Payment, Sequel

Summary: A few months after the first payment, Malfoy’s obsession with Harry’s humiliation is as strong as ever. He keeps him on a short leash and pushes him into things that make Harry’s skin crawl with shame and disgust. However, when Malfoy goes a step too far and tries to set Ron against him, Harry understands the real reason behind Malfoy’s actions and decides to use them to his advantage.

Warnings: cross-dressing, non-con, unrequited Harry/Ron, hints of the Epilogue

Payment, Sequel – part 1

Harry sped along the hated halls of Malfoy Manor, breathing painfully against the tightness of the corset, slipping on the sleek marble landing and stumbling on the soft carpeted stairs; his large rapid steps mindless of the height of the heels he was wearing or the number of ruffled skirts that kept trapping his legs into forceful hugs; the material biting into his skin with every touch and making him hiss. Harry didn’t care if he ruined the dress, it certainly held no value for him, and he deliberately widened his step so as to hear the satisfying sound of another skirt being ripped along the seam.

He was cloaked and the hood was falling over his face, successfully obscuring him from unwanted attention of hundreds of portraits lining the walls. He had endured enough of their curiosity, disgusted mutterings, exclamations of shock or – what he found far more disturbing – lascivious looks complete with suggestive tongue movements and hand gestures not to think of a way to disguise himself in future.

He stopped long enough to get his wand back from the house-elf at the door and hurried towards the Apparition point along the beautifully kept lane, clutching at the stitch in his chest, his face working furiously against the uncomfortable feeling of tightness that had spread across it due to all the make-up he had to put on and that horrible sticky mess that Malfoy had shot at him, that was also steadily dripping from between his buttocks and coating his legs.

He was running late and he had no more than ten minutes to Apparate to Grimmauld Place and make himself presentable before Ron and Hermione had a chance to Floo in and see him dressed up like a high profile courtesan.

Two months and Malfoy was as relentless as ever, insisting on retrieving his payment and using Harry for fulfillment of his perverted dirty fantasies. His favourite by far was Harry squeezed into some sort of old-fashioned dress with frills and a corset. Harry kept counting his ribs each time he was out of the dress; surely one day the corset would be so tight a pair would crack. Malfoy also insisted on actually sending Harry the next item to wear so that Harry could come and go already dressed up.

It quickly taught him to dread every owl making its way through his window and carrying anything larger than a letter. He was alarmed that he could now identify the type of the dress, the material it was made from, the exact colour and shade; to discern different patterns around the hem and the sleeves and to wonder how it would feel against his skin.

His feet just like his corset-laced upper body were no better off; the heels were getting higher, giving Harry a distinct impression of walking with a tip of an arrow stuck in his heel. His calves screamed with pain, his thighs joined in and his legs permanently trembled with the effort it took him each time to impale himself on Malfoy’s cock, hold himself in place and fuck himself while Malfoy enjoyed the show. Harry’s hands ached with the force it took him to refrain from strangling Malfoy and his ass was constantly on fire.

What he needed now was a long hot bath to relax his limbs and wash away all the traces of Malfoy’s presence in and out of his body. But with five minutes to spare he could afford nothing more than a quick shower accompanied by frantic scrubbing that would leave him raw and itching.

So five minutes later, wet from head to toe, his face and ass blessedly clean, Harry spit the remnants of Malfoy’s come from his mouth and brushed his teeth and tongue with enough force to rip them out. His head hurt from where Malfoy tugged on his hair while his jaws hurt from sucking Malfoy off – the stupid wanker took some potion that provided him with unusually long endurance and he wouldn’t come for a long time no matter how thoroughly and professionally Harry worked his mouth around his cock.

He might not have been very proficient at giving blow jobs when called to the task for the first time, but after two months of practice Harry had become somewhat of an expert; at least when it came to Malfoy and what sent him shooting his load down Harry’s throat in a matter of time. But not today; today Malfoy was hard to please and almost impossible to make come, ignoring all the little tricks that usually set him off and making Harry’s work so much more difficult and his wish to bite into his flesh and put an end to it almost impossible to resist. And then to add insult to injury, Malfoy pulled out half-way, making Harry choke mid-swallow, and spurted the rest of his spunk over his face.

Shuddering at the memory, Harry got under the covers and closed his eyes. Ron and Hermione were usually more punctual than that but Harry didn’t mind their lateness today.

His body was humming as tiredness and strain of the day were slowly dissipating; his head lolled back onto the pillow, the muscles in his neck going lax. He sighed and stretched. He wanted to sleep badly but he had to stay awake until Kreacher announced Ron and Hermione’s arrival. Then he would drag himself up, put on something soft and comfortable and join them in the drawing-room for dinner and a chat, successfully forgetting about Malfoy and his cock and the fact that the two were now forever connected in his brain and largely dominated his life.

Ron would tell him about the joke shop, Hermione would give a long-winded speech about how the Ministry was still too much controlled by pure-bloods and their outdated attitudes towards Muggle-borns and house-elves and then together they would burst into an excited babble over their upcoming baby and the latest preparations they’ve been undertaking. Harry, meanwhile, would listen to them with a bland smile, nodding enthusiastically when necessary and pretending that he couldn’t feel his heart break over and over again or the way bitterness gathered in his throat enough to choke him.

He didn’t begrudge them their happiness – after all they were his best friends – but he did wish to have someone for himself too; preferably tall, red-head and freckled. Harry shook his head. What a stupid fantasy. He should never have let his feelings for Ron run unchecked until it was too late. Of course, he had trained himself to keep them locked away from anyone’s notice but if Malfoy knew – Merlin knew how – then it was quite possible that Hermione, shrewd as she was, knew as well. But as long as Ron remained clueless, Harry was fine. He didn’t want him to freak out and put an end to their friendship as it was the only unlimited access Harry could ever have to him.

Everybody seemed to be getting married, having or planning on having kids and getting on with their lives, while he was stuck in some sort of personalized nightmare thanks to Malfoy, who found a perfect way of practising his perverted ways without running the risk of it getting leaked out and splashed all over the Daily Prophet. But it clashed horribly with Harry’s lifestyle, turning him from an Auror by day to a rent-boy by night or any other part of the day for that matter.

It was understandable that an influential, high ranking and married Ministry official that Malfoy had become in a surprisingly short time since the war, considering his family reputation in its wake, couldn’t afford to frequent a brothel or spend time looking for a lover who would not mind playing dress-up with him or would not run to the papers with a fully detailed account of their trysts in a fit of anger. But Harry, backed into a corner and willing to go to any lengths to keep his best friend who also happened to be the man he loved out of Azkaban, was the next best thing, came quite cheap, in any packaging and wrapping Malfoy desired and was just an owl away.

Harry frowned and, turning on his stomach, burrowed further under the covers as if they would keep him safe from reality. He hated what he had been reduced to in a couple of months and he wondered when Malfoy would stop screwing with him and treating him like a whore. Exhausted, Harry drifted off to sleep, unaware that miles away Ron was holding a sobbing Hermione as she was crying her heart out over the lost baby.

*
If anyone asked Harry what was the worst he had to go through at Malfoy Manor, in his new capacity, Harry’s mind would instantly zoom to his one and only encounter with Astoria Malfoy – the new ice queen of the manor – that happened a week after Ron and Hermione didn’t show up.

She was standing in the middle of the hall, one hand regally poised on the banister, as if waiting for him to come closer. Harry made half a dozen uncertain steps forward and stopped a few feet away from her. He would not be able to pass without her moving out of the way first. He looked up at her and when their eyes met Harry knew that she knew the reason behind his visit but he braced himself and stared unflinchingly back, waiting for the first blow to fall. She was bound to say something hurtful even if her face didn’t betray any emotions. This was clearly the woman cut out to carry the Malfoy name.

She wore a silvery halter dress that hugged her upper body and fell in shimmering waves downwards before splashing in a pool of pearly light at her feet. With a jolt Harry recognized the dress as the one he was forced to wear a couple of weeks ago. The thought made him sick as he stared at her, his mouth going dry. She looked beautiful and ethereal in the glow of the chandelier from above, unlike Harry who looked ridiculous and stick-like and about as sexy as a Bowtruckle in it. He knew from personal experience that her back was naked just like her shoulders. In fact, the dress dipped so low that half of his ass was exposed when he put it on.

She looked him slowly up and down and Harry could see mockery shining in her eyes. He was a joke to her. Her husband’s fuck toy.

‘Mr. Potter.’ she said, her eyebrows raised as if wondering how anyone could choose to spend any quality time with him rather than her.

‘Mrs. Malfoy.’ replied Harry, trying not to stumble over the words with embarrassment.

‘I would order a house-elf to take you upstairs but I have been informed that there is no need as you know the way perfectly well.’

She stepped aside and made a wrist movement to show Harry that he was dismissed but as he started ascending the stairs, his heart beating loudly in his ears, she called after him –

‘Oh and Mr. Potter,’ she made a pause to gain his full attention, ‘trash goes through the back door. Try not to forget it next time you’re here.’

His face burning and his eyes stinging with injustice, Harry rushed up the stairs and burst into the room only to find it empty. He flung his fists against the wall but it was a pitiful attempt to get rid of his anger. Walls and furniture did nothing to him and they were a wrong object to concentrate his rage on. What he needed was to smash Malfoy’s face into a bloody pulp; to hurt him as much as he hurt him. So he took his breathing under control and leaned against the wall, waiting for Malfoy’s arrival. And when the door opened and Malfoy walked in, Harry pounced on him from behind, hitting any part of him he could reach and trying to tackle him to the floor.

Once on the floor, straddling Malfoy – and how familiar was that position by now – Harry started to hit him in earnest. However, having overcome his shock at being accosted, Malfoy managed to dislodge Harry, whose anger had completely blinded him to rational thought and action, and pushed him to lie on the floor, painfully pressing his elbow into his chest. Breathing harshly, Malfoy retrieved his wand from the back pocket of his trousers and cast a spell on Harry, binding his body with tight, snake-like ropes. Clenching his teeth so as not to scream, Harry struggled against the bonds now holding him prisoner.

Malfoy stood up, brushed off his clothes and stared at Harry as he thrashed on the floor.

‘I see you’ve met Astoria.’ he said calmly. ‘She was particularly difficult to drive out of the house tonight. In fact, she insisted on staying and greeting you. But I guess it didn’t go overly well with you.’

Harry stopped struggling and lay on the floor, breathing heavily both from the struggle and the force with which the ropes held him. Though he tried to enforce some calmness back into his body, tremors overrode him now and he was shaking uncontrollably. It took him a while to realize that he was crying. He was breaking down. And in front of Malfoy too.

Suddenly it was all too much. The past week was full of misery and strain without Malfoy adding to it. Harry spent it comforting Ron when he was not busy comforting Hermione, watching as their bond grew stronger and taking care of the evidence of their shattered dream. It effected him as much as it effected them but he couldn’t allow his grief to show, because it was their loss to mourn and he was there to provide comfort and help rather then take part in indulging it.

‘Stand up.’ ordered Malfoy, towering over him with his wand now firmly clasped in his hand.

It was not easy, considering that Harry was magically bound but as soon as Malfoy issued his order, Harry felt the ropes shift so that his legs were free to move. But it was still a long and awkward process and when Harry managed to get on his knees, he was level with Malfoy’s crotch that Malfoy didn’t fail to rub tauntingly against Harry’s face.

When Harry was finally standing, Malfoy tugged painfully at his hair, almost unbalancing him, and hissed –

‘Do anything stupid again and the deal’s off.’

Harry swayed on the spot. He wanted this to stop. He wanted Malfoy to find another toy to play with. He wanted Ron to want more than just support from him. He felt like falling back on his knees and begging Malfoy to let him go. He couldn’t do it today. He leaned his forehead against Malfoy’s shoulder, his posture pleading for mercy.

‘Let me go.’ he whispered.

He was shaking. Malfoy considered him for some time, one of his hands, gripping Harry’s hip, serving as a reminder that he was here against his will, the other idly tracing Harry’s spine.

‘Lie on the bed.’ he commanded at last.

Bed and Malfoy had never before entered the equation, thought Harry. Not that it mattered, because it would hurt on the bed as much as it hurt in the chair, on the table or against the wall. So he did as he was bid. He climbed onto the bed and lay there, curled on his side and still as a statue. Malfoy climbed into bed after him and did something surprising: he wrapped his arms around Harry so that Harry’s head now rested against his chest.

Malfoy’s hand was cradling through his hair that was still tingling with the rough treatment and, unless Harry was very much mistaken, Malfoy was pressing light kisses and, strangely enough, murmuring soothing nonsense into his hair. Harry didn’t question him. Malfoy wouldn’t tell him anyway and comfort of any sort was in high demand at the moment and so highly welcome. He fell asleep in Malfoy’s arms. He woke up in his own house, in his own bed.