A Bedroom, During Summer Months
Title: A Bedroom, During Summer Months
Pairing: Draco/Harry
Rating: NC-17
Summary: The summer after his sixth year, Harry has an unexpected visitor. Sheer, graphic, and unadulterated PWP.
Warnings: BDSM, quasi-non-con, quasi-bestiality, second person voice. If you can be squicked, you probably will be.
A/N 1: This is a gift for switchknife. Many thanks also to my lovely betas.
A/N 2: As my user profile says, I prefer to stay anonymous. If you think you know who I am, please don't spread it.
A Bedroom, During Summer Months
"This is for beating me every year at Quidditch," Draco says, clicking one handcuff around your Petrified right wrist and snapping it onto one corner of your metal-frame bed. "And this is for hexing me so badly that my mother wouldn't speak to me all last summer." You feel the second handcuff, chill and cutting on your skin, as he jerks it roughly around your limp left wrist.
Your body is naked, and Draco has taken your glasses so that even your unnervingly blurred vision strips you bare. Your room is cold, because Dudley makes Uncle Vernon keep the house that way, and Draco has told you that the only thing between you and Dudley is your unlocked door. He bends over your body, sliding his silk shirt against your cold-hardened nipples, and he whispers that he could leave you like this, limp and shivering, for your cousin to find. You would curse him if you could move your leaden lips.
Draco shimmies back down your body, dragging his rough trousers over your cock as he does so, and you feel the frustrating itch of arousal without corresponding hardness. "This," he continues, "is for stealing the House Cup from us." Another handcuff clicks, this one around your right ankle, which jolts you with the cold. His hands - fingers long, slender, serpent-cold - move to your other ankle. "This is for letting the Ministry take my home." The last handcuff clicks around your remaining limb, and you want to flinch, to test their strength, but all you can do is watch glimpses of blurred platinum slide across your field of vision.
"But this," he finishes in a voice that sends quiescent shivers across your exposed skin, "is for putting my father in Azkaban." The rough underside of hard leather presses against your throat, constricting your airway just enough to make your lungs struggle, and those girlish fingers snap a latch in the back of your collar. Something steel-cold and ungentle trails across your chest slowly, almost teasingly. A tight jerk, and you feel the chain wrench your neck forward. "You're mine now. I'm going to remove the Silencing Charm from this room, and then I'm going to take off your Petrification Curse, and if you do one thing that I don't like, I'll leave you like this and Disapparate. Understand?"
He pauses for a moment, then laughs in jagged, sharp exhalations. "Oh, I forgot - you can't talk."
He picks up his wand and murmurs counterspells at the room and at you. Strength floods back through your flesh: your mouth parts to gulp in air, you flex the arches of your feet, and between your legs you feel your cock spring up in abrupt hardness. You bite your tongue to keep from shouting in rage, and as a smug smile hardens Draco's cheeks, suffocating, rusty blood seeps down your throat. You choke, gasp for breath beneath the collar, and pray you're not coughing too loudly.
A sharp point jabs against the hollow of your throat, then slowly scratches down the center of your chest; you try to bend your head down to see, but without your glasses, only a long black blur is visible. As the point traces its path downward, leaving a straight, searing line in its wake, the skin around it comes to life, prickling with anticipation and wincing at the steady, teasing pain. You don't need to force yourself into silence now; your lips are parted and dry, fluttering with shallow panting. When the sharp line stops right above the base of your cock, a high, crooning whimper glides over your tongue, and you hate yourself for releasing it.
A moment later, when the delicate ridge of a quill-feather whispers down the length of your cock, drifts over the aching head, and disappears again, your teeth dig into your tongue again to keep from screaming.
"I knew you'd like this," Draco whispers, sibilant and sharp.
"I hate you," you say.
His voice rises in tone, sending a rush of fear through you. "The more that you talk, the louder I shall talk. I can Disapparate any time I please - but I am only just beginning."
Silence blankets the room, save the rustling of your breath and his shifting clothing. Abruptly you hear the shrill squeak of metal unscrewing from glass. "I've no interest in fouling my hands by touching you, Potter," Draco drawls, "but I have certain . . . friends . . . who might." A sudden pop halts the squeaking, and after a moment of deadly silence, a writhing knot of icy threads tumbles onto your bare stomach.
The sheer shock of the cold makes your stomach muscles harden and your breath stop. The bundle separates into individual creatures, metal-cold but slithering and hissing like - snakes. You hear a venomous chuckle from Draco as realization floods through you. "A few delightful trinkets from Knockturn Alley - and don't bother talking to them, Potter; they know what their instructions are."
The snakes slither over your torso in icy trails that send a shudder through you every time they pass over the still-burning line of the quill-point. Your skin shivers at the cold, writhing exploration, like a thousand strands of frost that tease and surround you, and the helpless vulnerability of your body to their touch arouses you uncontrollably. A string of snakes glides down below your stomach, over the shuddering skin of your inner thighs, and circles around your cock at the base - once, twice, thrice - then tightens and freezes in place, trapping you in hard, painful arousal. Two more tiny snakes slide even lower, twining around your ball sac and drawing it off. You try not to imagine how you must look to Draco: handcuffed, nude, violated and bound by the metal serpents, shuddering with cold, gasping silently with pleasure.
The myriad of snakes continues to slip over your body, slick and heavy and chill, working their way over your limbs, through your exposed armpits and thighs, even onto your collared neck and muscle-tensed face. Suddenly, in a sharp blossom of pain, you feel the teeth of one snake biting onto your left nipple, then sucking it away from you as if to swallow the now-aching nub. A moment later, another snake joins it on your right, devouring the tip of your hardened nipple with a combination of tight, piercing fangs and eager suction. Your chest arches at the exquisite pain, heightened by the scrape of the handcuffs on your clenching wrists.
Dim beneath the pounding pulse in your neck and the soft, hypnotic hissing of the serpents, you can hear Draco breathing, harsh and short.
Down your chest and away from your searing nipples slither a swarm of metal snakes, by now heated by your body; they descend to your cock and wrap it in a whirlwind of pressure and movement and teasing touch, twisting around the hard, aching shaft, varying in pressure and speed, flickering their whisper-soft tongues. One snake slides up to the head and buries itself beneath your foreskin, spiralling around the delicately moist hidden flesh and pushing the foreskin tight around it. Your body is twitching and writhing now, caught between the sweet agony of your fang-bitten nipples, the blissful swirl around your cock, and the bitter, jarring trickle of blood down your collared throat.
Just as you feel yourself tensing to come, despite the tight bonds around your balls and shaft, a sudden burning pressure at the head of your cock draws a hiss of pain from between your clenched jaws. In a devastating flash you realize what it is: one of the tiniest snakes, barely larger than a thin string, is nudging its way into the eye of your urethra, slowly and agonizingly making its way down into your cock. The pure unrelenting pain drowns out everything else, sheer torture like nothing you've ever felt. Tears leak from the corners of your eyes as the snake drives deep within you, pain building on pain until the room spins around you, penetrating you until the ripping pressure from within stretches all the way down to the snakes tightly wrapped around the base of your cock.
When the snake finally stops, it is buried to the tip of its metal tail in your cock, and through the pain you can once again feel the delicately sensuous dance outside. Serpents soothe and arouse your rigid flesh as the tiny snake in your core writhes searingly. The pain gradually gives way to a pumping, pulsating rhythm that consumes you from the head of your cock to the the tips of your nipples. You arch again and again, trying desperately to release your stoppered tension, chewing on your tongue to keep silence. A hoarse, whispered "please" escapes despite yourself.
"No, Potter, I shan't let you come yet," Draco says, more loudly than last time. "You're going to learn what it's like to beg." He jerks at the chain attached to your collar, knocking the breath out of your throat, and you try to muffle your blood-wetted cough.
In the midst of the battering haze of sensation around you, you feel a sinuous line of snakes trickling down between your legs, past your cock and balls, and pooling around your wrinkled, clenching arsehole. Faintly you hear Draco speaking an incantation, and the snakes become slick and limber, wriggling against each other eagerly. One slides into you, barely noticeable beneath the intensity of the metal snakes inside and around your cock, followed by another, and another, wrapping themselves into a tangled, writhing tube that hisses and thrums within your arse, adding to the chorus of sensation pounding through your nerves. Ever more snakes pour inside your arse, adding to the mass until it pounds deeper into you than you imagined possible, sliding and undulating against your prostate in rhythm with the snakes that swirl over your cock and devour your nipples. Your frantic, fruitless thrusting into the air melts into incoherence as the world begins to black out from the agonizing pleasure.
"Please, Draco," you groan-whimper, incapable of more complex speech. "Please, please, please."
"I want you to scream," he says, victory dripping from his voice.
"Can't . . . Dursleys. . ." you slur, still racked by iron-tasting unreleased need.
"Scream, Potter," he whispers. "Scream."
And you try to resist but nothing makes sense any more, nothing but the need to release this pressure that pummels you from all sides, and the handcuffs have rubbed your wrists raw and your nipples are numbing and your breaths are desperately shallow and your pelvis is pumping into the cold air so hard your leg muscles ache. You open your mouth and you scream.
From the room below you can hear Uncle Vernon's bellow of rage at being awakened, and you look pleadingly at the mocking angelic blur that is Draco. "Damn you," you groan, still writhing helplessly, and tears of anger are washing your cheeks.
"Not yet," he replies, and if anything the snakes increase the intensity of their stroking inside you and around you, even as you hear Uncle Vernon approaching the stairs. Finally, Draco leans over you, pressing his face so close to yours that you can smell his scent above your own simmering arousal, and whispers, "Now."
The tiny snake tugs itself out of your cock, burning even more painfully as it goes, while the two snakes on your chest unclench their fangs from your nipples, which pound agonizingly at the sudden release, so hard that you barely stop yourself screaming again from pain. But the snakes in you are still slithering over your prostate and around your cock, and the last four serpents release your cock and balls, and the bang of Uncle Vernon's foot on the stairs marks the moment when you come, helplessly, overflowingly, spurting all over yourself in a heady rush.
"Until next time," Draco laughs softly and triumphantly. In a flash and a crack he has Disapparated and the handcuffs, collar, and snakes have all disappeared. You flex your numb wrists, slowly at first, then hear the heavy thudding of Uncle Vernon approaching your door. Fighting the overwhelmed, exhaustedly sated lethargy in your limbs, you grab your blanket and wrap it around you up to your neck, just as the door slams open.
"What the ruddy hell do you think you're doing, boy?" Uncle Vernon growls.
You take two gasping breaths of air, enough to give you the coherence to speak. "I'm sorry," you mutter. "Nightmare."
Pairing: Draco/Harry
Rating: NC-17
Summary: The summer after his sixth year, Harry has an unexpected visitor. Sheer, graphic, and unadulterated PWP.
Warnings: BDSM, quasi-non-con, quasi-bestiality, second person voice. If you can be squicked, you probably will be.
A/N 1: This is a gift for switchknife. Many thanks also to my lovely betas.
A/N 2: As my user profile says, I prefer to stay anonymous. If you think you know who I am, please don't spread it.
A Bedroom, During Summer Months
"This is for beating me every year at Quidditch," Draco says, clicking one handcuff around your Petrified right wrist and snapping it onto one corner of your metal-frame bed. "And this is for hexing me so badly that my mother wouldn't speak to me all last summer." You feel the second handcuff, chill and cutting on your skin, as he jerks it roughly around your limp left wrist.
Your body is naked, and Draco has taken your glasses so that even your unnervingly blurred vision strips you bare. Your room is cold, because Dudley makes Uncle Vernon keep the house that way, and Draco has told you that the only thing between you and Dudley is your unlocked door. He bends over your body, sliding his silk shirt against your cold-hardened nipples, and he whispers that he could leave you like this, limp and shivering, for your cousin to find. You would curse him if you could move your leaden lips.
Draco shimmies back down your body, dragging his rough trousers over your cock as he does so, and you feel the frustrating itch of arousal without corresponding hardness. "This," he continues, "is for stealing the House Cup from us." Another handcuff clicks, this one around your right ankle, which jolts you with the cold. His hands - fingers long, slender, serpent-cold - move to your other ankle. "This is for letting the Ministry take my home." The last handcuff clicks around your remaining limb, and you want to flinch, to test their strength, but all you can do is watch glimpses of blurred platinum slide across your field of vision.
"But this," he finishes in a voice that sends quiescent shivers across your exposed skin, "is for putting my father in Azkaban." The rough underside of hard leather presses against your throat, constricting your airway just enough to make your lungs struggle, and those girlish fingers snap a latch in the back of your collar. Something steel-cold and ungentle trails across your chest slowly, almost teasingly. A tight jerk, and you feel the chain wrench your neck forward. "You're mine now. I'm going to remove the Silencing Charm from this room, and then I'm going to take off your Petrification Curse, and if you do one thing that I don't like, I'll leave you like this and Disapparate. Understand?"
He pauses for a moment, then laughs in jagged, sharp exhalations. "Oh, I forgot - you can't talk."
He picks up his wand and murmurs counterspells at the room and at you. Strength floods back through your flesh: your mouth parts to gulp in air, you flex the arches of your feet, and between your legs you feel your cock spring up in abrupt hardness. You bite your tongue to keep from shouting in rage, and as a smug smile hardens Draco's cheeks, suffocating, rusty blood seeps down your throat. You choke, gasp for breath beneath the collar, and pray you're not coughing too loudly.
A sharp point jabs against the hollow of your throat, then slowly scratches down the center of your chest; you try to bend your head down to see, but without your glasses, only a long black blur is visible. As the point traces its path downward, leaving a straight, searing line in its wake, the skin around it comes to life, prickling with anticipation and wincing at the steady, teasing pain. You don't need to force yourself into silence now; your lips are parted and dry, fluttering with shallow panting. When the sharp line stops right above the base of your cock, a high, crooning whimper glides over your tongue, and you hate yourself for releasing it.
A moment later, when the delicate ridge of a quill-feather whispers down the length of your cock, drifts over the aching head, and disappears again, your teeth dig into your tongue again to keep from screaming.
"I knew you'd like this," Draco whispers, sibilant and sharp.
"I hate you," you say.
His voice rises in tone, sending a rush of fear through you. "The more that you talk, the louder I shall talk. I can Disapparate any time I please - but I am only just beginning."
Silence blankets the room, save the rustling of your breath and his shifting clothing. Abruptly you hear the shrill squeak of metal unscrewing from glass. "I've no interest in fouling my hands by touching you, Potter," Draco drawls, "but I have certain . . . friends . . . who might." A sudden pop halts the squeaking, and after a moment of deadly silence, a writhing knot of icy threads tumbles onto your bare stomach.
The sheer shock of the cold makes your stomach muscles harden and your breath stop. The bundle separates into individual creatures, metal-cold but slithering and hissing like - snakes. You hear a venomous chuckle from Draco as realization floods through you. "A few delightful trinkets from Knockturn Alley - and don't bother talking to them, Potter; they know what their instructions are."
The snakes slither over your torso in icy trails that send a shudder through you every time they pass over the still-burning line of the quill-point. Your skin shivers at the cold, writhing exploration, like a thousand strands of frost that tease and surround you, and the helpless vulnerability of your body to their touch arouses you uncontrollably. A string of snakes glides down below your stomach, over the shuddering skin of your inner thighs, and circles around your cock at the base - once, twice, thrice - then tightens and freezes in place, trapping you in hard, painful arousal. Two more tiny snakes slide even lower, twining around your ball sac and drawing it off. You try not to imagine how you must look to Draco: handcuffed, nude, violated and bound by the metal serpents, shuddering with cold, gasping silently with pleasure.
The myriad of snakes continues to slip over your body, slick and heavy and chill, working their way over your limbs, through your exposed armpits and thighs, even onto your collared neck and muscle-tensed face. Suddenly, in a sharp blossom of pain, you feel the teeth of one snake biting onto your left nipple, then sucking it away from you as if to swallow the now-aching nub. A moment later, another snake joins it on your right, devouring the tip of your hardened nipple with a combination of tight, piercing fangs and eager suction. Your chest arches at the exquisite pain, heightened by the scrape of the handcuffs on your clenching wrists.
Dim beneath the pounding pulse in your neck and the soft, hypnotic hissing of the serpents, you can hear Draco breathing, harsh and short.
Down your chest and away from your searing nipples slither a swarm of metal snakes, by now heated by your body; they descend to your cock and wrap it in a whirlwind of pressure and movement and teasing touch, twisting around the hard, aching shaft, varying in pressure and speed, flickering their whisper-soft tongues. One snake slides up to the head and buries itself beneath your foreskin, spiralling around the delicately moist hidden flesh and pushing the foreskin tight around it. Your body is twitching and writhing now, caught between the sweet agony of your fang-bitten nipples, the blissful swirl around your cock, and the bitter, jarring trickle of blood down your collared throat.
Just as you feel yourself tensing to come, despite the tight bonds around your balls and shaft, a sudden burning pressure at the head of your cock draws a hiss of pain from between your clenched jaws. In a devastating flash you realize what it is: one of the tiniest snakes, barely larger than a thin string, is nudging its way into the eye of your urethra, slowly and agonizingly making its way down into your cock. The pure unrelenting pain drowns out everything else, sheer torture like nothing you've ever felt. Tears leak from the corners of your eyes as the snake drives deep within you, pain building on pain until the room spins around you, penetrating you until the ripping pressure from within stretches all the way down to the snakes tightly wrapped around the base of your cock.
When the snake finally stops, it is buried to the tip of its metal tail in your cock, and through the pain you can once again feel the delicately sensuous dance outside. Serpents soothe and arouse your rigid flesh as the tiny snake in your core writhes searingly. The pain gradually gives way to a pumping, pulsating rhythm that consumes you from the head of your cock to the the tips of your nipples. You arch again and again, trying desperately to release your stoppered tension, chewing on your tongue to keep silence. A hoarse, whispered "please" escapes despite yourself.
"No, Potter, I shan't let you come yet," Draco says, more loudly than last time. "You're going to learn what it's like to beg." He jerks at the chain attached to your collar, knocking the breath out of your throat, and you try to muffle your blood-wetted cough.
In the midst of the battering haze of sensation around you, you feel a sinuous line of snakes trickling down between your legs, past your cock and balls, and pooling around your wrinkled, clenching arsehole. Faintly you hear Draco speaking an incantation, and the snakes become slick and limber, wriggling against each other eagerly. One slides into you, barely noticeable beneath the intensity of the metal snakes inside and around your cock, followed by another, and another, wrapping themselves into a tangled, writhing tube that hisses and thrums within your arse, adding to the chorus of sensation pounding through your nerves. Ever more snakes pour inside your arse, adding to the mass until it pounds deeper into you than you imagined possible, sliding and undulating against your prostate in rhythm with the snakes that swirl over your cock and devour your nipples. Your frantic, fruitless thrusting into the air melts into incoherence as the world begins to black out from the agonizing pleasure.
"Please, Draco," you groan-whimper, incapable of more complex speech. "Please, please, please."
"I want you to scream," he says, victory dripping from his voice.
"Can't . . . Dursleys. . ." you slur, still racked by iron-tasting unreleased need.
"Scream, Potter," he whispers. "Scream."
And you try to resist but nothing makes sense any more, nothing but the need to release this pressure that pummels you from all sides, and the handcuffs have rubbed your wrists raw and your nipples are numbing and your breaths are desperately shallow and your pelvis is pumping into the cold air so hard your leg muscles ache. You open your mouth and you scream.
From the room below you can hear Uncle Vernon's bellow of rage at being awakened, and you look pleadingly at the mocking angelic blur that is Draco. "Damn you," you groan, still writhing helplessly, and tears of anger are washing your cheeks.
"Not yet," he replies, and if anything the snakes increase the intensity of their stroking inside you and around you, even as you hear Uncle Vernon approaching the stairs. Finally, Draco leans over you, pressing his face so close to yours that you can smell his scent above your own simmering arousal, and whispers, "Now."
The tiny snake tugs itself out of your cock, burning even more painfully as it goes, while the two snakes on your chest unclench their fangs from your nipples, which pound agonizingly at the sudden release, so hard that you barely stop yourself screaming again from pain. But the snakes in you are still slithering over your prostate and around your cock, and the last four serpents release your cock and balls, and the bang of Uncle Vernon's foot on the stairs marks the moment when you come, helplessly, overflowingly, spurting all over yourself in a heady rush.
"Until next time," Draco laughs softly and triumphantly. In a flash and a crack he has Disapparated and the handcuffs, collar, and snakes have all disappeared. You flex your numb wrists, slowly at first, then hear the heavy thudding of Uncle Vernon approaching your door. Fighting the overwhelmed, exhaustedly sated lethargy in your limbs, you grab your blanket and wrap it around you up to your neck, just as the door slams open.
"What the ruddy hell do you think you're doing, boy?" Uncle Vernon growls.
You take two gasping breaths of air, enough to give you the coherence to speak. "I'm sorry," you mutter. "Nightmare."