Chapter 170: Chapter 170: I Shall Sternly Lodge a Useless Protest...
From the vaulted ceiling of Vault 713 deep beneath Gringotts, gold Galleons cascaded from a magical copper pipe like a broken pearl necklace, raining down onto the obsidian floor with a loud clatter.
Three goblins stood beside a massive set of scales, the tip of each one’s nose twitching.
"Twenty thousand... thirty thousand..."
The lead goblin, Griphook, pushed the gold coins around with a disproportionately long finger. As his nail scraped the edge of each coin, the corners of his mouth spasmed involuntarily.
Although this money belonged entirely to the Rozier family from head to toe, and didn’t have a single copper knut to do with them goblins, that gleaming golden light felt like a knife scraping across the tips of their hearts.
"Forty-seven thousand three hundred..."
Another squat, fat goblin even buried his face into a pile of newly poured gold coins—which still carried the freezing temperature of the vault’s depths—and took a deep breath of that scent belonging to wealth, before reluctantly pushing them into the counting slot.
And less than five paces away from this group of heartbroken little creatures, a mahogany desk had been temporarily moved into the corner of the vault.
Professor McGonagall sat in the high swivel chair, holding a dark brown quill in her right hand, scribbling annotations on a stack of third-year Transfiguration homework.
Her sitting posture was upright, her back ramrod straight. That majesty belonging to a senior scholar was vividly displayed in every red annotation she wrote.
But if anyone’s line of sight could penetrate the obstruction of that mahogany desktop, they would see a completely different scene underneath the table.
McGonagall’s legs were crossed, her right leg resting over her left.
A black pointed stiletto heel still hung on her right foot; the heel was a full three inches high. With her occasional pauses in thought while grading homework, the toe of the shoe would sway gently in rhythm.
The other stiletto had already fallen off, her bare, gray-silk-clad toes unconsciously curling and uncurling on the cold flagstone floor.
And beneath that well-tailored dark green velvet long dress, her chest was undergoing a silent torment.
Two exquisite silver nipple clamps, like two tiny butterflies, bit deathly tight onto her erect buds, which were engorged and swollen from continuous stimulation.
The teeth of the nipple clamps bore fine, serrated patterns. Every rise and fall of her chest driven by her breathing caused those tiny teeth to scrape across the edges of her sensitive areolas, sparking a wave of scalp-tingling, numb itchiness.
A very fine silver chain connected the two nipple clamps. The chain hung down along the midline of her sternum, the end clasped to a small decorative buckle below her navel.
In this way, whenever she bent over or threw out her chest, the chain would pull on the nipple clamps, forcing those two already tormented, red and swollen buds to endure even more stimulation.
Not to mention, this little gadget worked quite well!
Clack, clack, clack!
Urgent yet deliberately light footsteps came from the entrance of the vault’s tunnel.
Jerry walked over carrying a silver tray. On the tray sat an exquisite bone china tea set; the spout of the teapot was puffing wisps of white steam, and a rich aroma of Earl Grey tea permeated the air.
"Your tea, Professor."
Jerry bent over, placing the teacup on a small patch of the desktop to McGonagall’s right that wasn’t occupied by homework. The steam from the black tea rose, blurring his sharply contoured face.
McGonagall didn’t look up, merely using the tip of her quill to viciously draw a "T" on a messily written assignment, before leisurely reaching out to pick up the teacup.
"Rozier."
She finally spoke, her voice flat, but hiding a trace of teasing in the trailing note that only Jerry could catch.
"Hmm?"
"You withdrew three hundred thousand gold Galleons from the vault in one go."
McGonagall blew on the hot steam on the surface of the tea and took a small sip: "Last week it was a hundred and twenty thousand, the week before last it was eighty thousand. At this rate, the Rozier family vault can probably last... a few months?"
"What are you saying? You have to invest to get returns, don’t you?"
McGonagall put down her teacup and finally looked up, those gray eyes looking straight at Jerry over the rims of her half-moon spectacles.
"Tell the truth, are you preparing to keep some little mistress again?"
Jerry rolled his eyes hard. That expression, belonging to a teenage boy and carrying a bit of a roguish air, looked exceptionally vivid on his ruggedly lined face.
"What mistress am I keeping! Professor!"
Jerry put his hands on his hips, the hem of his school robe lifting slightly with the action, revealing a section of sturdy calf: "Do you think the operating expenses for the Quidditch World Cup fall from the sky? Just renting the advertising spaces around the stadium cost a hundred and seventy thousand Galleons! Plus full-page ads in the Daily Prophet, three consecutive issues of advertorial promotion in Witch Weekly, joint merchandise development with major stores... every single one is burning money! I also have an exclusive interview booked with Rita later; she promised me she’d write it nicely. It’s just, her asking price is really exorbitant!"
"Oh?"
McGonagall slowly took another sip of tea: "And what about the membership fee income from ’Eden’ last month? I remember you telling me that just the subscribed users paying to watch the ’practical teaching’ videos exceeded four thousand people."
The corner of Jerry’s mouth twitched.
"That money has all been invested into the content production for the next phase... And, Professor, could you please not mention those two words in front of the goblins?"
"What are you afraid of."
McGonagall put down her teacup, the corners of her mouth hooking into an extremely faint smile: "Goblins only care about gold; they have no interest in wizarding businesses."
She picked up her quill again, lowering her head to continue grading homework.
But this time, her crossed legs switched directions, her left leg resting over her right.
This action caused the hem of her skirt to shift up slightly, revealing more of the curves of her thighs wrapped in gray silk stockings.
The silk stockings at the inner thighs had already been warmed slightly damp by her body heat, and that moist scent, carrying a tiny bit of sweat, drifted faintly from beneath the hem of her skirt.
Jerry stood beside her, those pitch-black eyes naturally falling onto McGonagall’s legs.
"Have you looked enough?"
McGonagall didn’t even look up, the tip of her pen rapidly writing comments on the paper.
"No." Jerry answered honestly.
McGonagall’s pen paused, the smile lines at the corners of her mouth deepening a bit.
"Go close the door."
Jerry looked back at that group of goblins who were still counting gold coins with tears in their eyes.
They were currently arguing endlessly over the degree of edge wear on the one hundred and seventy-three thousandth gold Galleon, completely immersed in their own world of wealth.
Jerry stretched out his palm and gave a gentle wave toward the side door of the vault.
Click.
The heavy iron door closed silently, and a Muffliato Charm quietly covered this corner where the desk was located.
McGonagall was still grading homework, as if nothing had happened.
Jerry walked around behind her.
The back of this high swivel chair was very low, reaching exactly to McGonagall’s waist.
Jerry stood behind the backrest. Looking down from above, he could see exactly down the neckline of McGonagall’s dark green velvet long dress.
From this angle, the full view of those full breasts being tormented by the nipple clamps was entirely visible.
The silver chain appeared and disappeared between the two globes of white, soft flesh. The butterfly wings of the nipple clamps trembled gently with the tiny vibrations every time her pen touched the paper, like two silver moths gathering nectar at the center of a flower.
Jerry’s Adam’s apple rolled.
He wasn’t in a hurry to make a move.
Instead, he turned around, dragged over the low stool originally used to hold the tea set, and placed it directly behind McGonagall’s chair.
Then, he stepped onto it.
The low stool raised his height by another notch.
Now, his crotch was exactly at the height of the back of McGonagall’s head.
Jerry slowly pulled open the front of his robes and undid the clasp of his belt.
Clink!
The sound of the metal buckles colliding was exceptionally clear in the quiet corner.
The tip of McGonagall’s pen paused slightly, but she didn’t turn her head.
"Inside Gringotts?"
Her voice was still steady, but the frequency of her breathing had noticeably accelerated.
"Inside Gringotts." Jerry confirmed.
The sound of the trouser zipper being pulled down was like a miniature saw sliding over metal gears.
Jerry turned slightly sideways, gently resting that scalding meat-pillar beside McGonagall’s right cheek.
The massive tip pressed against her cheekbone, the edge of the coronal ridge brushing past the loose hairs at her temple.
That burning, fleshy sensation carrying the frequency of a beating pulse made the hand McGonagall used to hold her pen involuntarily clench tight.
"Mmh..."
An extremely faint hum squeezed from her nasal cavity.
McGonagall finally put down her quill.
She took off her glasses with her left hand and placed them on the desk.
Then she picked up the cup of still-steaming black tea, and, accommodating the presence of that massive meat-pillar beside her cheek, took a large gulp extremely composedly.
The warm tea slid down her throat.
"The Earl Grey tastes good," she commented, her tone as if appraising a newly released potion.
Then, she turned her head.
The massive coronal head of that giant meat-pillar was currently resting directly in front of her lips, less than an inch away.
She could see a drop of transparent pre-cum slowly seeping from the urethral slit; the drop of liquid shimmered in the light like a small amber bead.
McGonagall stuck out her tongue.
Not the eager, thirsty kind of licking.
But like tasting tea, probing with scholar-like precision.
The tip of her tongue first tapped the exact center of the urethral slit, scooping up that drop of pre-cum, twirling it a circle on the flat of her tongue, before withdrawing back into her mouth.
"Mmh."
She commented again, as if comparing it to the flavor of the black tea just now: "Thicker than last time."
"Professor, could you please not use an attitude of tea-tasting to do this kind of thing..." Jerry’s voice was a bit tight.
"My domain, my rhythm."
McGonagall’s right hand raised, her five slender fingers closing to grip the middle section of that meat-pillar. Because the shaft was too thick, her fingers couldn’t even fully close; a gap of nearly an inch remained between her fingertips.
She began to stroke up and down at an extremely slow, almost torturous speed.
The temperature of her palm and the scorching heat of the meat-pillar blended, emitting a faint swish-swish sound of skin rubbing against skin.
"You said earlier the advertising fees for the Quidditch World Cup are a hundred and seventy thousand?"
McGonagall asked while stroking.
"Y... yes..." Jerry’s waist thrust forward slightly.
"Too expensive."
McGonagall’s hand suddenly tightened, her nail gently scraping over a bulging vein on the shaft: "I’ll go negotiate for you. Jenkins from the Department of Magical Games and Sports owes me a favor."
"Th... thank you, Professor..."
"No need to thank me."
McGonagall opened her mouth.
Moistened by that mouthful of hot tea just now, her oral cavity appeared exceptionally warm and wet.
That suffocatingly massive tip was slowly enveloped by her lips, like taking an overly large plum whole into her mouth.
Her cheeks were stretched until they bulged, and a sliver of a white crack even appeared at the corners of her lips due to overstretching.
"Mmh..."
McGonagall let out an indistinct muffled grunt.
Glug... squish...
Saliva was churned in the sealed oral cavity, emitting wet sounds.
Jerry’s hands involuntarily pressed onto the top of McGonagall’s head, his fingers threading into her tied-up dark brown bun.
A few loose hairs fell from the gaps in her hairpin, draping beside her cheeks, swaying gently with her swallowing and spitting motions.
Phew!
McGonagall spat it out violently, pulling a long silver thread mixed with the color of black tea and the luster of pre-cum.
She panted twice, her gray eyes lifting to look straight at Jerry.
"Do those little mistresses of yours get this kind of treatment?"
"Professor, she is not!"
McGonagall didn’t let him finish.
She opened her mouth again. This time it was no longer a superficial mouthing, but sending that massive object directly deep into her throat.
Her throat channel violently contracted under the squeeze of that enormous coronal head, emitting gurgle-gurgle swallowing sounds.
That physiological dry heave caused by deep-throating was forcibly suppressed by her using the muscle control honed from years of practicing Transfiguration, transforming it into waves of rhythmic, massage-like writhing of her throat walls.
"Mmh-nn... hah... glug..."
At the same time, her right hand wasn’t idle.
Her fingers reached down along the base of the meat-pillar, accurately pinching that pair of heavy sacs.
The pads of McGonagall’s fingers gently kneaded that layer of skin, feeling the two full spheres inside rolling in her palm.
Jerry stood on the stool, his legs trembling slightly. Driven by instinct, his waist swung back and forth in small amplitudes; every time, it would go deeper, even if just a tiny bit.
Squish... pfft... slurp...
Water sounds echoed in this corner covered by the Muffliato Charm.
In the distance, the goblins were still buried in counting gold coins, completely oblivious to what was happening in the corner.
The waterfall of gold Galleons still roared.
And beside that mahogany desk piled high with homework and contracts, another transaction belonging to Jerry—accompanied by the residual warmth of black tea and the hiss-hiss sound of gray silk stockings rubbing against the high chair—was being frantically conducted in the darkness of the deepest part of Gringotts.
The blue glow of the Portkey spun three times in the air before extinguishing.
Rita Skeeter’s high heels stepped on the flagstone floor of the Gringotts side corridor, emitting an extremely brief clack sound.
She subconsciously shrank her shoulders, pulling that emerald green cloak woven from beetle wings tightly around her body, while simultaneously sticking out her tongue to lick her lips smeared with scarlet lipstick.
It had been several days.
For several whole days, those damn trackers buzzing like flies behind her had all disappeared.
Rita crouched in the shadows of a corridor pillar, narrowing those shrewd eyes set behind cat-eye frames, rapidly recalling the abnormal situations of the past few days.
Those people from the Order of the Phoenix—those guys who usually had their tails stuck up in the air and used the word "justice" to suppress people at the drop of a hat—actually couldn’t even spare the time for a surveillance target of her level.
The reason?
She didn’t know all the details, but as a top gossip reporter who had struggled in the gutters of the magical world for over a decade, Rita’s sense of smell was sharper than any Tracking Charm.
The Death Eaters had broken out of prison.
A hole had been torn in the high walls of Azkaban, and those lunatics who had been locked inside for over a decade, sucked by Dementors until only a breath of foul air remained, had actually managed to escape.
And the Order of the Phoenix—that so-called most impregnable fortress against dark magical forces—when facing this group of desperadoes crawling out of hell, had unexpectedly been beaten to pieces.
Tsk!
Rita let out a tongue click full of sarcasm, the corners of her mouth pulling into a mocking arc.
After cultivating their moral character and recuperating for so many years, acting like lords in the Ministry of Magic all day, drinking afternoon tea and discussing how to monitor the whereabouts of innocent reporters, in the end, when the real enemy charged to their doorstep, they couldn’t even hold a basic defense.
Funny.
Truly too funny.
Of course, not all reporters were as innocent as she was.
That closeted chief of Witch Weekly was not innocent.
However, the rout of the Order of the Phoenix was simply a godsend to Rita.
Without that annoying surveillance, she could finally do whatever she wanted freely.
"Darling, Mr. Rozier..."
"What is this smell..."
The air still held the unique scorched smell left after a Portkey transport, but Rita’s sense of smell had already caught onto something more stimulating.
That was the money smell belonging to power, along with a mixture of expensive black tea and... some kind of extremely intense male hormone smell carrying a musky-sweet aura.
"Eating alone again?"
"Jerry?"
"Wait a minute."
Light-footedly pushing aside the heavy dark velvet curtain of the vault’s side door, the opening line she had originally prepared, "Conducting an in-depth exclusive interview with Young Master Rozier," was forcefully swallowed back down her throat when she saw the scene before her clearly.
Beside that mahogany desk surrounded by countless gold Galleons, the scene was breathtakingly absurd.
Those eyes of Rita’s hidden behind the cat-eye frames widened drastically.
Caught by her again!
Her interview subject, Jerry, was brazenly standing on a low stool.
That thick meat-root, so ferocious it was almost terrifying, engorged until it was purple, was thrusting and swinging frantically beside the face of Minerva—a face revered by countless young wizards—like a giant siege hammer breaking down a city gate.
"Oh my god..."
Rita murmured in a low voice, her breathing becoming rapid in that instant.
As a veteran reporter, her first reaction was not shame, but extreme excitement.
Her hand had already reached into her handbag, skillfully feeling out that specially made camera inlaid with a magical pupil-expanding lens.
Just as she was about to press the shutter, a sudden change occurred.
Professor McGonagall, who was originally in an ahegao trance state, her eyes rolled back due to an extreme orgasm, suddenly stiffened her body.
Those gray eyes of McGonagall’s, which had lost their focus, caught that sliver of emerald green skirt corner exposed in the gap of the curtain in that instant.
That was a color belonging to Rita.
The keen perception honed by long-term practice of Transfiguration allowed McGonagall to recognize the newcomer even when her brains were churned into a blank slate.
"Mmh... glug!"
McGonagall didn’t push away in panic; instead, it was as if she had received some kind of extremely intense external stimulation.
Her cheeks, already flushed and swollen from lack of oxygen, became even more vibrantly red. Those long legs wrapped in gray silk stockings pedaled violently against the marble floor, her toes curling, the fabric of the silk stockings emitting harsh hiss-hiss sounds in the fierce friction.
She suddenly widened her eyes, staring dead in the direction where Rita was located.
There was no shame of being discovered in that gaze; instead, it carried an almost pathological provocation and madness.
Immediately following, as if wanting to completely swallow that giant object deep into her soul, McGonagall’s throat violently expanded. She was no longer passively enduring Jerry’s thrusts, but actively and greedily sucking hard.
Glug. Slurp... pfft. Squish!
That massive sensation of envelopment and suction caused Jerry’s body to shake violently due to a certain extreme physiological feedback.
"Hah... Professor, you suddenly became so passionate..."
Jerry lowered his head, looking at McGonagall’s face, which appeared somewhat distorted from exertion, and that pair of silver nipple clamps trembling frantically with the frequency of her sucking.
He felt that sense of being peeked at from the outside.
The corners of Jerry’s mouth hooked into an amused arc. Not only did he not stop, but in pursuit of a more aggressive posture, he violently lifted one foot.
That foot, wearing a black calfskin ankle boot, stepped directly onto McGonagall’s breast, which was squeezed out of shape.
A crisp smack of flesh colliding.
Because the breast was extremely full and tender, the treads of the boot sole sank deeply into that ball of white, soft flesh wave, pressing one of the nipple clamps into a tilt, its sharp teeth digging deeply into the areola.
Borrowing this supportive force, Jerry’s body leaned forward violently.
He freed one hand, locking it in a death grip on the back of McGonagall’s head, his five fingers sinking into that messy hair. Like pressing down a soulless doll, he roughly forced her entire head completely toward the depths of his constantly throbbing and vein-bulging crotch.
"Glug... mmh. Mmh...!"
McGonagall was completely pressed into that wet, hot shadow.
All protests and panting were blocked into a string of muffled sounds.
A pair of gray-silk long legs kicked wildly in the air, even knocking over the black teacup on the table during the struggle. The amber liquid poured over those graded assignments, soaking a patch of mud.
"Truly a bad girl, Rita."
Although Jerry’s vision was blocked, his keen senses had long since locked onto Rita.
"At a time like this... how can we not leave a souvenir?" With trembling hands, Rita pulled a glowing magical crystal from her bag.
She quickly drew a circle in the air.
"Spatial Isolation, Domain of Silence."
With the flow of magic from her fingertips, a semi-transparent ripple instantly spread outward.
In a place unnoticed by that group of goblins still burying their heads in counting money not far away, the scene in this corner instantly turned into a blurred shadow. Even those squish, squish water sounds caused by the fierce impact were completely isolated within this small square inch.
Rita completely let loose her courage.
She raised the camera, aiming it at that scene of frantic thrusting and fluids flowing horizontally from the crotch.
Click!
Click!
Although the brightness of the magical camera’s flash had been deliberately turned down, every flash illuminated that stroke of desire in McGonagall’s rolled-back gray eyes.
McGonagall felt Rita’s presence, felt that this close friend was using a lens to record her most disgraceful side as a "female beast in heat."
This ultimate sense of shame of being peeked at by her best friend, and possibly even made public, transformed into the last straw that broke the camel’s back at this moment.
McGonagall spasmed frantically. The flesh of her legs wrapped in gray silk trembled violently. Streams of scalding love juice flowed along the roots of her thighs, completely soaking through that expensive silk skirt hem.
"Minerva... your expression is truly beautiful."
While frantically pressing the shutter, Rita couldn’t help but voice her mockery.
She watched Jerry’s massive phallus sliding in and out of McGonagall’s throat, her own mouth dry and her throat parched.
"This is the first time you’ve made a photoshoot so enjoyable for me, hehehe."
"Many people would certainly love to see that you actually enjoy such a... heavy ’feast’?"
McGonagall suddenly broke free from Jerry’s pressing grip.
Her face, plastered with saliva and bodily fluids, whipped around toward Rita.
In her eyes, there was not only the haze of pleasure, but a spark of playful malice born of provocation.
"In that case... you should have a taste as well, Rita!"
McGonagall’s voice was hoarse to the extreme, carrying the physical weakness of a recent climax.
She violently raised her right hand—not to adjust her clothes, but to point toward Rita, hooking her fingertip in the empty air.
"Transfiguration—Mimicry Conversion!"
A bolt of dark green light shot out like a lightning strike.
Rita, who had been focused on her voyeuristic photography, let out a sharp cry.
She felt a violent, intense itching sensation erupt at the base of her tailbone.
Immediately following, that itch transformed into an undeniable force that tore straight through the back hem of her emerald-green dress.
A heavy thud sounded.
A furry, orange cat tail—exceedingly smooth and shimmering with an oily sheen—burst from her coccyx under Rita’s terrified gaze.
The tail even possessed a mind of its own, flicking through the air in a disgruntled manner before slamming hard against Rita’s own thigh.
"Minerva! You wretched woman! You dared to curse me again?"
Rita shrieked, reaching out to grab the cursed tail, but it nimbly avoided her fingers.
It even provocatively rubbed against her ankle.
"This is your punishment for the secret photos... my dear best friend."
McGonagall wasn’t angry at all; instead, she flashed an incredibly seductive smile.
She lowered her head again, actively taking Jerry’s meat-pillar—already on the verge of eruption—back into her mouth.
With an "audience" present, McGonagall’s technique became even more frenzied.
Her tongue-tip churned wildly, and the frequency of her throat walls’ contractions was so fast it created an afterimage.
"Mmh... mmh... glug!"
Jerry could no longer suppress the numbing sensation shooting from his tailbone straight to his brain.
He let out a low roar, his hands death-gripping the back of McGonagall’s head, thrusting it ruthlessly to the very depths of her throat.
Boom!
A stream of thick, scalding, and staggeringly voluminous semen erupted like a burst dam, spraying directly into McGonagall’s esophagus.
McGonagall’s neck went rigid instantly, a bulge moving down her throat as the massive amount of liquid flooded in.
She swallowed in huge gulps, the liquid she couldn’t catch in time flowing from the corners of her mouth.
It dripped onto her breasts, which bore the red, swollen boot-prints from where Jerry had stepped on them.
In the air, the musky scent of milk and seed became overwhelmingly thick.
Jerry panted heavily, slowly withdrawing the foot he had planted on her chest.
McGonagall looked as if all her strength had been drained, slumped limply across Jerry’s knees.
The mixture of black tea and bodily fluids traced down her gray silk stockings, pooling into a small puddle on the floor.
To the side, Rita was sticking her ass in the air, desperately battling her own disobedient cat tail.
The tail was whipping through the air frantically due to its owner’s emotional agitation, creating a series of comical whistling sounds.
"It seems the exclusive interview can begin, Miss Skeeter."
Jerry spoke as he slowly zipped up his trousers, his eyes following the continuously swaying orange tail.
The corner of his mouth hooked into a meaningful smile.
Rita Skeeter’s orange, furry cat tail was currently acting like a startled venomous snake, lashing at the air behind her green skirt.
Because of Professor McGonagall’s "wicked" Transfiguration, this tail not only had independent sensation but also carried a wildness that was difficult to tame.
Rita had to temporarily set down her expensive magical camera, letting out a cry mixed with a moan.
She crouched awkwardly on the floor, using both hands to try and catch the darting tip of the tail.
"Damn it... Minerva, undo this right now!"
Fine beads of sweat broke out on Rita’s forehead, and several strands of her meticulously styled blonde curls fell loose.
They hung over her cheeks, which were flushed from the heat and humidity.
That strange sensation shot from her tailbone straight to her brain, making Rita’s body shudder violently.
She could feel it—whenever she touched the tail, an incredibly sensitive, almost electric itch spread through her entire body.
Rita panted, pulling the long orange tail around her waist and into her arms.
She began to stroke the fluffy fur with her fingertips, as if soothing a frightened little animal.
Only when the tail stopped its violent twisting, merely hooking against her fingers with a trace of lingering reluctance, did Rita stand back up as if a great weight had been lifted.
She brushed back her hair, her face once again wearing that shrewd expression of professional fake-smiling.
However, the sight of her cradling a thick cat tail in her arms looked absurdly lewd no matter how one looked at it.
"What are you laughing at!"
Rita plopped her ass down on an unused high stool.
She fished an Auto-Quotes Quill and a blank piece of parchment from her bag, the tip of the quill jumping happily in the air.
"Let’s talk business. About your high-profile entry into the Quidditch World Cup, and... the rumored ’secret alliance’ you’ve formed with the Malfoy family."
As Rita spoke, she deliberately provocatively used the end of her cat tail to gently tickle Jerry’s cheek.
The fuzzy sensation swept past Jerry’s nose, carrying the heavy scent of Rita’s perfume.
Rita tilted her head, the look in her eyes behind the cat-eye frames flashing with the spark of "ambition."
Her legs, wrapped in flesh-colored silk stockings, crossed beneath her chair.
The tip of her high heel intentionally or unintentionally kicked at Jerry’s trouser leg.
"Rumors outside say that Lucius Malfoy, that old fox, is not an easy character to deal with. How did you get him to willingly put the entire family’s prestige on the line to back you?"
Jerry looked at the woman before him, who hadn’t forgotten her professional instincts even after growing a tail.
The corner of his mouth hooked into an amused arc.
He didn’t answer directly, but slowly reached out his hand.
Jerry’s palm accurately snatched the cat tail that was dangling in front of him.
That thick, heavy sensation carrying a scorching body heat caused Rita’s voice to stop abruptly.
Her spine went ramrod straight in an instant.
"Lucius is indeed difficult to handle."
Jerry’s voice was deep as he forcefully stroked the cat tail, his nails lightly scraping the sensitive skin at the base of the fur.
"But he is a smart man. He knows that in today’s precarious wizarding world, pure-blood arrogance alone won’t last long.
He needs new blood; he needs a stronger power that can control the future. And I gave him a proposal he couldn’t refuse.
More importantly, I am not hogging the glory; Malfoy is my best friend and brother. We will never betray each other."
"Provided he doesn’t find out you’ve also fucked his mother!"
"Mmh, I assume you won’t be writing that part down!"
As Jerry spoke, he increased the pressure of his hand.
He wasn’t just stroking the tail; his fingers were following the base of the tail, slowly probing toward Rita’s tensed coccyx.
"Mmh... hah... Jerry, your hand..."
Rita’s breathing broke. She had wanted to maintain her professional journalistic calm, but the aggression in Jerry’s hand was too overwhelming.
That vibrant, youthful magical fluctuation transmitted through the tail into her body.
It caused her legs to squeeze together involuntarily, her flesh-colored silk stockings making a sticky, wet sound with the friction.
"Regarding the contents of that proposal, outsiders speculate it’s to control the entire Quidditch betting market."
Rita forced herself to continue questioning, but her voice now carried an irrepressible nasal tone.
"The Malfoy family handles the high-level channels, while you... handle that ’invisible’ influence?"
"You could put it that way."
Jerry let out a cold laugh. The hand he had pressed against the root of Rita’s tail suddenly exerted force, yanking backward.
"Ah!"
Rita gave a startled cry, her body—and the chair—pulled toward Jerry by the inertia.
Jerry took a step forward, seizing the opportunity. His long, powerful frame crowded directly into Rita’s space.
He ignored the quill still recording frantically in mid-air, and instead reached out his other hand, dominantly catching Rita’s jaw.
Rita was forced to tilt her head back. Her mouth, coated in red gloss, hung slightly open.
The cat tail she was clutching in her arms swiped around restlessly.
"Rita, the focus of your exclusive interview today shouldn’t be on Malfoy."
Jerry leaned close to her ear, his warm breath fanning her earlobe and sending a wave of goosebumps down her neck.
"You should care more about why I chose a place like Gringotts... to have this ’in-depth communication’ with you."
Before Rita could answer, the hand Jerry had at the base of her tail slid directly through the gap in her torn skirt.
The sensation of his rough palm rubbing over the fine, flesh-colored silk stockings made Rita nearly jump out of her chair.
Jerry’s fingers were highly purposeful. He ignored the lines of her outer thigh and instead accurately probed the inner root of Rita’s already soaking wet thighs.
"Mmh... mmh-nn! Jerry... don’t..."
Rita’s protest sounded more like an invitation.
Her orange cat tail had completely lost all control now, wrapping frantically around Jerry’s arm.
The tip of the tail was even slapping against Jerry’s chest repeatedly out of extreme excitement.
Because of the Spatial Isolation Charm, the goblins in the distance still only saw a mass of static shadow and heard nothing of the movement here.
Jerry’s fingers repeatedly hooked against the edge of Rita’s thin lace border.
He could feel the temperature there was staggeringly high; a large amount of love juice had long since soaked the thin fabric into a soft, messy state.
Squish... glug... squelch...
Jerry’s fingers violently stabbed into the mud.
This sudden intrusion made Rita let out a high-pitched moan.
Her hands death-gripped the collar of Jerry’s school robe, her nails nearly embedding themselves into the fabric.
"About the World Cup interview... hah-ah... I can write it... even more brilliantly..."
Rita’s eyes began to glaze over, her journalistic shrewdness completely shattered by primal desire.
She clutched her own tail, her body writhing on the chair to cater to the frequency of Jerry’s fingers.
"Write it beautifully, Rita."
Jerry lowered his head and kissed the tip of the throbbing orange cat tail.
"After all, a ’sensible’ reporter like you is a rare find in the wizarding world these days."
Rita let out a weak whimper.
She felt her cat tail becoming stiffer and stiffer under Jerry’s teasing.
Every tremor brought a wave of pleasure that made her soul shudder.
This experience—being forcibly "interviewed" in a corner of a vault under the watchful eyes of her best friend—had turned this normally sharp-tongued and arrogant woman into a complete prisoner of desire.
The water sounds amplified continuously within the quiet, isolated space.
The gold Galleons were still falling, and Rita’s interview had entered its most private phase—one that could never be published in any newspaper.
When the faint glow representing the Gringotts Floo fire dissipated in the center of the manor’s courtyard, Jerry didn’t even have time to shake off the vault dust on his soles before he was stunned in place by the sight before him.
If his soul-mark hadn’t told him he was in the right place...
He might have thought he’d marked the wrong coordinates.
The originally solemn, cold, and even Gothic-oppressive Rozier Manor now looked as if it had been reshaped in pure gold by a profligate god.
Golden light crawled up the ancient marble pillars, transforming at every eave into reliefs of phoenixes spreading their wings.
The originally neatly trimmed lawn had been forcibly converted by a wide-range Transfiguration into shimmering "liquid gold sand."
With every breeze, heavy ripples unique to precious metals would rise across its surface.
"Did two days pass... or two centuries?"
"I absolutely cannot let Malfoy see this..."
Jerry muttered under his breath.
As he looked around, the entire manor complex seemed to be split into several distinct stylistic zones.
The main tower was decorated in an aggressive Baroque style, with massive vine patterns woven from mithril threads glinting with a cold luster in the pitch-black night.
The side-wing banquet hall presented a dizzying "Dream-like" style, the walls made semi-transparent so one could faintly see shifting deep-sea coral and swimming magical luminescent fish inside, as if the entire building were submerged in the abyss of Atlantis.
As for the long corridor leading to the back garden, it had been dressed in a solemn Ancient Greek temple style.
Deep red silk was wrapped around the massive white marble columns, every inch of space screaming the decadence of power.
"As expected of an ancient pure-blood family..."
Jerry didn’t feel too surprised, because...
"Darling, you finally deigned to return from the arms of those stinking goblins and that newspaper woman?"
A voice carrying obvious teasing, yet laced with an unquestionable desire for dominance, came from the depths of the golden corridor.
Jerry looked up and saw Cassiopeia linking arms with Isabella, descending the long stairs covered in red velvet carpet.
Cassiopeia wore a deep purple satin strapless gown today.
The extremely form-fitting tailoring perfectly outlined her mature curves, which had become increasingly full and well-defined due to years of immersion in top-tier magic and maintenance.
And standing beside her, Isabella displayed a completely different kind of shyness and fanaticism belonging to a fiancée.
She wore a pure white, semi-transparent lace puff-sleeve mini-dress.
The hem was so short it reached the root of her thighs, exposing a pair of legs wrapped in pure white silk stockings—legs that radiated youth yet were incredibly meaty.
The edge of the white silk stocking bands dug into her elastic flesh, squeezing out a shallow wave of flesh.
"...Is this setup perhaps a bit too exaggerated?"
Jerry pointed to the shifting, unpredictable manor background.
"Exaggerated?"
Cassiopeia walked up to Jerry. She extended a finger with deep purple manicured nails and hooked Jerry’s chin.
An aura of mature, moist body scent carrying top-grade spices hit him.
"This is just a rehearsal for the engagement banquet.
The bloodline inheritance of the Rozier family is worth melting all the gold in Britain onto these walls."
"Let’s go, my little husband."
Isabella couldn’t wait to grab Jerry’s arm from the other side.
Because of her excessive development, her breasts were pressed tightly into the crook of Jerry’s arm.
The staggering softness of the touch made Jerry’s eyebrows jump.
"We need to go to the dressing room. We’ve prepared over thirty sets of clothes; we’re going to try them on one by one until we find the one that best sets off your... there."
Isabella’s eyes swept downward with a predatory look.
Before Jerry could even say the word "No," he was half-pulled and half-carried by these two women into the luxury dressing room on the top floor of the main building.
This dressing room was as large as a small banquet hall.
Three massive magical floor-to-ceiling mirrors refracted the scene inside into countless overlapping space-times.
In the center of the room hung dozens of expensive formal outfits woven from dragon hide, unicorn manes, and even silk fragments shed by Dementors.
"Take off these bothersome old clothes."
Cassiopeia shut the heavy oak door behind her and skillfully cast three layers of Muffliato and Binding Curses.
Stepping in her thin high heels, she circled behind Jerry, her slender fingers sliding along his neck toward the buttons of his school robes.
Her breath sprayed against the back of Jerry’s neck, carrying a sense of maternal pity mixed with female predation.
With a rrip, Jerry’s shirt—already a bit wrinkled from Gringotts—was brutally torn open by Cassiopeia.
The boy’s upper body, appearing exceptionally tight and well-defined due to magical tempering, was exposed to the air.
Though it was still a teenager’s frame, the broad shoulders and slightly bulging pectoral muscles already possessed the first hints of male oppression.
Isabella knelt down, her knees wrapped in white silk pressing into the thick sheepskin rug.
She impatiently reached for Jerry’s belt. Her small hands shuddered violently the moment they touched that massive contour, engorged from years of constant arousal.
"Mmh... it’s grown again, Jerry."
Isabella looked up, her saintly face written all over with greed.
"When you weren’t here, did you let some other woman help you ’reduce the swelling’?"
"Stop talking nonsense. Put on the first set."
Cassiopeia took a pitch-black, gold-trimmed tight-waist suit from the rack.
The fabric of this suit was unique—harvested from the skin of deep-sea sirens, possessing extreme elasticity and a magical effect that changed color according to the heartbeat.
Jerry stood naked between the two mirrors.
Isabella was like a hardworking bee, using her small hands in white silk gloves to pull the cold, smooth suit onto Jerry bit by bit.
Because the suit’s design was extremely form-fitting, every zipper pull required her to use her entire body’s strength to squeeze Jerry’s muscles.
"It’s too tight..." Jerry frowned, feeling the constriction that felt like it would snap his ribs.
"That’s the desired effect."
Cassiopeia stood to the side, arms crossed. Her massive orbs were on the verge of spilling out under the pressure.
Her long legs in black silk were elegantly crossed, the tips of her heels tapping the floor rhythmically.
"Only the most extreme restraint can display the most extreme eruption at the critical moment.
Look..."
She pointed toward Jerry’s crotch.
Wrapped in that deep-sea formal wear, which appeared nearly transparent due to the extreme fit, Jerry’s monstrosity—though flaccid—still looked like a heavy iron bar.
It outlined an exceptionally abrupt and highly aggressive silhouette at the crotch.
"No, this one won’t do."
Cassiopeia shook her head, her eyes flashing with a light called "grooming."
"The color is too dull. Try that pure white ’Unicorn’s Dream’.
I want you to look like the purest holy son."
Next came the second set, the third, the fourth...
In the dressing room, the rustle of clothes against skin, the sound of zippers sliding over metal gears, and the increasingly heavy breathing of the two women intertwined.
Jerry was like a delicate marionette at their mercy, shifting through one expensive outfit after another.
By the time they reached the twelfth set—a "Dark Sacrificial Garb" composed almost entirely of semi-transparent lace and intricate leather straps—the atmosphere had completely degenerated.
The designer of this outfit was clearly a total lunatic.
It consisted only of a few leather straps crossing at the roots of the thighs and over the chest, along with a half-concealing sheer cloak.
Jerry stood there with most of his skin exposed to the air.
The black leather straps bit into his elastic muscles, barely holding things in place.
"This is the one."
Cassiopeia’s voice became hoarse and viscous.
She stepped forward in her high heels, her long black-silk legs tracing a lethal arc across the marble floor.
She plastered herself against Jerry’s back, her full orbs pressing deathly tight against Jerry’s sweat-slicked spine.
"Jerry... you’re sweating." Cassiopeia extended her tongue and gave a light lick along the well-defined groove of his spine.
"Hah... anyone would sweat wearing clothes like these."
Jerry felt the staggering heat coming from behind him, and the meat-pillar between his legs—aching from the strap’s constriction, yet starting to engorge frantically due to the extreme stimulation.
Isabella could no longer control herself.
She crouched beneath Jerry’s crotch, her golden curls sweeping over his lower abdomen, triggering bursts of electric shudders.
Her white-silk-clad hands trembled as she gripped the giant object, already purple and bulging with veins.
Her lips pressed against the edge of the coronal head as she exhaled a breath of hot, white steam.
"The engagement banquet... right here... let’s sign a ’contract’ first, shall we?"
Isabella looked up, her face soaked with desire, looking heart-stoppingly beautiful in the light.
"Can I lodge a protest?"
"Of course you can!"
"But, obviously, the final answer will be a ’no’!"
Smack...
