a drink to every one of them.”
Hermione’s heart skipped a beat.
“Awake?” she said.
“Yes,” said the elf. “Wakes them up and lets them see you.”
Hermione swallowed, shivering intensely.
This idea didn’t displease her.
“Of course, master,” she said breathlessly. “Whatever you say. I live to serve.”
She knelt over the bucket, blushing and shivering. Nervously, hands shaking, she grabbed her boobs in her hands. Merlin. They were simply enormous, now. Fuck! And so sensitive, too. She couldn’t stand it. Just touching them was almost enough to make her come.
Weakly, awkwardly, Hermione pinched her nipples. A little milk spurted out, droplets falling into the bucket. Watching them land in the base gave her a better appreciation of how long this would probably take.
She had made too much of a commitment to go back on it now.
Slowly, she started to milk herself. She pinched her nipples between her fingers, gripping them sharply between her digits. Up and down she tugged them, massaging the nubs and the pillowy flesh behind them. Her expression was one of growing euphoria, and she was trembling, squirming, and bucking her hips as she manhandled her grotesquely inflated mammaries. The elves watched her, nodding among themselves, crossing their arms over their scrawny chests.
Hermione quivered under their stares. She licked her lips as she fondled herself, as she milked her tits. It was a slow start, and at first, nothing wanted to come out. She had to fight against her own body, to forcibly pinch and fondle her breasts, to push the pressure to grow inside her melons. It was expanding, and it was pushing against her nipples, rising slowly through her ducts. She was breathless and tingling all over, her face hot and her heart pounding, her head dizzily swimming. Laboriously she worked at her breasts, massaging them more and more and more.
The first squirt came. It was a little trickle, only a tiny bit, and it was more froth than anything else. But the release of the milk was like an orgasm, and her eyes rolled up into her sockets. It felt too good to be endured. If it would feel like this for every drop of milk that she dragged out of her tits… fuck, she might go insane before she was done. She wiggled her wide, meaty hips, a bare and wobbling ass swinging in the air. She wondered if the elves would climb up and start fucking her again. A small part of her hoped they would—a slightly larger part hoped someone would come down from the boy’s dorms to see her, and would decide to grab her and start raping her while she milked herself.
Another little spurt. Another shudder, another surge of orgasmic bliss. Fuuuuck❤ This was too wonderful. Hermione moaned obscenely, lowing like a cow. Her cheeks reddened a little more deeper, not missing the bovine note in her voice, and she briefly imagined herself penned in a barn, fattened on corn to grow her tits and ass even larger, pinned down and raped at regular intervals to impregnate her with future baby cows. She pictured herself hooked up to a milking machine, her tits being sucked dry while her mind was obliterated by ceaseless orgasm. Her hips leaped on high, and she pinched her nipples more tightly still, so that she felt a sharp pain.
More milk came out, a larger squirt. She felt an orgasm proportionate to this, her body racked by feelings of carnal bliss. Lasciviously, unashamedly, she licked her lips. Harder and harder she tugged at her nipples, she groped and fondled her breasts. Glancing down at the bucket, she saw that she had barely put in enough to span from one side of the bottom to the other. At this rate, it would be a long, slow, agonizing process. Strangely, she felt delighted at that thought, and she anticipated potentially hours of painstaking self-pleasure, self-torment, milking herself dry while the elves coolly watched, dispassionately appraising her production.
“Could be better,” said some. “Needs more plumping. Make them even bigger and more tenderer.”
Hermione’s face flamed, guessing what the elves meant. Her pussy dripped, sopping wet. She gripped tightly, yanking so hard on her nipples that it felt like she was trying to rip them clean off her tits. She had to bite back a scream, and a convulsion shook her entire body, setting the soft and womanly tissues to beautifully ripple. A greater spurt of milk shot down from her nipples, forced through her ducts. It was like they were swollen shut, tight and tender, and every little bit of milk had to be wrestled out of her. This shot of lactation almost blacked out her eyesight for a couple seconds, and she stared dizzily at flashing lights that wheeled about inside her eyelids. Vapidly, she smiled.
More and more and more she worked her breasts. Squirt by squirt, shudder by shudder, she forced the milk out of her tits. The more she fondled them, the heavier and more sensitive her mammaries seemed to become. The more milk she shot out, the better it felt. The pleasure was increasing exponentially, until every drop of milk extracted was like a mind-shattering orgasm. She was drooling, redly blushing and sweating bullets, panting and feeling like her whole body was on fire. It was so hot in the common room, despite the draft and the lack of a fire in the hearth. The eyes of the elves prickled against her naked skin, and their collective gaze seemed to ignite her flesh from the inside out.
She craned her neck, arching her back. She moaned and writhed and shook her ass. Lewdly, incoherently, she mooed and purred and mumbled her ecstasy. With rasping words and a husky tone, she implored the elves to gang up on her while she worked, begging them to climb up and fuck her every orifice. She wanted to get reamed, to get violated, to get thrown to the ground and forcibly dominated. She was meat, she was a broodsow, she was a brainless human cow. She existed to be milked and fucked and bred, to take cock and give nourishment and maybe, if she was lucky, to bear future generations of longpigs and dairy cows.
Her expression was singularly indecent. Again and again, she came with every spurt of milk, and she listened to the liquid sounds of the bucket slowly filling up. Squirt, squirt. Splish, splash. The drizzling noise, the plop of each separate lactic ejaculation, the frothing of her warm, creamy milk as it slowly rose up in the bucket—all of these things excited her. She was horny and moaning, gasping and groaning, throwing her whole body and soul into this exhausting, mind-shattering labor. It was a herculean effort, and she felt like she had died a hundred times over from orgasm before the bucket was even a quarter full, but slowly, slowly, slowly she filled it up.
The elves continued to watch, arms crossed and heads nodding, ears noisily flapping. They saw how Hermione came and drooled and shivered, experiencing a hellishly sublime ecstasy with every squirt of milk. They watched her harvest the liquid from herself, doing herself dutifully before their eyes. The head elf looked at her soppy, ruddy, slutty cunt, so plump and puffy and swollen with desire. Her ass was massive, quaking and quivering, a booty that could be clapped around for days, fondled and kneaded in a million different ways before one grew bored of abusing it. It was an ass made for spanking, and her pussy was made for fucking. Her hips were wide and meaty, perfect for bearing children.
She wouldn’t get to experience that honor, though.
The bucket was filling up. It was almost to the point of overflowing.
Hermione saw that she could finally stop, and with a shuddering sigh, she pitched over and flopped bonelessly onto her side. It had taken her two hours and uncounted orgasms to fill the bucket to its limit, but she was finally done. Red-faced, drenched with sweat, panting and mewling, she stared with glassy eyes at the side of the bucket. A little milk dripped down one side. It had been filled to its brim.
Fire was in her nipples. They were indescribably sore, unbelievably sensitive. They had swollen immensely from the prolonged manipulation, and she was drooling a little from the pain and pleasure of having had to force so much milk out of them. She was bone-tired, yet she felt like milking herself had not emptied her breasts but filled them up even more. It felt like they had swollen a size or three more over the course of that lengthy milking, and every squirt of milk shot out had seemingly not subtracted but added to the total productive capacity of her mammary glands. Now they couldn’t stop, and she was continuously dribbling milk from her nipples.
She still felt as much pleasure from the lactation as ever, so with her nipples leaking continuously, it was as though she were experiencing a constant, low-level orgasm. It was blowing her mind, and all she could do was lie there sore and immobile, wheezing and heaving upon the floor. Her body was hot, and the cool stone felt like bliss against her skin. She was feverish, euphoric, helpless before the eyes of the elves. She looked around at them, too, almost blind from the distraction of her torturous pleasure, only barely able to bring herself to do anything aside from further stimulating her own body.
“Am… Am I done?” she asked them feebly.
“You still needs to bring milk to all the Gryffindors,” said the head elf in reply, feeling no pity for the girl’s state. “Don’t forget that, meat cow.”
He looked contemptuously at her obscenely inflated tits, enormous bombshells of creamy flesh thrice the size of her bushy-haired little head. Her breasts were too large to fit inside her Hogwarts robes. Even with magical modification of the garments, it wouldn’t have been possible to make them cover her grossly expanded breasts. It was doubtful if she would even be able to stand upright without snapping her spine or toppling back over. Her ass was similarly proportioned, but rather than counterbalancing her tits, that enormous booty would probably only make it even harder to stand up. If she wanted to get anywhere, she would need to crawl on all fours, and with her tits as large as they were, this would mean dragging them hard across the floor, scraping and skinning them on every crack.
She wouldn’t be useful for much else, from now on. But they wouldn’t try to use her for much more, anyway.
Three elves moved to the bucket and picked it up. A fourth jumped up and kicked Hermione’s huge, bubble butt, causing her to squeak.
“Get up!” they said scoldingly. “You has work to do, sow! Make yourself useful, or go on the spit!”
Weakly, Hermione rolled onto her belly, then pushed herself up. She tried to stand, but she soon gave up on that. As the head elf had observed, that would be a precarious operation, and Hermione felt too faint to try it. Certainly not while she was still feeling the glow and aftershocks of her constant, orgasmic lactation. She panted, lifting herself onto all fours. Her tits pressed hard against the floor, too massive to be lifted off the floor by the merely human length of her arms. And she had to bend her arms, too, with how immensely fat her tits were.
The elves ushered her up the stairs to the girls’ dorms, first. It was laborious to crawl up them, and it hurt to drag her dangling tits over the stairs. The stone steps felt sharp against her tender skin, and it was cold, too. She shivered, and she panted as she heaved herself up one step after the other, awkwardly dragging herself to the first floor of the girls’ dorms. She entered the door into the first-year dormitory. The elves pushed open the door before her, carrying the bucket filled with her warm, frothy milk.
She felt a soft rug against her hands and feet. This was a pleasant sensation after the hard stone. She rested atop the rug for a moment, laying on it and catching her breath. Milk was still leaking from her teat, and she was very dimly aware that it would make a mess on the rug, but she couldn’t bring herself to care about that. It took the head elf walking up and slapping her ass to jolt her back into motion, and the sound of that sharp, meaty clap awoke one of the slumbering first-years.
A young girl with sandy blonde hair and hazel eyes sat up, looking around blearily.
“Huh?” she said. “What was…”
She trailed off, seeing Hermione. She blinked.
Then, she blushed.
Oh. Was this a dream? But… if so, what kind?
She was young and mostly innocent, but she felt a faint stirring of something peculiarly pleasant as she looked at huge-breasted, mewling brunette. She very vaguely recognized the form of the older girl on the floor. The grotesquely inflated T&A almost made her second guess it, but it really did look like Hermione Granger…
The lass felt a fuzzy, giddy sensation as she stared at this.
Hermione blushed hotly, feeling the girl’s glance. She looked into the young, innocent hazel eyes and drew a sharp breath. A rush went through her, and she knew that there could be no going back. Being seen in this state by one of her fellow students, even if just an ickle wee firstie, cemented the reality of her position.
She licked her lips. Softly, quietly, she whispered.
“I… have something for you. A midnight treat for you and your friends. To… help you sleep, and to help you grow big and healthy like me.”
She briefly imagined the girl as an adult like herself, a human cow with a great wobbling ass and massive, lactating tits. She imagined this girl in a stable alongside herself, getting fucked by manly studs and pumped full of seeds, impregnated over and over again until she was finally spent, then—
Hermione shivered, squirting a little. She moaned, and with some effort she crawled up to the girl’s bedside. The elves had the bucket there waiting for her. One of them of handed her a ladle, making it plain what she was expected to do.
Hermione braced herself against one the bed with one hand, gripping it for support as she hauled herself up onto her knees. Her enormous tits dragged up the side of the mattress, then surmounted it and flopped upon the bed. Her huge, puffy nipples dripped pearly beads of milk onto the sheets, and her ruddy, gaping cunt leaked her arousal down her quivering thighs. Her meaty, bovine body rippled.
She grabbed the ladle clumsily and dipped it into the bucket, then lifted it up to the lass’s mouth. She was blushing hotly as the girl stared at her tits, feeling profoundly, humiliatingly self-conscious. She bit her lip and blissfully writhed, her eyes rolling up to stare at the ceiling. She panted, almost coming a little more as she pressed the ladle to the girl’s mouth, waiting for those cute little lips to part and allow the milk in past them.
Blushing, barely understanding what was happening, the girl opened her mouth. She stared into Hermione’s shamefully happy eyes, looking at the witch’s obscenely curvaceous body. The girl felt the ladle tip, and she tasted Hermione’s sweet, rich milk flowing into her mouth. With a soft moan, she began to drink it, weakly shivering. The milk was creamy, warm, delicious. It went easily down her throat, and she felt pleasantly warm from it, a glowing heat spreading throughout her body like she was drinking a mug of butterbeer.
A sigh steamed from the first-year’s lips. Her cheeks were rosy, and her eyelids fluttered. She had a dreamy look on her face, and she made a very cute sound as she listed back into her bed, drooping as the drowsiness came back over her. She was asleep again before her head hit the pillow, and her chest rose and fell gently as her breathing slowed to a somnolent pace.
Hermione stared a moment longer at the chit, feeling so many emotions that she didn’t know what was what. She licked her lips and brought the ladle distractedly to her own mouth.
There was a little more milk in it. She pressed the ladle to her lips where the girl hand drunk from it, and she tipped it back to taste the last bit of fluid. She drank half a mouthful of her own milk.
Her eyes widened, a look of ecstasy on her face. A lewd, loud moan tore from her lips. Her frame shuddered, hips bucking and forcing the bed to jerk with the spasmodic violence of their motion as she came, gushing onto the floor.
Hermione tipped back dazedly. A heat was in her belly, and a sweet taste was in her mouth.
“I’m delicious❤” she moaned.
She didn’t notice the knowing looks that past between the elves. She didn’t have time to notice.
Her moaning had awakened the other girls in the dorm, and they stirred to look at her confusedly. There were four more, aside from the first one. They stared at Hermione, each of them wondering if this was a dream and, if so, what it signified. They all felt like there had to be something meaningful about this vision of that admirable young woman in such a shameful position, looking both so absurd and so sexy with those impractically inflated melons and that brainless, slatternly face.
With no little effort, Hermione crawled around to each of the first-year girls. She gave each of them a ladleful of her milk, and each of them drank it down then fell back asleep. All of them looked content, and all of them seemed to metaphorically glow. The milk had some kind of an effect on them, but Hermione couldn’t imagine what it was. She was too absorbed in the shameful exhibition of her degraded, perfected body to consider anything of that sort.
When she had seen to the first years, she crawled back out of their dorm.
There were still six more to go, on this side, and after that would be the seven dorms of the boys.
Hermione crawled up the stairs to the second-year dorm. Inside were six beds with six girls, and she went to each of the beds, plopping her tits down beside the slumbering lasses and nudging them awake, then giving them a ladleful of milk. When she was moving too slow, the head elf would come up and give her ass another loud, hard slap, both embarrassing and emboldening her. When she was finished with the second-year girls, she moved on to the third-years.
These girls appreciated a little more of Hermione’s condition, and they had some real, proper inkling of the import of her state. They were old enough to feel jealous as they looked at Hermione’s figure, or maybe pitying when they glanced into her eyes. But they were still young, and they fell straight back to sleep once they had drunk a ladleful of the milk. It was powerful stuff, and Hermione could tell that it had some effect on them. Indeed, it worked on them like a potion, and it would cause their bodies to develop a little more quickly and a little more generously. A ladleful of Hermione’s milk would be enough to make each of the girl’s gain half a cup-size overnight.
She did the fourth-years next. These were even more aware than the third, and a few of them blushed, able to really appreciate the sight of Hermione’s body. One reached out and copped a feel of the cow’s tits, sending such a thrill through Hermione that she had her most powerful orgasm yet, gushing milk into the covers and cascading between her plump, fleshy thighs. The brunette’s face was blissful, and she dreamily moaned, and after this girl had finished her ladleful of milk, Hermione leaned forward and hungrily kissed her, tasting her own milk on the girl’s lips.
After that, she moved onto the fifth-years. Then the sixth-years. With each level up that she went, the girls were bolder and more sexual in their responses. Two fifth-years touched Hermione’s tits, and a third gave her wagging ass a smack as the addled, lascivious witch crawled away. One sixth-year dragged Hermione up into her bed and felt up her body, and she forwent the ladle to drink directly from Hermione’s tits. The rest of her dormmates weren’t quite that bold, but they all copped at least one feel off of Hermione, and they moaned, coming a little as they drank her milk. Its effect was more pronounced on the older girls, and a few buttons popped out of nightgowns as breasts suddenly inflated one or two sizes, and they collapsed orgasmically into their beds.
Finally, Hermione went up to the seventh-year’s dorm—the one in which she was sleeping. She was giddiest here, tingling and quivering and eagerly panting. She crawled into the room and looked around. Aside from her own bed, there were three others. She couldn’t remember the names of two of the girls, but one of them was very familiar to her. Ginny was sitting up in her bed when the door opened, and she looked straight at Hermione with wide, wondering eyes. She saw the elves, and she saw the bucket of milk, and she saw the state of Hermione’s body.
Ginny was a pure-blood, even if her family was poor. She knew, at least from stories, what house elves were like. She was thus only a little surprised to see the state her friend was in. She gave Hermione a sympathetic smile.
“How far gone are you?” she asked. “If I’d known they were trying to ‘put you in your place’, I could have ordered them to stop.”
“Why?” Hermione asked. For the life of her, she couldn’t imagine why she might not have wanted the elves to do this to her. “It’s so nice like this. Why don’t you join me, Ginny?”
The redhead looked at the elves, and she saw the plotting looks in their eyes. They were sizing up Hermione like a piece of meat.
She remembered the stories about how house elves used to punish disobedient witches back in olden times. Briefly, she pictured Hermione’s golden-brown body lying on a platter, steam wafting up from her roasted T&A, her body cultivated to be as juicy and delicious as possible, slathered with butter made from her own milk.
Her stomach growled. She wasn’t interested in going on the spit herself, but she didn’t see any point in intervening to help Hermione. Ron would probably gripe and groan about his girlfriend getting cooked, but he could probably be mollified with a bit of the meat.
“No, I’m fine,” Ginny said. “That’s okay.”
“At least have some milk.” She dipped a ladle into the bucket. It was about a third empty. “Here, Ginny. It’s so sweet and refreshing…❤”
Ginny accepted the offer, and she went over and drank Hermione’s milk. Her pajamas ripped in the back and the front with the sudden expansion of her butt and her boobs, and she thrashed, explosively creaming herself. Her face was redder than her hair, and she moaned euphorically. The effects of the milk were more pronounced on her than on any of the other girl’s yet. Her inflated T&A were only a fraction of Hermione’s—still well within a normal size, if fifty percent bigger than they had been a moment before. And she was tingling, shivering from the bliss that she felt.
But she retained her senses, and she simply smiled at Hermione, although she drooled a little, although her pajamas were ripped in the breast and the backside, dark and damp in the crotch from her moisture. With a faint nod, Ginny turned and waddled back to her bed, where she flopped down with a whumph, before undressing and going to work on her newly randy body. She fingered herself and fondled her newly enlarged breasts, and she watched the other two girls stir at all the noise that had been made, rising and looking at Hermione.
They, too, understood the significance of the muggle-born’s condition. They happily drank Hermione’s milk, still, and they relished the expansion of their tits and asses, coming and moaning and embracing the dairy cow from either side, stripping down and enjoying a brief, impromptu love-making session with Hermione. And the elves came up to the girls and gave them magical sex toys to use on Hermione, destroying the cow’s ass and reaming her cunt, torturing her nipples and making her drool. They ravished her for several minutes, before finally, reluctantly pulling back.
Ginny and the other two watched appreciatively as Hermione crawled back out of the dorm, her round and pillowy ass jiggling as it swung behind her.
The steps turned into a slide, the elves triggering the defense mechanism to hasten Hermione’s descent. It would take too long if she had to crawl down the old-fashioned way.
She landed on her face in the common room. The elves came down behind her, carrying the bucket of milk.
“Only halfway done!” they said to her. “And the next half will be harder!”
Hermione blushed at the innuendo, and she looked up the stairs to the boys’ dorms. Her face was deeply red, and she shivered.
Then, she began crawling forward.
The first, second, and third-year boys went similarly to the girls of the same age. They were marginally more aware of Hermione’s body, and they were a bit more aggressive in appreciating the sight of it, but they actually didn’t do much different. The fourth-years were intermediate. A few of them copped feels. One of them slapped her ass. Another called her some very exciting names. But it wasn’t until the fifth-years that the differences really began to show.
Each of the fifth-year boys who drank her milk stiffened and sat upright. The crotches of their pajamas slipped off to show subtly enlarging dicks, engorged by sudden arousal. One of them grabbed Hermione by the hair and forced her to suck off his cock, much to the witch’s delight, and she puffed and slobbered and gagged, her face going blue for want of air and her pussy glowing redly for need of dick. Another fifth-year boy made her climb up into her bed and nurse him from her nipples. A third gave her a good, hard spanking just because he saw that he could. And the last two jerked themselves off into her hair, making Hermione purr and wiggle her hips.
The sixth-years were still more aggressive. When Hermione offered them the ladles of milk, half indicated a preference for drinking it straight from the source, and half of those also took out their dicks and stuck them into her while they drank. The first time that happened, Hermione was shocked. It was a stunning sensation, and she hardly knew what to make of it. But then she smiled and melted into it, and by the second time she accepted it blissfully. All but one of the other boys made her suck their dicks or jerk them off. The final sixth-year jumped out of his bed before she could give him any milk, grabbed her by the hips, and rammed his cock into her ass. Then he hollered to his friends to go and fetch anyone else who was interested in a gangbang.
From there, it degenerated. The seventh-year boys barged in, and the sixth-and-seventh-year girls burst into the dorm as well, and while Hermione was fucked from every angle, her tits forcibly milked and sucked upon, her body swinging back and forth between countless hammering hips, a veritable orgy unfolded around her. Boys and girls experimented with their bodies, newly enhanced by Hermione’s milk. The boys were a little more muscular than before, and their cocks were a few inches bigger. As with the girls, the effects were most pronounced on the oldest ones, so that the seventh-year boys ended up chiseled like Greek gods with cocks of equine proportions standing up between their legs.
Hermione was fucked in the ass, the pussy, the face. Her tits were used to jerk off more boys than she could count, and boys and girls alike chewed her tits and sucked her nipples, drinking her lactation. The milk’s effects diminished with each dose, so that after the third drink the only practical effect was a shock of pleasure and increased arousal. It still continued to enhance the bodies, but it did so only infinitesimally, and by the seventh drink the increase was no faster than natural growth. Still, they were very impressive and very horny all around her, and they fucked her in every way they could imagine. She was raped by her fellow Gryffindors, fucked in every hole by every boy at least once, and she licked all over and nibbled, fondled, stroked, and smacked by every girl.
Ginny was hotly, wetly kissing Hermione, getting fucked in the ass by a very strapping seventh-year boy while a sixth-year pounded her pussy, sucking on Hermione’s tongue and fondling Hermione’s tits. Denis Creevey had sneaked up to fuck Hermione from behind, and he pummeled her nether regions, doing first Hermione’s pussy, then her ass, then fucking her and Ginny’s sandwiched tits. Hermione was in heaven, blissfully exhausted, utterly content, and she moaned in euphoria and shook her ass, grinding her body between all the other bodies that crowded around her, elated and humiliated and knowing her place.
She was the lowliest and basest of all the people here. When the sun came up and the orgy wound down to the end, the boys and girls parting ways to get ready for another day of classes, Hermione was left lying uselessly on the floor. The bucket of her milk was beside her, just a little under halfway empty, and she lay between two trunks. She was ignored by the sixth-year boys as they scrounged through their belongings, as they magicked themselves clean and dressed themselves up for class. They stepped indifferently on or over her body, and they only looked at her to ogle for a second or two before moving on. They saw that she had been put in her place, and they had no reason to try and elevate her back out of it.
No need to fuel a resurgence of Hermione’s old delusions about her worth and rights as a human being. She was just a witch, after all. She was even lower than a pig.
A pig, at least, would be allowed to live long enough to breed.
The elves crowded around Hermione when the dorm was finally empty, the last tardy boy departing. The head elf stood atop her tits, one foot planted upon either one. It was a treacherous climb to surmount her mountainous mammaries, but he managed it, and he looked down at her with his arms crossed. His expression was almost—almost—approving.
“You knows your place. You is the most filthiest cow. You is a pig. You is meat.”
“I am❤” Hermione dreamily moaned. “I love it. I understand everything now. Thank you, master!❤”
The head elf snorted. The other elves made noises of mixed amusement and disgust.
“We is elves,” said the head elf. “No masters. Slaves. You still don’t understand. But that’s okay. You no need to. We’s done all we can.”
The elves planted the bucket next to Hermione. They dipped the ladle into it, and Hermione watched curiously, hopefully.
“Time to fatten her up,” said the elves. “Get her tits a last bit bigger, then onto the spit she goes!”
They cheered at this, and began ladling the milk into Hermione’s mouth.
“The… spit?” said the witch stupidly, in between mouthfuls of her own milk. Her breasts quivered, appearing to grow by bare centimeters. “Huh…?”
The head elf smiled sadistically, and Hermione felt herself warm at the look on his face.
At once, she understood his meaning.
Strangely, she was elated. It seemed like the perfect possible end to her foolish, misguided life.
Nervously, eagerly, Hermione smiled. She moaned as she drank her own milk, guzzling the last drops as the elves tipped up the bucket to pour what was left down her gullet.
Her brobdigagian breasts heaved atop her sternum, huge hills of flesh rising and falling.
She couldn’t wait.
… … … … …
A fire was roaring in a stone pit in the center of the Hogwarts kitchens. Its flames were leaping redly, bright and hot and crackling. Warm, scorching air rose from the fire, and its light was cast over the gleeful faces of scores of house elves. They watched patiently yet eagerly as the object of their bilious passions was dragged toward the pit, an obscenely wet and voluptuous form sliding across stone.
Her skin was glossy, glazed and oiled. The flecks of herbs sprinkled over her body could be seen, and a blissful expression was on her face. Softly sighing came her breath, slowly heaving was her bosom, going up and down ponderously. Her enormous ass swayed, and her little waist lewdly flexed. Tiny toes curled on petite, scrumptious feet, and slender fingers flicked and wiggled. Her arms were bound behind her by magical ropes, dark cords tying her to a long, steel spit.
The elves carried Hermione toward the pit, lugging her with her face toward the ceiling, her enormous tits weighing down on her chest. They hauled her closer, the crowd parting around them to let the bearers of the meat go past. Juices dripped from between Hermione’s legs, and trails of milk dribbled down either side of her massive bosom. Her eyes were glassy, and the elves strained, upholding her curvaceous body with no little effort.
Before the fire stood the head elf. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his eyes were shadowed with the light behind him. A small, triumphant smile could just barely be made out on his face.
“It is time for you to be roasted,” he said, addressing Hermione. “Is you ready, meat?”
The elves who carried the witch came to a stop as suddenly and uniformly as well-drilled soldiers standing to attention. They rested the woman’s weight on their shoulders and straightened their scrawny legs. Small beads of sweat dripped from their long, protuberant noses.
“Eat me❤” Hermione moaned. “It’s what I deserve❤”
The elves laughed, pleased to see her utmost degradation. They had done a very good job on her.
“Good, good,” said the head elf. “You looks like you’ll be good and tasty. Plenty of meat for the dinner.”
Hermione shivered. A little extra moisture glistened in the area of her pussy.
She smiled blissfully, feeling the heat of the fire.
The elves hoisted her up. With cunning labor they raised her up to the supports on either end of the pit, resting the ends of the spit in the crooks. Then, they sprang back down from the stools and stepladders, walking back a foot or so to properly appreciate the view.
Her body glowed a deep reddish orange in the firelight, and sweat began to drip from her. She was panting, breathing laboriously in the heat, and she stared down at the flames. Her breasts dangled into the fire, and she whimpered at the pain, writhing on the spit and rolling her eyes up into her sockets. She felt weak, and the heat was growing inside her flesh, growing and spreading and driving her mad.
She smiled shamefully, masochistically. As she began to cook, she knew that this was where she belonged. As her strength slowly slipped away, as her consciousness grew feeble and muddled, she understood that she was nothing but meat. Now and always, she had never been anything but a cow. And not even the kind of cow that would be kept around to breed up further generations, but the sort that was born solely to be culled.
She was a defective, delusional sow. The elves had broken her of her past mistaken beliefs, but they wouldn’t risk the chance that she might birth offspring of similar dispositions. It had been trouble enough to retrain her, and they didn’t want to have to go through that all over again a decade or two down the line.
All she was good for was some fleeting amusement, and a bit of juicy nourishment.
She was nothing but meat, and she accepted this gleefully. They cooked her, and she waited to feel it end.
She wondered if she would still be conscious when they started to eat her.
She hoped so❤
… … … … …
A/N: An extra long commission. Have had a bad couple nights of sleep, and am only barely functioning, but this piece was close enough to completion that I could drag it over the finish line.
Also, first completed commission of 2019. So that's nice.
TTFN and R&R!
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