Title: Self Control
Author: songquake
Characters/Pairings: Blaise Zabini/Ron Weasley
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: Exhibitionism, sounding.
Other Warnings: D/s, piss-control, orgasm control, object penetration, medical fetish.
Word Count: Just under 5k.
Summary/Description: Blaise asks Ron for the ultimate form of submission: learning self-control so he can give it up.
Author's Notes: I think this is my first try at writing either of these characters; I had an awful lot of fun with them! (I think they had fun with each other, too.) I did a bunch of research, and would like to refer the curious to my favourite of the sites: http://www.chaseunion.com/documents/urethra/index.html. Also, this is my first submission to daily_deviant. Thanks to the mods for inviting me to play!
Finally: Apologies for the tardiness; it's 45 minutes late by my clock but it's still the 29th in four time zones of North America, right? I finished writing just after 11pm my time, so I was a bad girl and self-beta'd.



Muggle dungeons have nothing to do with actual dungeons, the boy has discovered. They are usually too dark (as though Muggles hadn't even learned to light adequate torches), they don't have much in the way of individual cells for holding prisoners (though some do have interesting cages of varying sizes), and they weren't even all underground. And yet…this is the Muggle context in which the boy most frequently finds himself. Funny, that. He sometimes wants to take the proprietors of these establishments aside and offer to teach them how real dungeons are constructed. His Master will have none of that, however.

Tonight, the boy lies on a steel table in the Muggle dungeon's 'Medical Suite', arms above his head but untied. Tonight, his Master wants to show off his boy's total submission, and bindings would imply the boy was less than completely willing to give his Master what he requests. Since the boy wants to please his Master, tonight he will hold himself still, eyes open, mouth shut unless he is spoken to directly. Even then, he will speak only when he has permission.

The boy knows his place.

The steel is beginning to warm through the paper beneath his back. The boy breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth. He hears his Master pottering around the room, snapping on gloves and fiddling with the autoclave this dungeon so kindly supplies in its Medical Suite.

At his Master's house or in his own flat, the boy might have been instructed to tend to such things as sterilisation of the tools himself. At such times, his Master's goal is to simultaneously humiliate and titillate him, making it harder for the boy to control himself and giving his Master yet another reason to punish him at the end of the sounding session.

But here his Master's goal is to show off the loveliness of the boy's trust and control.

The trust isn't the problem, of course. His Master earned his trust long ago; had the boy not trusted him, they'd not have started dating in the first place. The boy's gift is the self-restraint that has never, ever come naturally to him.

The memory swims back, giving him a focus during his Master's preparations.

~*~

He was sitting in a booth at The Leaky Cauldron, Blaise Zabini across from him. They had been dating for a month at that point, and Harry and Hermione had finally coaxed from Ron the name of his new paramour. This "pub night", if one could call drinks at the Leaky that, was Hermione's idea.

"We never really got to know him, Ron," she had said. "Honestly, he must be something special if even you can see something loveable in him."

At this first meeting with his friends and—dare he say it—boyfriend, Ron had started to carry on about the piss-poor service the Leaky had provided since old Tom had retired and Hermione had risen to Hannah's defence. But as Ron had opened his gob to illustrate his point with some colourful examples, Blaise had coughed.

"Hem-hem."

It sounded so like the late and unlamented Dolores Umbridge that Ron had been tempted to laugh along with Harry and Hermione, only Blaise was fixing him with a stare that made his stomach drop.

"Mate, give up," Harry was saying. "You're going to have to accept that Ron's got no self-control. Bloke means well, but he's got a fire permanently lighted under his arse."

Blaise had taken another sip of his ale, and was setting it neatly onto the ring on his coaster. "Is that so, Ron?"

"I guess," Ron said, not understanding quite why all the blood in his veins had decided at that moment to pool either in his cheeks or his cock. "I've got a bit of a temper. I do mean well, though, usually."

"But of course," Blaise said. The pause after stretched out long enough that Harry and Hermione rolled their eyes and began discussing Hannah's virtues once more; Ron was glad to see their reaction was boredom rather than awkwardness. Also, he was glad they missed what Blaise had said next. "Can you not restrain yourself at all, Ronald? Would you be unable to master your reactions even if to fail would disappoint me terribly?" His voice was low, seductive.

Ron shivered, then licked his lips with a tongue that felt suddenly dry. "I can try. If it's important," he said, voice cracking just a bit.

The gleam in Blaise's eye was beyond wicked.

"Good," he murmured.

~*~

The boy tries to focus on the moment once more; inattention would also disappoint his Master. Staring at the ceiling, he clenches his arse so he can be reminded of the presence of his Master's favourite butt plug. He feels his face heating in shame as the plug's bulb presses along his prostate and his penis reacts. He concentrates to relax his rectal muscles and relieve the pressure, and focusses on his breath again until the stirring of his cock fades.

This exercise in self-control is critical to the success of the scene, the boy knows.

His Master appears above him and makes eye-contact before looking pointedly at the boy's cock. "Are you ready, my boy?" he asks.

The boy blinks, breathing deeply once more, trying to settle. Seeing his Master—his white sleeves rolled up, black latex gloves covering his tapered fingers—threatens to arouse him again, and he wants to be good for his Master, show him how well he can control himself, show those gathering around the perimeter of the room how well he can obey his Master.

He breathes once more through his nose and speaks. "I am ready, Master." And he is. His penis lies flaccid in its neatly-trimmed nest of copper curls between his thighs.

"Excellent," murmurs his Master. "Let us begin, then, shall we?"

The boy closes his eyes and listens.

"Gentlemen," his Master says to the other men in the room. Though the boy wouldn't be able to see him even with eyes opened, he can well imagine the tableau they present: his Master, dark-skinned and beautiful, dressed in black leather trousers and a white silk shirt, gesturing gracefully as he spoke in front of the boy, pale, naked, and spread like a sacrifice upon the stainless-steel altar of the surgical table. His Master continues. "I have brought my boy here tonight to test his self-control before this distinguished audience. Though I have been training him for several months, he has not had to demonstrate this level of submission before others; this is a new experience for him."

His Master pauses, and Ron imagines the other men nodding and gazing at the two of them with admiration. Or, perhaps, they are gazing at his Master with admiration, and at him with a desire to consume...or a desire to trade places. The boy does, after all, recognise his fortune in earning a Master who would take such time to prepare him before showing him off to the community.

"The ultimate goal is for him to allow me to control the flow of liquid through his urethra with my own finger." The boy hears several people gasp as they realise what this means. He doesn't blame them; he'd paled and become suddenly dizzy the first time his Master had mentioned this possibility. It was, after all, one of the more extreme ends of this sort of play. He still swoons a bit when he thinks of it, of his Master's finger up his cock, but it's not from fear anymore.

The boy opens his eyes for a moment, focussing on an imperfection in the bright white ceiling, and then closes them again. He breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth.

"Boy, what is your safe word?" his Master asks, and the boy knows he must answer loud enough for the others in the room to hear.

"Beans, sir," he says. His voice is clear, simple, like a bell In the otherwise quiet room.

"You will use it if you feel pain, boy?" his Master asks, but it is more a demand than a question.

"Yes, Master," the boy responds. Discomfort is one thing; he's meant to be uncomfortable. But as his Master has explained, pain means something is going very wrong, and the activity must stop or he would risk permanent damage.

"Then we can begin." The boy can hear his Master turning once more to the audience. "Please do not interrupt us in any way during our scene. These procedures are rather delicate."

The boy hears the crinkle of plastic separating from paper and then the sound of tape being torn and placed on something. He's fairly certain it's now fixing the end of a long plastic tube inside a plastic bucket. He hears a foil packet tearing as well, and then quiet. Suddenly, he feels the heat of his Master's body near his right side and opens his eyes, turning his head like a plant towards the sun of his Master's presence.

"First the catheter," his Master says before taking the boy's penis gently in his hand and easing it up to point at the ceiling.

The boy closes his eyes and breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth again. The first test: not getting hard when his Master touches him.

He relaxes even more when he realises he's succeeding.

The rounded end of the slicked catheter's probe is circling, teasing the hole at the tip of his cock open. The boy bites his lip; this part is arousing, no matter what. He breathes again, tries to relax into the intrusion.

"Good boy," his Master murmurs when the probe slides easily into his hole.

He then feeds the tube easily down the length of the boy's cock. The boy can feel it, just a slight, confusing pressure moving through the pipe in his cock. He feels slightly dizzy and moans when it slides over his prostate, so helpfully pushed into the way by the butt plug. Now it is pushing ever so softly at that barrier between his bladder and his channel.

The boy can't help it; he whines when that barrier is breached. The sensations are both intimate and terribly confusing. The boy feels like he is pissing but not getting any relief in his bladder, which is full from the three glasses of water his Master had instructed him to drink when they first arrived at the club. The boy has to breathe extra-deeply in order to stop himself from trying to force the muscle to open further, to let out the piss more quickly. Besides being impossible to accomplish, such an act would damage both the trust needed for the scene and potentially the organs involved.

So the boy breathes, his eyes open and burning, his chest contracting in an almost-sob. He feels his face, neck and chest burn in embarrassment. Others are watching this, watching him so utterly controlled and at his Master's mercy.

Showing none of that mercy, his Master taps lightly just above the boy's curls. The boy gasps. His bladder begins to cramp. He blinks, tears squeezing out the corners of his eyes.

He breathes again, slow and deep.

"Good boy," his Master croons, and the boy relaxes just a bit in pride.

Then, relief. His Master has opened the valve in the catheter, and the boy can feel his bladder relaxing, can hear the piss pouring steadily into the bucket. He lets out a sigh of satisfaction, not caring that his Master has just forced him to piss in front of Merlin knows how many strangers.

~*~

The month after that fateful pub night was filled with ever-kinkier sex. Ron had never bottomed as much as he'd liked before; being so tall meant that mostly people expected to bottom to him, and he was delighted that Blaise was so attached to that role in the bedroom.

The first time Blaise had told Ron he wasn't allowed to orgasm until given permission, the permission had made him come like Apparition.

He wasn't quite sure why he reacted to Blaise the way he did, but the air between them was charged somehow. Blaise only had to look at Ron a certain way, and he would blush and lower his eyes, both wanting to hide from and wanting to bask in such attention. And he wanted to prove to Blaise that he could do anything, that he was someone special who could and would please Blaise, even if some of what he liked was really weird.

"You know what would be brilliant, Ron?" Blaise said one night as he combed his fingers through his lover's tangles.

Ron hummed, blissed out from a good shagging that had included a wrist-to-ankle Incarcerus and an Orgasm Restriction Charm. Blaise took that as an invitation to continue.

"I'd love it if you went without wanking for a week."

Ron lifted his head in surprise. "I'm sorry?"

"I want you not to wank for a week," Blaise repeated simply, shifting his caresses to the hair on Ron's chest.

Ron furrowed his brow, frowning a little. "But why?" To be honest, he hadn't been nearly as intimate with his right hand over the past several months; Blaise had been shagging the randy out of him.

"It would be so hot, so hot, Ron," Blaise purred, "to know that even if something else turned you on, you had decided only to come for me."

Ron shivered. "And shagging?"

Blaise chuckled. "Only so much as usual. Which means it might be all week before you get to come. Look, I'm getting hard again just thinking of it."

"Mm," Ron said. "I'm not sure I can do it, though."

"I have faith in you; surely you can ignore your stiffies for a week, or distract yourself from them. Breathing deeply can help."

"You've done this?"

Blaise chortled again. "Of course; mastering myself meant that nobody else could master me without my consent."

Ron considered this, and realised it was likely a survival trait in Slytherin House during the war. Hell, at other times too, most likely.

Finally, he nodded. "Yes, Master," he said, trying out the title. It sounded strange yet perfect to him.

"Mm, I like that," crooned Blaise. "Now, would you like to take care of that erection you caused?"


By the end of the week, Ron was willing and eager to do anything Blaise asked.

~*~

The boy takes a steadying breath as he feels more lube being squirted into his urethra. It's feeling strangely open, though the muscle at the tip is mildly protesting the fact that his Master is pinching it open. The cold lube slithers down his ultra-sensitive channel toward his prostate, and he is breathing to keep the shivering at bay. He suspects that if he allows that to happen, he'll lose all control over his body, and that is not acceptable.

"You're doing so well, my boy," his Master says as he releases the pinch, and the boy represses another shiver. "Can you imagine, I've been playing with your sweet little cock for nearly half an hour and you've not got hard at all?"

"Yes, Master." The boy's voice cracks. Hearing his self-control praised, ironically, makes it difficult to maintain.

"I'm going to insert the number twenty-eight dilator now," his Master announces, and the boy hears some of those present gasp as they see the size of it. He's glad that his view of the ceiling doesn't include the table where the tools are kept.

Merlin knows it feels big enough without knowing how big it is by sight.

His Master for the fourth time holds his cock steadily up and teases the aperture at the tip with the cold bulb at the end of the sound. He feels his hole opening, clenching, somewhat eager now that it knows how good the stimulation running through it will feel.

Cocks and arses are similar that way, it seems.

This sound falls down his tunnel rather slowly; it's the biggest size he's ever taken, though he's taken it several times, including at least once a week for the past month.

It's only a bit smaller than Blaise's little finger.

Like the last sound, the twenty-four, it stretches the urethra as it sinks down. He'd always thought this would burn, but with enough lube, it just feels tight. Then it slips the last half-inch past his prostate and he gasps. It hits his twitchy bladder-hole, but doesn't penetrate.

The pressure on the boy's prostate, though—it's now squeezed rather tightly between the butt plug and the dilator—finally causes the boy's cock to stir.

"Reach down and hold it in place," orders the Master. The boy complies, holding the flattened end in between two fingers as his Master reaches down and—ooh! —manipulates the plug in his arse. It feels as though it is pulsing against the prostate, though it might be the other way around...the boy has lost track of how sensations are happening now that he's not in control of any of them. For a moment, he thinks his Master must be casting magic on the toys somehow, they feel so good.

He takes a deep breath and the sound slips up his cock and then falls down again, once more battering his prostate and the sphincter beyond.

His Master tuts at him. "Look at you, getting hard from having your cock and arse played with. I thought you'd grown stronger than that."

Another tear slides down the boy's face towards his ear. His face and chest are unbelievably hot. "I can do better," he whimpers, and begins breathing deeply yet again, a practice he'd forgotten for a minute while concentrating on holding his cock and the sound steady.

"I know, baby," his Master says and kisses his damp forehead, surprisingly tender.

The boy tries to will himself into passivity once more. Of course, this does not work. So he closes his eyes and breathes deeply, trying to experience the sensations wreaking havoc on his sexual organs without grasping for more. The thought Lie back and think of England runs through his mind; he had never realised this might be a pleasurable thing to do.

For he is not tolerating the intrusions into his arse and cock, he's revelling in them. He has proven himself worthy of being shown off by his Master, and his Master has deigned not only to take care of him, but to show his affection in front of their audience.

And, if he is honest with himself, he loves the sensations he's experiencing almost as much as he loves how his Master manipulates him.

His Master stands, strips off his gloves, and returns to the boy bearing a bottle of water with a straw. "Drink," he commands.

The boy drinks.

"I want you to be able to piss as soon as we finish our scene," he murmurs, and the boy glows with the knowledge that his Master not only controls his body, but is caring for the health of it as well.

The boy continues to hold his sound steady as he sucks down the water offered.

~*~

"You want to what?" Ron asks, somewhat scandalised.

"I want to try stretching your urethra," Blaise repeated.

Ron paused, tapping his fingers along the tiles of his own kitchen table. That this conversation is taking place outside of a bed (or playroom) is a sign that Blaise is feeling both nervous about Ron's reaction and a sign that he wants Ron to actually think about his decision before he makes it.

"Why?" Ron asks, still confused.

"It's a bit like not wanking," Blaise said. "It requires you control your body even before I start doing things to it."

Ron wrinkled his forehead in a way that usually meant confusion, but that also usually meant Blaise would ruffle his hair and call him 'adorable'.

"Never mind," Blaise said, pushing his chair back and making to stand. "We don't have to."

Ron stood as well. "No," he said as he walked toward Blaise and hugged him from behind. "I just don't understand at all. I'm not saying no, I just don't get what I would do well enough to make a decision. Sit?"

Blaise sat.

"Now," Ron said, Summoning the teapot and milk once more, "what exactly are we talking about?"

This time, Blaise took a deep breath. "One of the most intimate types of control you can give me."

Ron drew in a sharp breath. His nipples peaked under his T-shirt and his cock began to harden.

"Tell me more," he said.

~*~

Despite the water, the boy feels even more light-headed as his Master takes hold of his cock again. This is it. His Master releases the light grip on his cock, flaccid once more, and slowly draws the sound out of it.

The boy feels strangely empty, though he knows this is normal. He breathes deeply, knowing that the next step depends on his remaining relaxed.

He hears the snaps of another set of latex gloves. He hears the tearing of another packet of lube. He feels the heat of his Master at his side once more. He closes his eyes and breathes very deeply through his nose, taking in enough air to flood his brain with oxygen.

He keeps this deep breathing going as his Master grasps his cock lightly again and holds it perpendicular to his body. He keeps it going as a new sensation—thick like a dilator but not cold as one—moves into the tip of his cock.

He opens his eyes in shock. His Master's finger is inside his cock. His breath stutters a bit as it slides down further, just further, until it's gone as far as it can without crooking. He moans.

The boy is astonished; he is overwhelmed by the enormity of what he's accomplished for his Master.

"Thank you, Master," the boy whispers.

"Good boy," his Master says and then, incredibly, begins to gently squeeze his cock. "I love how it feels to have your tight, tight channel squeezing me."

"I do too, Master," the boy whinges. He feels blood flowing into his penis, making him feel even woozier. He remembers to breathe again. His Master moves the finger slowly up and down the channel like a slick, slow piston.

It's too much; his arse is full and pressing on his prostate, his cock is being expertly wanked, and his Master is fucking his cockhole.

"Master," the boy gasps. "I feel like I'm going to come."

"Hold it, just a bit," his Master says, and the boy tries so hard to slow his breathing that he worries he might sprain a lung.

Finally, his Master withdraws his finger and moves it to the base of the butt plug. The boy is certain this time that his Master has hidden his wand up his sleeve and is using it to make the plug pulse and twist. He wanks the boy even harder, and reaches down to squeeze his balls.

"Please, Master!" the boy whines. "Please, may I come?"

His Master leans over and kisses him insistently, possessively. "Come for me now, my boy. Give me your come!"

The boy cries out, shaking, head jerking from his Master's face to bang on the table, eyes twisted shut as he roars. His hips buck as though he were fucking the life out of an arse rather than a hand.

His Master dips a finger in the come and tastes it; he dips another finger in the come and spreads it around the distended hole of the boy's cock.

The boy whimpers and whimpers. He is incoherent; he doesn't know what he thinks of what his Master is doing, but is grateful that it's his Master doing it to him. He trembles, starting to feel cold.

"You were so good for me, my boy," his Master whispers into his ear. He has taken off his gloves now, and offers his little finger to the boy with a bit of come on it. The boy sticks out his tongue and delicately tastes the drop of his own emission before laving circles onto the pad of it and sucking it into his mouth.

His Master takes the boy's hand and places it over the crotch of his leather trousers. There is a hot, pulsating bulge there.

"Let's get you warmed up and pissed-out, and then we can put that tongue to use on this," he says.

~END~