Kristmas Wish Fulfilled for: iwaoFrom:
A Wizard Watcher - queenie_mabTitle:
Walking the EdgeCharacters/Pairings:
Harry Potter/Draco MalfoyRating:
adultery, d/s, sensory deprivation, dirty talk, orgasm denial, edging, sacofricosis, masturbation, anal sex – Tone: dirty-angsty, happy ending. Other Warnings/Content:
role reversalWord Count:
Draco's got himself in with Potter way too deep and the only way he can save face and break it off – without admitting how far he's gone – is to get Potter to call it quits first. Author's Notes:
Thanks to lumosed_quill for the top notch beta work. I'm not a member of the BDSM community. This is a work of fiction, and any liberties I've taken with regards to safe playing are for the purpose of entertainment and because Harry and Draco made me do it.
"That will be all," Kingsley Shacklebolt announces to the room.
I glance up from the mess of notes that litter the conference table in front of Potter and me. Potter's hands rest on his knees. I can feel the heat pouring off him. The room disperses while I gather my scrolls. As Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, I have my fingers in many pots. I glance at my watch. There's an hour until my next meeting.
My cock is stiff in my trousers, has been since Potter took the seat beside me. I slip my hand in my pocket, thankfully hidden under my robes, and rub the straining flesh through the hole in my pocket, just enough to set my pulse racing. I don't bother hiding my smirk when it's only us in the room. I wonder if Potter knows what I'm doing – I don't mind if he does.
Potter stands up, his crotch directly in front of my face. My cock throbs under my fingers, slick with sweat and heat.
Potter's hands are busy at his sides, twitchy. I look up at him and meet his eyes, his pupils huge under his glasses. He clears his throat and shuffles out from between our chairs. "Excuse me, Malfoy." Ever the professional Auror. I content myself with memories of how he likes to fall apart. I pretend my cock is his and wrench my hand away before I'm too close to stop.
I watch him leave, following his progress through the large conference room window. He crosses the hallway to the loo.
I shouldn't follow. I know this. How many times have I promised myself I'd end this fucked up thing
we've got going? And yet, I'm drawn to him against all reason and sanity. I get to my feet, and in the next minute I'm pushing the bathroom door open and doing the bolt behind me.
Potter stands at the middle of three urinals. He's shed his Auror robes; they hang on the stand beside the door. I slip my robes off and hang them up, too. I approach him from behind. He knows I'm coming. He shivers, still not pissing. My lips are are at his ear. I hold onto his hips and shift mine, pressing my erection against the cleft of his arse. He braces himself against the wall with one hand, the other at his front.
"You'd better not be wanking, Potter. You know the rules."
His breath escapes in a short gasp. He nods.
I buck up against him, rutting shamelessly, hating myself for losing control. As far as Potter knows, this has been my plan all along. He's asked in past sessions for me to do this to him in the toilet. I'd shut him down at the time with an explanation of maintaining a professional distance, of setting boundaries at work, but he manages to make me cross them anyway. I don't know if he knows how intoxicated he gets me, how I crave him. These are all red flags I've been pretending not to notice. Our rules
are more hardcore than I'm used to. He can't wank to orgasm, beg unless I ask him to, or safeword and try to renegotiate mid-scene. It's a recipe for disaster with our personalities but, over the past year, he's worn my resistance down.
I move my hands around his front and grasp his cock. His balls are still tucked into his pants and he's dripping from his slit. I stroke the precome onto his cock, retracting his foreskin and then working it over the head until his breaths come quick and I know it has to stop. I pull his foreskin all the way forward, pinching the end, sealing his cock inside, and squeezing the base until his shudders diminish, his erection flagging.
"Later tonight," I breathe hotly against his cheek. "If you need to run home and fuck your wife's cunt first, you can; but no wanking." He nods, but doesn't look at me.
I retreat, pull my robes back on, and unfasten the bolt. I'll lock myself in my office and find release, inhaling his scent still on my hands, all the while pretending that I'm not getting off on it, that it's not because of him. I'm in so deep it's going to take something drastic to break me of this habit. ~*~
I take a last look at myself in the mirror, admiring the cut of the Muggle suit. It should do to establish our roles – at least while he's able to see me. My plan is to push Potter to the point he'll end things. He'll either decide he can't continue based on his morals, or he'll end up breaking a rule (I can't see him taking what I plan to give). I ignore the ache in my chest at the thought. There's no question I'm too emotionally invested. Making Potter break it off will allow me to save face. It's the only option I can handle.
Potter is my ideal partner. He takes what I offer; he obeys prettily; he doesn't beg unless I ask him to. I hate that he's not really mine. He says he needs what I do to keep him balanced. He's got to be in control of a ministry department, of his family life, of himself to an extent that the wizarding world looks to him as a role model. He pulls it off so well, balances everything so perfectly ... It makes me feel like I'm falling short, or even, maybe, perhaps … falling in too deep with Potter.
The table is a new acquisition. Lying flat, the arms extend towards the ceiling with cuffs at the wrists. The bottom half folds down and has leg extensions with restraints at the ankles. Supposedly Muggle Healers use similar tables for examinations. I've got it set so the knees are lifted up and apart. It will provide me easy access to Potter's bits. The whole thing can be adjusted from horizontal to vertical. It intimidated me
when I saw it. I know it will make Potter's knees quake.
When Potter arrives, he steps inside and stops short at the sight of the table. He closes the door behind him, not looking away. This is different. Normally when Potter comes in, the first thing he does is take off his glasses. He prefers to not see what I'm doing to him. I think it's because it's easier to face his desires, to submit, if he doesn't see it coming, doesn't judge it. I turn around. I've placed my instruments on the side table, unscrewed a jar of massage oil, and added a few scary looking toys just for the intimidation factor. The only way I can think to get Potter to call it quits is to set it up at the start as taking our arrangement to a whole new level of discomfort. But Potter doesn't back down. He stares at the table as he strips off. He's already hard.
I look at the mask lying on the table's edge. It's new as well, black fabric that fits snugly over the head, blocking vision, and dampening hearing and scent. Potter's used to being blindfolded but, with the table, I want to make sure that he can't see out the bottom, no matter what angle he's at.
I approach him. Potter's still not looking directly at me, his eyes fixed on the table, but I have the sense he's watching me from his peripheral vision. I grasp his left hand and bring it up to my face. He finally turns his head and meets my eyes. Fuck. It's hard to stay in control of myself when he's looking straight at me. I don't back down from the stare; I can't. Instead, I grip his wedding band and slip it off. His eyes follow while his breathing speeds up, but he doesn't protest. What I'm about to do just might be all it takes to push him too far.
One corner of my lips curl up, and I drop his hand. I pull my wand from my sleeve and resize the ring, waiting for him to say something, to beg me to reconsider. He doesn't. Not even as I hold the ring hovering over the tip of his cock. And then I'm talking before I can stop myself, saying the words I promised I wouldn't. I've gone over this scenario a million times. If he tries to renegotiate mid-scene, our arrangement ends. That's what I'm expecting; it's not what I want. "Just this once. If I'm taking things too far with the ring … you can say so, and I'll use another."
I could kick myself. Why do I always fuck up my own plans? When he originally approached me – at a fucking underground party; apparently he felt more comfortable seeking assistance from somebody he has a history with, fucking masochist – we set things up to assist him in his marriage bed. There weren't supposed to be any feelings between the two of us, only a building up of lust to the point he'd be able to run home and fuck his wife. It's not my fault I didn't turn him away as he needed my services more frequently. Though, thinking back, it probably is my fault. I'm the one who enforces the rules but, as much as I would deny it to anybody who asked, Potter has me by the balls. He hands me more control with every planning session, and now we're mucking about in treacherous waters. If he stops it, we end things; if I do, again, it stops. He's trusting me to keep us both in check, but fuck my fucking brain. I get so wrapped up with him I forget about reason.
Potter shakes his head. He's been watching me argue with myself for goodness knows how long. Damn it. Keep it together, Malfoy, at least until you've got his eyes covered.
I slide the ring down his cock and settle it at the base, pressing tight atop his balls. They throb against my hand. His pubic hair is trimmed closer than it ever has been. Tidy pubes was a stipulation of mine, but taking it is as far down as he has ... it has to leave his wife wondering what's up with him. Unless she likes it. I force my face to remain neutral; there's no need to scowl.
I retrieve the mask. Potter relaxes when he sees it. He hands me his glasses and closes his eyes, bows his head. I put his glasses on the table and lower the mask over Potter's head, my body singing as his face disappears. I fit it under his chin. I can make all the stupid faces I want now that he's blind, can be naked and free in the same room as him, even if it's not nearly enough. It's too much for what it is ,
I remind myself.
"I've added a charm to allow you to breathe normally. You remember your word?"
Potter nods. His word is Gurdyroot. I don't want to know why.
With Potter's face hidden, I'm in my element, falling face first into my role, but still, I'm falling too far, too fast. I guide Potter to the table, and stand it upright with my wand. I back him up against it, fasten his wrists to the armrests, and manually lower it to a comfortable slope. It's not difficult to lift his legs into the extensions and cuff his ankles. His legs are bent at the knees, propped up and apart, exposing everything to me, and I lower the bottom half of the table, so his arse is right at the edge. His cock stands to attention, flushed red and engorged by his wedding band, his balls tight and throbbing underneath.
I begin at his pucker, pressing the pads of my thumbs over his rim, appreciating the swollen flex, then slide my hands up, along the grooves of his thighs. I ignore his cock, moving my palms towards his nipples, plucking until they stand erect. He shudders and I step back, barely able to control myself from shuddering, too.
I slick my hands with oil, then lightly spank Potter's hole and arsecheeks. I love watching his arse jiggle. We've only ever done this stretched out on a blanket, using cuffs or ties to keep his hands away. The table was an excellent idea, though my heart sinks at the thought that I'll likely never use it again. I trace the veins along the underside of Potter's cock, all the way to his swollen slit. He's dripping. I make a ring with my right hand, my left loosely gripping his cock at the base, and work his foreskin up and down the head with short determined pulls until he gasps, his legs quivering. He's so close already. Tightening my fist, I push back against the ring and Potter's balls, and pinch his foreskin over the tip until he relaxes.
I release him when I sense his orgasm has halted, and step away to let him calm down a minute. I tell myself that's why I'm doing it, but I'm lying. I'm trying to gather my courage to do what I need to, to push it too far. I remove my suit a piece at a time and toss it on the sofa. I'm not breaking the rules by getting naked but, I am
pushing the boundaries of what we've done so far. It has to be Potter that breaks it off, to be the one who can't handle it.
I approach him again and stroke Potter's cock back into full hardness, staring down at where my cock is inches from his hole. I point his cock toward myself and release it, so it slaps Potter's belly. I do it a couple more times, enraptured by the grunts he can't help but make and the beads of sweat rising up on his chest, wetting his scant chest hair.
I toy with Potter's hole. It's relaxed, winking. I want to stick my cock in there and let loose, but that's very much not in my plans. I grip Potter's hips with my palms and slowly slide my cock up and down his cleft. I can't help myself. He's got to know how far I'm pushing our boundaries if I have any hope of getting him to call it off. More than that, I want
it. I want to take as much pleasure from him as I can get before it's over.
Potter grips the armrests for dear life, his knuckles straining. He's groaning under his mask. He's got to be sweltering in there. I dribble some oil down my cock head and rub it into Potter's rim using the ridge, my foreskin pulled all the way back. Fuck. I could come like this, our bodies barely touching. I nudge Potter's super tight balls with my cock, sliding my hands down his thighs, then use one to slap Potter's hole with my cock. It's trying to take me in, seducing me, opening, gaping. It has a draw of its own and I'm so tempted to succumb to its witchcraft.
I pump Potter's prick, forcing myself to back away from him. It only takes a few squelchy twists before I have to clamp my fist around the base. Potter shudders under my hand, his fingertips white on the armrests. His chest rises and falls raggedly, stomach muscles working overtime. I pinch his nipples with my free hand, one at a time. They're flushed dark red. His legs shake in the extensions, and a long strand of precome runs down the back of my hand.
I release his cock and it dances under my hand, like a snake for a charmer, weaving back and forth. Potter hisses as a small splash of come spurts from his cock and hits his stomach. I'm pushing him too far.
I back away again and check the time. I'm giving him a good five minutes to collect himself. We've only been at it for half an hour. I turn to my side table, smearing Potter's precome onto my own cock, and focus on the table of toys to avoid thinking about how far from in control I am. I don't know how Potter does it, how he goes without coming after all the stimulation, after how far I wind him up. His balls are huge. They look near bursting point, and his cock is so engorged I can see the veins from several feet away.
My cock leaks a long strand of precome onto the floor and I wonder if I can get away with coming while Potter's blinded. I may deny orgasm to those who ask it of me, but it's not something I would ever choose for myself.
It's been five minutes. Potter looks like he's calming down. The sweat has mostly dried on his chest, his breathing slow and steady. I approach the head of the table. Potter's masked face turns toward me, finding me despite the fact I'm staying as silent as I can. I'm overcome by the need to see his mouth, to see how he bites his lip when he tries not to come. I stand next to his face, my cock mere inches from his mouth, and I can't take it anymore. I look down at his bobbing prick. It's staring at me, daring me to take what I want, to admit how far I've lost the plot, but it's Potter's whispered plea – I don't think he meant to make it, his voice so quiet I'm amazed I heard it – that does me in.
I lift the bottom of his mask and bring it up to just under his nose. He's still deprived of sight, but now I can see his mouth, watch his need expressed by his reflexive breathing, biting, licking. I'm more than tempted to turn his head to the side, hold his face in place, and fuck his face until I come down his throat, but that would be breaking my rules, his rules, our rules. We don't fuck and we don't come, but we do everything else, even to the point of pain. When he leaves me he withdraws back to the world of the upstanding, fucks his wife to satisfaction – since he can't get it up for her without my assistance – and I wank myself to orgasm in my shower, or bed – fuck myself on the toys that can't hurt me like Potter could. I think of them as Potter though, pretend what we do is real. When I define it as fantasy, I'm able to be honest, but afterwards it all goes back into the box and gets shoved away in my closet. Potter has the impression that I do this for more people than him. It was true at first, but for the past half a year – it's only been him – I'm so fucked it isn't funny.
If I do it – fuck his throat until I come – that would end things. I need to end things, but that would make Potter the victor. I swore when we started, that when we stopped, it would be his choice, his inability to follow the rules, his weakness that ends it. I think I've fallen on my own sword. I underestimated the pillock.
"Did you come, Potter? Earlier today? Did you run home and fuck your wife's fanny, fill her full of the seed I
brought to the surface? Or did you break the rules? Did you wank yourself raw while I wasn't watching?"
"No –" he gasps. His cock dribbles a long string of white on his stomach. It's only precome. It doesn't count, but I'm surprised it's leaking from only the sound of my voice, my baseless accusations, my barely concealed jealousy. "Haven't … Not in ages … I want …"
He stops talking. He bites his lip and his body tenses from top to toes. I watch the strand of precome break, replaced by another in under a second, feeding a growing pool on his abs. "Do you need a few more minutes?" I ask. I'm not being nice. I move closer in, and rub the head of my cock over his lips, painting them with the droplets I'm producing. He doesn't break the rules. He takes it, seems to relax even, breathes in deep as if savouring my aroma. He waits until I move my cock out of his tongue's reach.
"I need … once more …"
I raise my eyebrows. Fuck my fucking luck. He's going to end it. This will be his last visit. I can read it in the way he wets his lips. No, not wets. The way he licks
my flavour off himself, savours it on his tongue. Ending it is what I want – what I should
want. He's going to be the one to end things, or, perhaps – my cock jumps – he's planning to break the rules this last time, end things by coming anyway, not trying to fight the stimulation.
My heart thuds inside my ribs, feels like a Quaffle being tossed back and forth. I run my hands down his chest. My wand's on the table, but right now I'm thrumming with magic. A wandless Siphoning Charm transfers the cooling puddle of come on his stomach to my palm. I return to where he's most vulnerable, where his arsehole begs to be filled, where it tempts me beyond what I can take.
"I'm stuffing your arse full of come, Potter. Your own come." I feed his hole the mess, holding my palm to its base and pushing it inside little by little with the tip of my finger. His legs tremble again, his cock so flushed it almost seems he's going to break his wedding band. "You want that don't you? Want me to fill your hole with come, to seed you? How do you feel about it when it came from you in the first place?"
His mouth opens and closes, gaping like a fish out of water, his abdominals flexing tight, showing even more than usual from the oil smeared from my hands. I push the last of his come inside and I want to plug it, but again, I've stepped so far away from my script, and all the plugs are on the end of table, out of reach. I hold it inside using the pad of my thumb.
I look up at him. "I asked you a question."
His head jerks up and back, arms shaking in the restraints, sweat beading up all over his body, and his chest flushing red. He's fighting with himself, and at the same time trying to not make me stop.
"G … Gur … No! I mean … It feels amazing. You're right. I want your cock to fill me up, I want your seed planted deep inside me. I want the stretch, the burn, the fucking ache. I want to come." He's sobbing. He's begging
. And that's that rule broken. Potter took one for the team.
I pick up my wand, unwilling to move away. If I do, that's it, it will end. Hell, it is
ending, but I need to treasure every second while I can.
I flick my wand and expand his ring so I can pull it off. I resize it properly and set it aside. His cock drops heavily on his stomach, still hard, still aching, his balls still full to burst. I need my hands to reach his mask, but don't want the come to spill out of his arse yet. I push my balls and the base of my cock – harder than ever – against his hole, sealing it as best I can while I lean over his torso and lift the mask.
I unfasten his wrists while he blinks against the brightness and finally, his ankles. I stand, my bits to his arse, his balls pushing back against my cock, throbbing to the point it feels like he's got a second heart inside them.
"It's over?" he croaks. I nod. I don't move yet. "I can come?"
I hadn't thought about that. If the rules of our arrangement don't apply anymore, if it's over, then why not? "If you like."
"Fuck me." Potter lifts himself off the table, propped on his elbows, and pushes his hole so it feels like it's kissing my balls. "Fuck me so full of your come I can taste it in my mouth."
I'm about ready to come as it is. He's shed his submissive state and his voice is all Auror, head of the DMLE, commanding his subordinate – me.
It's heaven to obey. I draw back, holding my cock at the base, and guide the tip right inside his begging arsehole. I push forward; he pushes back, and then my senses are all wrapped up in sweat, slapping flesh, and finally, the scent of uninhibited come. I'm filling him, and he's coming so hard it takes him ages to pump it all out, some of it hits his hair, some, his chest, so much across his belly that it rolls down his sides, and he squeezes every last drop out of my balls.
I feel like I'm going to pass out when I finally withdraw, but Potter works his legs out of the extensions, catches me between them, and crashes our mouths together. He owns my mouth with his tongue and smears his scent all over my face and hair.
When we break apart to breathe, I expect him to return to business as usual, to push me away and walk on back to real life, but he doesn't. He strokes my back, then squeezes my arse cheeks. "I think we both failed pretty hard, Potter." I'm saying the words, but with his hands on my body I'm flying.
"Really? I'd look at it as if we both won the jackpot. No rules, Draco. There are so many options we can explore … if you're interested."
My eyelids are heavy, and I have a god damned smile stuck on my face. "Mmmm. Talk about it in the morning?"
He lifts my chin, connects our gazes. "Can I stay?"
I blink, spot the fallen wedding/former cockring discarded on the table. "What about your wife?"
His face is serious, but he doesn't look away. He strokes my cheek, rubs come in my hair, and I feel like a blushing virgin when he answers.
"For the last several months, there's only been enough room for you. Gin and I split up a while ago. We're waiting for the final papers before we announce the divorce."
I want to smack him for not telling me but – thinking about how long it's been for him, how many times I've sent him away, forbidding him from masturbating when he had no alternate method of release – I take his hand and lead him to the bedroom. I have a feeling I'll be making up for that for quite some time.