The heavy oak door of the dungeon study clicked shut, leaving the sound of the castle above to fade into a distant hum. Draconia sat in the high-backed velvet chair, her hands resting on the edge of the mahogany desk. Harry stood before her, his shoulders tense under the weight of his robes. He looked at the single lamp burning on the desk, then at the long wooden bench that sat in the centre of the room. The parchment he had been forced to write on lay crumpled on the stone floor near his feet. There was no more writing to be done tonight, only the physical toll of his transgressions.
"Sit on the bench," she commanded, her voice low and steady.
Harry moved toward the bench, his footsteps heavy on the stone. He sat down, the wood creing under his weight. Draconia rose from her chair and walked around the desk. She did not approach him with softness or hesitation. She reached him and stood between his knees, looking down at the top of his head.
"Take them off," she said, gesturing to his trousers.
He obeyed, his fingers clumsy as he unfastened his belt and pushed the heavy fabric down to his ankles. He sat there in his thin undershirt, his legs bare and vulnerable in the flickering light. Draconia reached out and ran a hand over his thigh, her skin cool against his heat. She watched the way his muscles jumped under her touch.
"You were supposed to write the lines perfectly," she murmured, her eyes fixed on his face. "Instead, you gave me a mess of scrawled ink and broken sentences."
"I was distracted," Harry said, his voice rasping.
"You will be distracted for a long time," she replied.
She moved to the floor, kneeling between his legs to unlace his boots. She worked with a clinical efficiency, stripping him of his clothes until he sat nearly naked on the wooden bench. Draconia stood and unfastened her own robes, letting the heavy fabric slide down her body until she stood in nothing but her thin silk knickers. She was pale and striking in the amber glow of the lamp.
She pulled him up from the bench and turned him around. She pressed his chest against the hard wood of the bench, forcing him to lean forward until his hips were pushed back. Harry felt the chill of the room on his skin, but his groin was a concentrated point of heat. Draconia reached behind him and gripped his hips, her fingers digging into his skin.
"You need to learn the cost of a mistake," she said, her breath hot against the nape of his neck.
She reached down and wrapped her fingers around his cock. It was already hard, pulsing in her grip. She began to stroke him, a fast and rhythmic motion that made his breath hitch in his throat. She did not use a gentle touch; she used a firm, demanding one. She moved her hand up and down the length of his shaft, her thumb rubbing the sensitive head of his cock.
"Fuck," Harry groaned, his head dropping as he felt the friction.
"Do not use such words yet," she said, though she leaned forward to lick the back of his neck.
She moved herself behind him, her knees hitting the hard floor. She reached down and spread her legs wide, leaning her weight against his backside. She guided his cock toward her pussy, the tip of him brushing against the wet, swollen lips of her cunt. She was already slick, the heat of her arousal a stark contrast to the cool air of the dungeon. She pushed him back, forcing his cock to slide deep into her.
The sensation was sharp and sudden. Harry gasped as her tight walls gripped him, the friction of his cock against her peted and hot interior sending a jolt through his spine. She began to move her hips in a circular motion, grinding her pussy against his length as he stayed bent over the bench. He felt the wetness of her dripping down his thighs, a mixture of her juices and the sweat from his skin.
"Harder," she whispered, her voice a command.
He pushed back against her, driving his cock into her with a primal rhythm. Every thrust was blunt and heavy, the sound of his pelvis slapping against her arse echoing in the quiet room. He felt the tightness of her cunt clinching around him, pulling him deeper with every movement. She reached around to grab his waist, her nails digging into his hips to hold him in place.
"God, Draconia, you are so tight," he hissed, his eyes squeezed shut.
"Do not talk, just fuck me," she replied, her voice breaking.
She pulled him closer, her hips tilting to meet his thrusts. He felt the wetness of her cunt coating his cock, a thick, sliding heat that made him want to lose control. He drove himself into her again, his cock sliding through her juices with a wet, slapping sound. He could feel the heat of her inner walls pulsing around him, squeezing his shaft with every heavy stroke.
She moved her hands up to his chest, her fingers sliding over his skin as she worked him. She reached down with one hand to find the base of his cock, her fingers working the skin as he pounded into her. The sensation was overwhelming. He felt the pressure building in his balls, the heat in his groin becoming a frantic, driving force.
"You are close, aren't you?" she asked, her voice a low tease.
"Yes," he groaned, his breath coming in short, jagged gasps. "Yes, fucking do it."
He pushed himself into her one last time, a deep, punishing thrust that buried his cock to the hilt. He felt her cunt convulse around him, the muscles of her pussy gripping him in a fierce, rhythmic squeeze. The friction was too much. He felt the cum building at the base of his spine, a hot, heavy weight. He came hard, his cock pulsing inside her as he sprayed thick, white cum deep into her pussy. He felt the warmth of it spreading inside her, a messy and visceral release.
Draconia did not stop. She kept moving, her hips grinding against his spent cock, drawing out the last of the sensations. She watched him through the reflection in the dark glass of the lamp, her eyes wide and dark. She waited until his breath evened out, until the last of the tremors left his legs.
She withdrew from him, the sound of his cock sliding out of her wet cunt a sharp, lonely noise in the silence. She stood up and gathered her robes, her movements calm and deliberate. She watched him sit back on the bench, looking disheveled and spent. He looked at the parchment on the floor, the ink of his failed lines a dark smudge against the stone.
"One hour," she said. It was three.