Kristmas Wish Fulfilled for: eeyore9990
From: kelly_chambliss

Title: King of Beasts
Characters/Pairings: Alastor Moody/Kingsley Shacklebolt/Surprise
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Included: As per the recipient's wish: "Mentor!smut, Big Bad Auror!Smut"
Other Content: Orgasm denial (sort of), mild humiliation, misuse of potions and sofas
Word Count: 5900
Summary: Kingsley Shacklebolt's first assignment for the Order of the Phoenix is a beastly one. In some ways. And he hasn't even met Voldemort yet.
Author's Notes: A really fun prompt, Mystery Recipient; thank you. I hope this story doesn't have too much D/s for you. But I don't think Kingsley minded, truly.

My thanks to my excellent beta, and I wish all the Deviants a fine Kinky Kristmas.

o~~O~~o

The blindfold charm was a good one; there wasn't a glimmer of light anywhere. His eyes were wide open, but when it came to seeing anything, Kingsley Shacklebolt might as well have been in the deepest of underground caves.

Not that he really cared too much about seeing things, not at the moment, anyway. Not when his bare arse was being slowly stroked and fondled, warm fingers kneading his buttocks, smoothing oil into his skin, staying carefully and teasingly away from the places that, until tonight, no man but Kingsley himself had ever touched. Until tonight, he hadn't known he wanted another man's hands there.

But now. . .ah, now. Now, he was more aroused than he'd ever been in his life, and he couldn't stop himself from contracting his arse muscles in a futile attempt to nudge the stroking hands lower, closer to. . .

He got a slap and a chuckle for his trouble. As always, Kingsley was damned glad to be a black man; it meant that no one could see his cheeks -- all of them -- blushing red like a schoolboy's.

"Eager, kiddo? Want it, do you? Told you you would."

Oh, yes, he'd told him, all right.

Kingsley settled himself more comfortably over the upholstered sofa, which had been transfigured to just the right height and width, and tried not to groan aloud with pleasure.

It was just like Papa had warned him, all those years ago: "It's when you think you know it all, my son, that you most likely don't know it at all."

Right again, Papa, Kingsley thought, just before he felt a slick finger slide into his lubed arse. He did groan then, and not just because of how good it felt.

How could he have been so naïve? He'd been so sure of himself -- so damned sure of himself. . .

o~~O~~o

It was Albus Dumbledore himself who recruited Kingsley into the Order of the Phoenix, two weeks after the boy Cedric died at Hogwarts. They met in a Muggle pub in the City, and if Dumbledore hadn't used the Auror greeting code, Kingsley would not have recognised him. Clad in a subdued pinstripe suit and dark tie, his hair and beard charmed short and brown, the Headmaster was indistinguishable from any Muggle banker.

"I have a proposition for you," Dumbledore had said, and by the time they had finished their ploughman's and pint, Kingsley had agreed to rendezvous with Alastor Moody for a preliminary briefing on joining the Order of the Phoenix.

Kingsley wasn't exactly surprised to be recruited into the Order; he wouldn't have been much of an Auror if he hadn't had sources enough to learn of the group's reorganisation within days after it happened. But he had been surprised to hear that Moody was to play so large a part in the leadership.

Dumbledore understood. "Yes," he'd said, "Alastor is suspicious and difficult, especially after spending all that time in Barty Crouch's trunk. But there are few people I'd rather have on my side. Even in his current state, Moody is twice the Auror of many of the younger recruits."

Kingsley didn't take this comment personally; he knew Dumbledore was right. How the hell they were going to win the coming war with some of the kids he's seen in the recent Auror training classes, he didn't know. He'd told Amelia. . .

Well. That was a problem for a later time. Just now, he needed to focus on his new identity as a member of a subversive organisation. The Order of the Phoenix was a formidable group, or so rumour had it. But there was no getting around the fact that most of the people in it were amateurs.

Molly Weasley, for instance, may have lost brothers to the cause, but she herself had no combat experience, nor did her husband. Remus Lupin certainly knew hardship and how to survive on his wits, but he had never faced actual DEs, either. And someone like Minerva McGonagall. . .yes, she'd apparently been a reasonable duellist at one time, but now. . .well, she'd spent the time between wars teaching kiddies. How skilled could any of them be?

The more Kingsley considered the matter, the more he was sure that the Order's lack of expertise was probably one of the reasons that Dumbledore had recruited him, a senior Auror: so that he could offer them some professional training.

o~~O~~o

Founders of Hogwarts, help me Kingsley thought, spreading his legs wider and biting his lip to keep from blubbering in bliss -- he'd actually thought he had tricks to teach the Order. It wasn't just the second finger now inside his arse that made him wriggle and gasp; it was shame, too. What an arrogant, cocky. . .

Oops. Bad word choice. Now his awareness of his arse was joined by a sharp awareness of his rock-hard cock as it rubbed against the upholstery. Merlin, please don't let me come on the sofa, he thought desperately. He'd already spotted it with drool.

Oh, god, was that a third finger in his arse? How could he. . .damn, but it felt good, it felt. . ."Arrgggg," Kingsley cried aloud.

But not so loud that he couldn't hear the whisper next to his ear: "See, laddie? They'll do you like this."

o~~O~~o

Mad-Eye Moody was a legend in the Auror corps. An absolute legend. Everyone agreed that in his day, there'd been no one to touch him. Now, though, most people believed that his day was long past, that Moody was a paranoid liability, with a mind as mad as his eye.

But Kingsley had been inclined to trust Dumbledore's assessment of the old warrior -- that is, until he met up with the man. He'd not seen him for several years, so he hadn't quite been prepared for the changes. He'd had to answer five bizarre questions before Moody would even show his face, and then. . .

Well, what a face it was. With his magical eye whizzing back and forth, and the scars, and the missing bits, and the wild mane of hair, Moody looked even madder than common report had him.

But. . .

But. As soon as he saw this current Mad-Eye, Kingsley was taken back to one of his strongest childhood memories, when he'd been seven years old, and his father had taken him to see a Muggle traveling menagerie. It had been sad affair, with lethargic keepers, shabby cages, and animals who'd been old and tired.

Yet there had been a lion.

He'd been ancient, his mane scraggly, his fur dusty and marked by patches of mange. When he walked, one massive paw dragged slightly behind him.

But the muscles had still rippled sinuously beneath his coat as he paced the cage, and his eyes. . . ah, his eyes had been fierce and direct and terrifying, and little-boy-Kingsley had been unable to tear his own eyes away. He'd shivered inside his heavy parka, for he'd been sure that the lion had been looking straight at him.

He'd stood in front of the cage for quite a long time, and yet even though it was cold and the hour was late, he'd refused to leave when Papa finally wanted to walk on. His father had laughed his deep laugh, the one that could make you feel warm even in winter.

"You like the old boy?" Papa had said. "Good. There is much life in him still. Never mind that he is old -- he will always be the King of Beasts."

The sight of the mighty old lion had stayed with Kingsley, and he couldn't help but think of him when he came face-to-face with Alastor Moody. Old the man might be, and paranoid to an almost comical degree; his hair might be grizzled and his step lame and his body beyond battered. . .but he was still King.

The power, the sharpness, the overwhelming sense of focus and awareness -- Kingsley could feel that it was all still there. Dumbledore was right: there were few people you'd rather have on your side.

o~~O~~o

Well, Moody was on his side, all right, Kingsley thought -- his backside. And in his backside, too. The fingers had been withdrawn, though, and in their place he felt a larger, thicker object slide inside him. At first he thought Moody was doing the fucking himself -- an intensely-arousing idea, he found -- but the cock felt too rigid, too. . .something. A dildo, Kingsley decided finally.

And just as he came to this realisation, the dildo, which had been entering him slowly, was suddenly thrust in deeply. Despite the lube and his own desires, there was pain, sharp and red behind his eyes as Kingsley felt himself open, and then open some more, more than he would have ever thought possible, and then the pain ebbed, became pleasure.

After a moment, the thrusting began again, and Kingsley was just beginning to lose himself in these new feelings when something hit his arse with a crack. HIs muscles tightened, clamping down on the dildo, sending a hot jolt to his own cock.

The sensation was indescribable, good in ways he'd never expected, and Kingsley heard himself howling, felt himself moving with the thrusts, felt heat that was both arousal and embarrassment, because some part of his brain remembered that this was supposed to be a training exercise. . .oh, Merlin, yes. . .

No! Dammit, he was supposed to be learning how to control himself, learning how to master his humiliation. . .Moody would be --

Then the dildo began to slow, and before he could stop himself, Kingsley croaked, "Don't stop."

He heard a sound of mingled exasperation and laughter and a moment later, the unmistakable sound of Moody clumping around toward him.

But the rubber cock was still slowly fucking him, even though Moody now seemed to have stopped in front of him. Kingsley was certain he could puzzle out the solution, if only he weren't so distracted. Could be a charm, or. . .

A hand grabbed his chin, hard. "'Don't stop'?" Moody barked, a puff of hot, tea-stained breath hitting Kingsley's face. "That what you're going to say to the Death Eaters, is it? Right before you spill your guts to 'em?"

o~~O~~o

The last time Moody had been in his face like this, two days earlier, Kingsley had been fully-clothed, but he'd had the same sense of things being taken out of his control.

They'd met at yet another unplottable safe house, this one in Wales. Moody insisted that they keep on the move, claiming that predictability had been his downfall against Barty Crouch, Junior. It was Kingsley's fourth Order meeting since Dumbledore had recruited him, and it was also the fourth different house. Kingsley suspected that the owners of these homes had no idea they were being commandeered for Order purposes, or indeed, for any purpose; they all appeared to belong to Muggles who'd gone on holiday.

The old man had refused to sit, but had endlessly paced, his wooden leg thumping the floor, his mad eye whirling. The eye wasn't focused directly on him, but Kingsley had no doubt that he was being watched -- just as he had been sure, all those years ago, that the menagerie lion had watched him.

He'd asked for the meeting because he wanted to broach to Moody the idea of doing some training workshops for Order members. He wasn't brash enough to think he knew everything about being a member of the Order of the Phoenix. . . .but he definitely thought he knew this.

Dammit, he was a veteran Auror, one of the "old men" of the corps, and, as far as he could tell, he was also the most senior active Auror in the Order. Young Nymphadora Tonks was green, just newly-licensed, and Moody -- well, despite his strengths, it had been a while since Moody had been on top of the game in terms of new techniques.

Still, Kingsley had thought he could approach Mad-Eye as a fellow professional and offer to demonstrate some the latest magical surveillance and guerilla tactics. So after considering his opening gambit carefully, he'd asked for the meeting and had found himself facing Moody in an over-decorated Muggle sitting room in Cardiff.

"I know there are several Aurors in the Order of the Phoenix," Kingsley had begun. "And of course no one would question the Order's expertise in dealing with the sort of threat that You-Know-Who represents. But I find myself a bit concerned about whether all the Order members quite know what they are getting into."

Moody had offered a grunt, which Kingsley took as permission to continue.

"The members," he'd said, "they're. . .well, to put it bluntly, they're amateurs, most of them. People like Lupin, or Bill Weasley: they weren't in the previous war, so they don't know how bad the Death Eaters will be. And Professor McGonagall? I mean, she's not so young any longer, and. . ."

He suddenly remembered that McGonagall and Moody were more or less contemporaries, so he hurried on, "In any case. Even if they had all fought in the last war, they aren't really trained in the best strategies to use against this sort of terrorism, as the Muggles would call it. If you think it would be a good idea, I could offer some training seminars. . ."

Astonished at his sudden diffidence, Kingsley heard his usually-confident voice falter to a stop. Moody hadn't changed his position or expression, but Kingsley felt a distinct chilling of the atmosphere. Between his Auror training and a touch of natural talent for Legilimency, he'd become adept at reading people's states of mind, and Mad-Eye, he could tell, was Not Happy.

Kingsley braced himself for one of the legendary Moody roars, yet when the old man began speaking, he was quiet, meditative. This behaviour was so unlike his usual fearsome reputation that it almost made Kingsley nervous.

But then again, nerves and second-guessing weren't his style. No, Kingsley thought, he'd raised his concerns, they were legitimate ones, and now he'd just wait and hear what Moody had to say.

"Been trained against this 'terrorism' yourself, have you?"

"Yes, a bit. I took Auror Filbutter's workshop."

"Filbutter," Moody nodded. "Good man. Father was in the Muggle police force." Still sounding benign, he cocked his normal eye at Kingsley and asked, "Ever been captured by DEs?"

"No, I haven't."

"Know the kind of things they get up to, do you?"

"I've studied them. The usual methods -- they work by stealth, often strike at random to spread uncertainty and fear. They like to make examples of ordinary people, so that everyone knows he or she is vulnerable. They use threats, poisons, curses -- all the Dark Arts, all the Unforgiveables."

"And torture," said Moody.

"And torture," Kingsley agreed. "Rape."

Moody at last lowered himself into a chair, sticking his wooden leg out in front of him. As near as Kingsley could tell amid the scars and seams, his expression was still worryingly mild. He sat silent for several long minutes, but Kingsley said nothing further. It was the old man's show now.

"You ever been raped, Shacklebolt?" Moody asked finally. Kingsley tried to read the tone of his voice, figure out what he was getting at, but failed.

"No," he answered truthfully.

"What do you suppose it would be like, then?"

"Like?" What the hell kind of question was that? "Well, I suppose it would be painful. . .terrifying. Humiliating,"

"Humiliating," repeated Moody slowly. "Aye. . ."

Out of nowhere, faster than Kingsley's eye could follow, Moody's hand had shot out to grab him by the front of his robes. Then Mad-Eye had actually Levitated himself across the space that separated them, bringing his face within a blink of Kingsley's eyes.

"You think you know about humiliation, Shacklebolt?" he hissed. "You think you know what the DEs will do to humiliate your arse?"

Kingsley reached instinctively towards his wand, but before he could get near it, Moody dropped the fistful of robes and turned back to his seat. Warily, keeping his hand close to his wand sheath, Kingsley drew a slow breath and resisted the temptation to smooth his collar.

"The DEs," Moody continued in the same meditative tone he'd used previously, as if his brief moment of violence had never occurred, "are perfectly capable of rape in the usual sense, and it's as bad as you've described. But there's a number among 'em who aren't satisfied with the usual ways. They're kinky bastards, some of them, Shacklebolt. Make no mistake."

He set his mad eye to spinning, and Kingsley suddenly felt very exposed.

"You know the sort of humiliation some of the DEs prefer?" Moody demanded. "They prefer to arouse you. Make you want it. Make you beg for it. Make you tell them things not because they've frightened you or hurt you, but because you're so desperate to fuck or be fucked that you can't wait to shop your associates, your friends. . .your mother, if that's what it takes."

"They can't just use Veritaserum, like the Ministry?" Kingsley joked, in a feeble attempt to lighten the atmosphere. But Moody responded seriously.

"Oh, they could. 'Course they could. But they want you to want it, see? They don't want you to have the excuse that you were forced or helpless. No, they give you a potion that enhances your own desires, and then they tease and entice you until you're screaming for it, spilling your guts to 'em. And if they don't kill you, you get to live with the knowledge that you cracked because you couldn't resist your own dick."

As if determined to keep things off-balance, Moody followed this statement with a courteous "excuse me" and waved his wand in the direction of the Muggle kitchen. Kingsley could hear water start to run and china rattle. In a few minutes, two steaming cups of tea came floating toward them.

In the meantime, Moody explained further.

"They give you a special sort of aphrodisiac potion," he said. "One that evidently only they know how to make. Works on men and women alike. You ask me, that bastard Severus Snape developed it for them, but Dumbledore's not convinced. Anyway, it's not like a love potion, not something that makes you act against your will. It builds on something you already want. It can keep you on the edge of orgasm for a couple of hours. One of the DEs will start to seduce you, make you hornier than hell, and if even a little part of you wants them, you can't resist."

"What if you don't want them?"

"Then it won't work, will it? But it's not as if they can't return to their usual methods -- traditional rape and truth serum and the Cruciatus and whatever."

"I think. . ." Kingsley began, but became aware as he spoke that he didn't quite know what he thought, except that when he'd asked for this meeting, he'd never imagined sitting and coolly chatting with Mad-Eye Moody about orgasm delay. He decided to shift his comment into a question instead.

"Is there no antidote to this potion?"

Moody blew on his tea before looking up, and Kingsley could have sworn that there was a glint of amusement in his normal eye. "Oh, aye," he said. "There's an antidote. Of sorts."

He sipped, and it became clear to Kingsley that he wasn't going to elaborate without further questions. Apparently the DEs weren't the only ones who liked to see people beg. Well, Kingsley could play the waiting game, too; he was nothing if not a patient man. So he sat silently, sipping his own drink.

Finally Moody finished his tea and looked at him with something that could have been a smile but was equally likely to be a feral grimace. Kingsley had the impression that the old man had been testing him.

"There's a natural antidote," Moody said, picking up the previous conversation as if there had been no interruption. "The potion loses its effectiveness the more you're exposed to it. So if you just keep taking it, you'll end up immune."

"Taking it? You mean. . ."

"Aye," grunted Moody. "That's exactly what I mean. Get yourself horny for the cause. The longer you can resist the orgasm, accept the humiliation, the more resistance you can build up."

Kingsley considered. "But even if you become immune," he said at last, "it doesn't help much, does it? You're still at their mercy."

Moody shrugged. "Gives 'em one less weapon, though; one less arrow in their quiver. All their methods are poisonous, one way and another. Just depends on which you prefer."

He spun his eye at Kingsley. "What do you say, Shacklebolt? Interested in fortifying yourself against it?"

It was a good thing, Kingsley reflected, that he'd spent long hours schooling his poker face; otherwise, he might well have shown his astonishment and thus ruined his reputation for amused imperturbability.

But so well had he trained himself that he was able to maintain a blank expression, though he did buy himself some time by downing the rest of his tea and saying the first thing that came into his mind: "I thought you said our side didn't know how to make this potion?"

"We don't. Not yet, anyway. But we managed to confiscate a supply of it in a raid. Snape is supposed to be figuring out how it's made." Moody snorted, clearly believing that Snape already knew. "Meantime, a few Order members have been dosing themselves. In the interest of defence."

He didn't say whether he was one of the dosers, and Kingsley prudently didn't ask. But he had found himself speculating about Moody in throes of potion-enhanced passion. A sudden vision filled his mind: a dark, stiff cock rising proudly from the old man's loins, framed by sturdy thighs and a torso bearing the scars of battle. To Kingsley's surprise, his own cock gave a jerk in response.

Partly to distract himself from this unexpected turn of events and partly because he thought Moody would be the sort to appreciate directness, Kingsley decided to meet the man head-on.

His voice was steady, although he realised that those few who knew him intimately would instantly have recognised the way arousal had lowered his already-deep tones.

"Are you," he said, staring into both the mad and the ordinary eyes, "offering me the opportunity to 'dose' myself?"

"Do you want to?" Moody countered.

"I can use it on myself? In private?"

Moody chuckled, and it wasn't a comforting sound. "Nay, lad," he said. "It won't work if you don't have someone to play it off against -- someone to get you started wanting, if you follow me. Now, of course, this information isn't something we're spreading around. Only a few senior Order members are trying it out: the old hands. The ones who can keep it in perspective."

"Why are you asking me, then? I'm a newcomer."

Moody gave a bark of laughter. "You're an important Auror, laddie. Dumbledore has big plans for you. And you're the one said you wanted training. Called this meeting and all, didn't you?"

Kingsley didn't bother to point out that he had offered to give training to others, not to be the trainee himself. Moody was well aware of that fact, and as far as Kingsley could tell, was enjoying it.

"You can try it or not; up to you," the old man said. "The Order isn't like the DEs: we're not interested in forcing anyone into anything. All volunteers, we are." With a sharp glance at Kingsley, he went on, "And it's not as easy to get takers as you might think. It's a perverse sort of pleasure, let me tell you. There's not many who are up to it."

He cackled. "So to speak. Anyway, you got to put aside your notions of what's private and intimate. Be ready to let your colleagues see you bare-arsed and begging. It can be done, though. You get through it. Just treat it like any other assignment."

He waited a moment and then said, "Well? You in, or not? Or you want to think it over?"

Kingsley definitely wanted to think it over; he wasn't going to let Moody push him into such a thing as some sort of macho challenge, some test to see who could be the biggest, baddest Auror.

"I have a few more questions," he said. "First, who would be my partner?"

Moody's scarred mouth stretched wide in what was apparently a grin. Kingsley was taken back once more to the memory of the fierce old lion, who had performed a few tricks for the watching crowd.

Like swallowing his keeper's whole head.

"Your partner?" Mad-Eye was repeating. "That would be me. Yeah, I'd be one of them, anyhow. For starters."

o~~O~~o

And now here Kingsley was, blindfold-charmed, spread wide over a transfigured sofa, his cock throbbing with mingled pleasure and pain. He craved release, was almost ready to beg for it -- and the thought of begging made him want it all the more.

The Death-Eater potion had awakened desires he had hardly known he had, and he was astounded to find himself wishing that he could fill his mouth the way the dildo was filling his arse.

"I want -- " he began. He had become an organ of desire, his entire body filled with wanting. From the top of his head down to his toes, every inch of skin, every nerve felt it; there was nothing in the world now except this excruciating, bright, sweet wanting. He wanted a real cock in his arse and in his mouth, he wanted a mouth or hands on his own cock.

For starters.

Moody was speaking again, laughing at him. "You want? Of course you do. Shacklebolt, the toughest Auror of them all, wants his willy pulled, wants his arse fucked, doesn’t he? And what would you give to have those things, lad, eh? Give up the name of an Order member or two, would you?"

Kingsley shouted aloud as he felt a fingertip brush his balls from behind, even though Moody's face seemed to be still only millimetres from his own. What the -- ?

"Go on, just one name," Moody urged, still clearly in front of him. The fingers on his balls tightened, squeezing gently, and Kingsley groaned. Who the hell was behind him? It must be just another charm, he told himself firmly, trying to ignore the stroking hand he now felt on his arse and thighs.

Moody wasn't letting up. "It wouldn't hurt to give up just one name, would it?" he said. "Pick someone you think is protected, so no harm will be done. You can justify that, can't you? Can't you, Auror-man with his arse in the air?"

And sure enough, the transfigured sofa was rising, tilting his arse higher, pressing thrillingly on his cock.

Then suddenly, the sofa seemed to disappear entirely, and Kingsley, though still in the same position, found himself magically suspended in the air, his toes just grazing the floor. He was totally exposed now, his legs still spread, his stiff cock bobbing wildly for anyone to see.

And "anyone" it could actually be -- well, anyone from the Order, anyway. For he no longer denied that a third person was present. He could hear their robes rustle as they walked past him to join Moody, could hear Moody mutter something to them before he clumped round to stand behind Kingsley again. He could almost physically feel the newcomer's gaze settle upon him.

In ordinary circumstances, any one of these things --- the unexpected rush of cool air against his sweaty skin as the sofa disappeared, Moody's comments, the nearly unfathomable notion of being bared to strangers -- would have deflated him in an instant.

But here, cocooned in darkness and desire, Kingsley felt, if anything, even more aroused. He yearned for more and dirtier talk, more touches, even more eyes upon him -- if only the feelings could continue, if only he could come. . .

And underneath the pleasure, he felt the slow burn of something else: knowledge, or maybe shame. Shame at the thought that he could want like this, that Moody now knew he could -- and must know, too, that one of the things Kingsley obviously wanted was him.

Nor could he forget the additional person in the room. No doubt it was one of the senior Order members Moody had mentioned, maybe even Dumbledore himself. . .

Worse even than these thoughts, though, was his realisation that if these had been real Death Eaters with their hands on his body, making him feel the way he felt. . .well, he didn't know if he'd be able to resist their questions.

Because damn -- it felt good. It felt great.

He was aware, now, of the dildo sliding slowly out of him, and the absence of it left him feeling bereft and alone. Against his will, a whimper escaped him, bringing a light touch from whoever stood in front of him: a quick scrape of fingernails across his chest and nipples. Kingsley squirmed; his cock shook; it felt wonderful.

Behind him, the dildo was replaced by what felt like a human finger -- Moody's, no doubt.

And now for the first time, someone was touching his cock, too.

Kingsley gasped and thrust forward; the pleasure was almost more than he could bear. Resolutely, he put all thoughts from his mind and simply let himself relish the novel experience of two sets of hands touching him, rubbing, pinching, fucking. There were fingers in his arse and other fingers round his cock, all stroking expertly, and Kingsley loved it.

He knew it would end eventually, and that he would have to face his colleagues and deal with his humiliation and his new-found attraction to a man -- to Moody -- but for now, there was nothing but darkness and sensation, he was bucking and moaning and didn't care. . .

Just when he thought there was nothing more he could feel, no possible further pleasure to be had, the fingers on his cock were replaced by a warm mouth that took him in deeply and softly and then. . .ah, Merlin's balls! Teeth were lightly grazing his shaft, and he couldn't stand it, he had to come, he. . .

"Careful," grunted Moody from behind him, where he'd been running tantalizing fingertips around the outside edge of Kingsley's no-doubt-gaping anus. "Don't bring him off yet. The DEs would keep on for another hour at least."

The other person, who seemed irritated at being given instructions, growled low in their throat, and the vibration sent shocks of excitement to Kingley's core. He began to thrust into the sucking mouth, only to hear Moody say,

"Aye, maybe you're right. Only so much the lad can take, first time out. Fine, then: finish him."

The mouth disappeared, to be replaced again by a tight, hot sheath of fingers, but by this time, the source didn't matter. Kingsley was coming, hard, spurting onto the hand that held him, roaring as loudly as any beast of the jungle.

o~~O~~o

He could hear Moody clumping round to face him as the other person released his cock and murmured a quick cleaning charm that sent familiar prickles of magic dancing across his groin and arse both.

Another murmured spell, and Kingsley felt his body straighten until he stood normally on the floor. A cloak was dropped over his shoulders as Moody, sounding business-like, said,

"Right, then, Shacklebolt. You see the sort of mental and physical resistance you'll need to develop. We went a bit easy on you this time, though, considering it's your first. You'll need some time to pull yourself together, process things. Take half an hour. Then Minerva and I will be back to debrief you."

Kingsley heard three determined, booted heels and one wooden leg move away from him. A door opened, then closed. The blindfold charm lifted as the door shut, and he found himself alone in the sparsely-furnished room.

The sofa had been returned to its normal state, a table of tea things sitting in front of it.

Kinsgley sat down, gingerly, and only then did he allow himself to consider Moody's last words.

"Minerva and I wlll be back. . ." he'd said.

Minerva.

No. Kingsley's optimistic side insisted that it couldn't be her. Not Minerva McGonagall, his former professor. It must have been some other Minerva.

His rational side snorted in disdain and would have said, "'other Minerva,' my arse," if arses hadn't been a rather touchy subject just then. Of course it had been Minerva McGonagall: she was a senior member of the Order, a war veteran, Dumbledore's right hand. And who else could have re-transfigured that sofa so quickly and so well?

She'd been the other person in the room. No doubt about it.

Minerva McGonagall.

His former teacher. His former Head of House.

Prim, starchy, spinster-ish Minerva McGonagall.

Who clearly knew her way around a cock.

Kingsley put his head in his hands. He just. . . he couldn't. . .Minerva bloody McGonagall.

Plus Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody, the hardest Auror of them all. Paranoid, prickly, damaged.

Who now had to realise that Kingsley fancied him.

And who was a dab hand with a finger-fuck to the arse.

Between them, they had given Kingsley the most humiliating and the best orgasm of his life. Not to mention some of the greatest overall sexual pleasure he'd ever experienced.

Kingsley lifted his head and took himself in hand. Figuratively. "Pull yourself together," he muttered sternly. It had all been for the greater good. Moody and McGonagall would view the whole evening as merely part of their duties as long-time members of the Order of the Phoenix. They were just trying to help him fight better against Death Eaters.

Wrapping the cloak more tightly about him, Kingsley poured a cup of tea from the charmed pot and took a ginger biscuit.

After this, he thought, the Death Eaters would be as nothing.

Moody may have called this encounter "the first time," but Kingsley didn't think he'd need a second time; he'd learnt this lesson too well.

On the other hand. . .

He munched his way through the biscuits as he thought hard.

There was no telling how real DEs might affect him. He didn't want to make the same mistake twice, of thinking he knew more than he did.

He reached his conclusion at the same time he reached the last biscuit: if McGonagall and Moody offered him a second round. . .

. . .he thought he'd better accept.

It would be just another assignment.

Yes, Kingsley decided, nibbling his biscuit and shifting a bit to ease his throbbing arse, he'd accept if they offered.

After all. They were Gryffindor lions, all three of them.

Hear them roar.