Drabbles

He’s sweating. 

He can feel it beading down his chest, making his skin as glossy as the pretty chains she likes him to wear in company, the fine gold strung between his nipples glinting in the low lighting as the rhythmic movement of his body makes it sway. 

He’s been worked hard tonight, passed around wherever she directs him, filling mouths and cunts and arses for as long as he’s told to; until they come or until he’s clamored for somewhere else. 

She runs the gatherings with an iron fist, her authority absolute whether she’s drifting around the room surveying how her pets are performing, or sprawled back on a settee, her hand lazy between her legs. 

She never participates more actively than as commander and voyeur, something he’s not allowed to like but does anyway. 

He’s hers. And in a way, that makes her his.

Meeting her eyes while being used by someone else is a unique form of torture. The masochist in him feeds off of it, loving the challenge and the degradation and the implicit punishment housed within being denied. No matter how many times they come on his cock and tongue, squeezing and milking and moaning, he’s not allowed to.

Not until she says.

Not until he’s where he belongs.

When the woman currently under him begins to clench and moan in earnest, her walls massaging his cock in strong, sucking pulls, he finds his control slipping even further. He’s a good boy and well-trained, but he’s still only a man, and he can only keep his orgasm back so many times in a row before he’ll break. 

He’s been in the fuzzy haze of near-orgasm for longer than he could possibly attempt to guess, all thoughts focused somewhere between the throbbing tip of his cock and the ache in his balls. The only thing grounding him is the pair of all-knowing amber eyes which watch him from afar. 

She’s sitting on the arm of a sofa across the room, naked and luminescent from the luxurious creams he’d massaged all over her while preparing them both for the soiree. 

Her legs are crossed at the knee so that they seem endless, a cascade of golden skin capped only by the devastatingly sexy golden anklet adorning her delicate foot. It’s an exact match for the golden decoration around the base of his cock that sometimes, as a treat, he squeezes tight to remind himself of who he belongs to.

At present, he keeps his hands behind his back as he looks at her, his hips driving mindlessly forward into whoever’s currently bent over in front of him (it’s not her, so it hardly even matters). 

The sight of her foot alone is enough to destroy him and so he seeks her eyes, ready to beg for release. 

But hers are averted, downcast, looking at his body, watching him fuck. 

The blatant pride on her face at how well he’s performing sends a fissure of white-hot sensation down his spine and when her tongue darts out to dampen her bottom lip, he can’t help but whimper, remembering how it feels teasing the piercing just below the head of his cock. 

At the plaintive sound, her eyes snap up to his and though he’s sure she read his desperation in the taut lines of his body, as she takes in the expression on his face, pleading and half-terrified, her awareness of his state is clear. 

He’s been edged more times than he can remember that evening and, as the personal record holder of finding exactly how many times he can be brought to orgasm but denied it, he knows she’s uniquely  aware of the tight line he’s currently riding.

As their eyes meet, the edge of her lip curls, expression going indulgent and knowing, and her brows raise meaningfully. 

His body works on instinct at the command he knows so well, hips drawing back from the hot cunt he’s buried in so she can see the way his cock bobs up, sticky and flushed, to stamp his abdomen. The impact alone nearly ends him but he grits his teeth and bears it, chin lifted.

Here's her proof: he hasn’t come. 

He’s being…so fucking good.

At the sight of his obvious agony, her grin goes just a tiny bit twisted and suddenly he needs her so badly, he very nearly sobs. 

The pressure between his legs is intense from the endless stimulation though it’s better when he looks at her…better but also much, much worse. He can’t remember the last time he’s come without looking at her and so the effect is near Pavlovian. 

His jaw goes lax, eyelids falling to half-mast as the tip of her tongue traces the inner rim of her top lip, tempting him to disobey.

The woman in front of him turns back to see why he pulled out before she’d fully finished with him, but Hermione clicks her fingers, commanding his attention, and his cock leaks a thick string of pre-cum, hopeful. 

“Draco,” she says, and he nearly streaks the rug at the permission in her voice. 

He’s instantly striding toward her on shaky legs, his balls tight and full, and she uncrosses hers in welcome. 

While he’d normally take her however she wants, tonight he needs her flush against him. 

His hands find her hips, pulling her off the arm of the sofa and turning her over it, one hand flat on her stomach and the other wrapping around to cup a breast. He doesn’t need a hand to get inside her – it’s all he ever thinks about and he’s perfected the act over and over again – and so without a second’s delay, he tilts his hips and sinks home.

His forehead drops heavily to the nape of her neck and he groans from deep in his chest at the utter perfection of her around and under him, the scent of her almost enough to come from. 

He’d stop himself if she asked him to, but she doesn’t, and so it takes him only a singular, hard thrust to topple. 

The pleasure is excruciating after so long holding it back and he can’t help the raw, animalistic noises he pants into her spine as his cock pulses, shooting rope after rope of cum deep inside her as his hips jerk against the plush cushion of her arse. 

It’s not until his body is spent that he realizes the state of himself. 

He’s curled over her, arms wrapped so fully around her that he could touch his opposite triceps if he wanted. His chest is pressed to her back, his embrace tightening on every heaving inhale. 

He’d rutted into her like an untrained beast, no finesse and no attempt to give her anything in return beyond his cum.

Shame floods him at the idea that he’s done badly – that she’ll be disappointed with him – and he whimpers against her neck, helpless in the wake of his need. 

But she’s perfect, as always. She understands everything he needs; everything that makes him so very good for her and her alone. 

She raises her delicate hand overhead and back, carding her fingers into his sweaty blonde locks. “Is my cock sated now?” she murmurs. 

He hums an affirmative sound, lips pressing to the knobs of her spine in supplication and relief. It is her cock. Always will be. 

She makes a complimentary sound and then arches her back in a subtle indication that his time being draped over her is done – for now, at least; he’ll resume the position when they’re in bed that evening, assuming he’s pleased her enough to warrant the reward of warming her bed.

“Good boy,” she praises and his legs really do shake. “On your knees then and clean me up.”