Talk dirty to me - the games people play.

This fic was beta’d by knightmare and Fire Dancer. Many thanks to you both.

All characters contained in this story are the property of JK Rowling. No offence is intended.

This one shot was written for the ‘Red Reign September challenge’ at \'Cipher – Wasteland of the Real\'.


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It takes me a while to come round and when I finally do, it’s quiet and dark and I’m back in the infirmary. This is, officially, my second home. I take a silent inventory of my injuries, flexing fingers and toes, counting them off just to make sure I’m whole.

I don’t really remember what happened and I think I’m glad about that. We were so far ahead, I recall. At least two hundred points by my last count, but I just couldn’t catch the snitch. It taunted me, as if it had a mind of its own – a really evil mind, at that. I flew my arse off, probably the best I’ve ever flown but it eluded me, always just out of reach. The last things I clearly remember were Ron’s panicked shout of,

“Harry! Get out of the way!”

and an odd, high pitched whistling noise. In fact now I think about it, it seems more like that screaming noise - you know – the one you associate with bombs falling. I only vaguely remember the impact. It must have knocked me clean off my broom, and I dread to think how far I fell. At least sixty feet, if not seventy.

I twist my neck slightly, and feel the pain then. My left arm is secured in some sort of contraption. Probably part of Madam Pomfrey’s torture chamber, in its regular usage. It’s forcing my arm out at an angle, elbow bent inwards; I think the bones must be setting. It feels hot and prickly. I want to scratch my arm from the tips of my fingers right up to my shoulder, but there’s something like a force field around it and I can’t get through it.

I let my head sink back into the pillow, furious at the thought of our inevitable defeat. I frown to myself, brows crinkling, eyes screwed shut. Then,

“You lost.”

I relax, knowing the voice, the taunting tone. I open my eyes again and see only the empty infirmary just as before. I return my gaze to the foot of my bed and talk to the empty space there.

“I’m fine, thanks,” I huff out, a little humour mixed in with a sprinkle of exasperation. I know he’s going to tease me about my team’s loss.

“Such a pity. I had great plans for our private victory celebration.” His voice is silky smooth, teasing me in a different way; one he knows affects my body as well as my mind. I lean my head back, deep into the pillow, and laugh a quiet laugh.

“But there are no victory celebrations for losers, are there?”

I don’t answer but I imagine where about his eyes must be, and I stare a challenge back at him, my nostrils flaring, my eyes narrowed; just a touch of a smile on my lips. A cynical look, shared between lovers.

“Oh, no. Losers don’t deserve any prizes,” he presses on, “Or any kisses. Losing was never an option today. I told you that. But you didn’t listen.” There’s menace in his voice now, but not the violent kind. It’s the kind that makes the hair on the back of my neck prickle with anticipation. “I think I might have to find a way to punish you for your failure,” he laughs, low and cold and calculating. But his voice just makes me hot all over, the itching in my arm stretching tentacles of sensation over my whole body now. His voice always does this to me. I often touch myself when I’m alone, replaying his words, his tone of voice, until I come, my vision full of him. The thought alone makes me harden. I can feel my cock fill out, barley disguised under the thin sheet. He must see it, I know he must.

“Even that won’t make me change my mind,” he laughs at me.

I listen to my body now, as he stands before me, hidden under my Cloak. The warmth is creeping up my neck, following the path of my suddenly shallow breathing. I roll my lips, a quick flick of my tongue, just to moisten them, my hot breath drying them again in a second. I’m fully hard under the thin sheet now. My cock has a mind of it’s own where he’s concerned. I’ve given up trying to master it. He’s just so good at these games.

“I wonder…would you like to know what I had planned for you this evening?” His voice is a whisper, barely there. But the words burn through me. He knows he has me in the palm of his hand. My face is hot now; the anticipation is so sweet in my mouth. He takes my silence as assent.

He exhales slowly, and I almost believe I can feel his breath on me as he starts his torture.

“I love to tie you up. My helpless little hero,” his laughter is quiet and sly. Pure evil. “My damsel in distress…” His words tail off and I picture myself, bound and spread-eagled on his bed, as he knows I will. He gives me some time to fix the image in my mind, my eyes closed in momentary concentration. My legs slide apart under the thin sheet, involuntarily, until my heels are hooked over the edges of the mattress. I hear his breathing then, ragged for a split second before he rebuilds his composure.

“So eager. I’ve never…” but he doesn’t finish the sentence. It would give far too much away about his feelings for me. And that’s not part of the game.

“You’re always hard, long before the first restraint is even in place. Hard and panting. Just like now. Just like you would have been for my little treat.”

His voice is so quiet, so full of heat. I can see my erection jerking under the sheet now, a tiny wet patch further evidence of my arousal. I know he sees it too.

“But tonight, you would have been face down, my little slut. Begging me to fuck you, sobbing at my delay.”

Oh, Gods! I can hardly breathe, my chest is so tight. I have to lean back and close my eyes just to remember how to fill my lungs. Does he know my secret, the one I’ve tried desperately to hide for knowledge that he’d use it to torture me?

He did it once, tied me down like that; my arms out straight to the sides, my head at the foot of his bed. Every second of that night is burned into my brain, tattooed across my libido, guaranteed to make me scream when I relive it, often, in my fantasies.

“I had some gifts for you tonight, some new toys to play with. Such a pity to withhold them now.” His voice is filled with the promise of debauchery and degradation. He knows I want it.

“You wouldn’t like the cock ring. Oh, no, you wouldn’t. But I would have put it on you and you would not have refused.”

He speaks the truth. I would let him do anything to me.

“I would have held your wet, pulsing cock in my hand, stroking it too lightly to ease your frustration but just enough to make it worse,” he chuckles, watching my erection jerk as he speaks, the fight I am having to keep my right hand by my side.

“I would have tightened it around you, your new cock ring, cupping your firm testicles in my hand just the way you like and wanked you firmly, then, knowing you couldn’t come. I would have rubbed your wetness into you, and peeled back your foreskin so the tenderest parts of you were exposed. I would have pressed my fingertips into the sticky dip just below your petal-soft head, and teased you there. I would have had you screaming my name into the mattress, my hands underneath your writhing body.”

I’m panting unashamedly now, the desire to say his name over and over again just on the tip of my tongue. But I won’t give in. Not yet.

“I might have made myself come, then, while you couldn’t. I could have stepped away from you, at the foot of the bed. Yes, I think so. Right where you could see me, with no hope of you touching me. I would have stripped then, and stroked my rigid length. Slowly, so slowly to prolong your torture, staring right into your pleading, desperate eyes. And I would have come, and maybe some of it would have hit your face, and I would have laughed at your failed efforts to reach it with your tongue.” A pause before, “And maybe I would have crawled to you then, and licked it off. I might even have kissed you, let you taste me; smell me, on my own breath. But only if you’d been very, very good.”

I’m moaning softly in the silence of the infirmary. He’s hitting every button I’ve got and he knows it. I’ve never seen him touch himself but he knows I want to watch him do it. The sheet is soaking now; my cock is leaking, praying it’s going to be touched. But I wait. I know there’s more to come. There’s always more with him.

“I would have touched you, then. Taken pity on you rubbing yourself into the mattress, pumping your hips in frustration, wanting so much to reach your release.” His voice slices through the erotic fog created by the screaming need in my body, helpless as I am, to drag him to me.

“ I would have knelt between your legs, stroking your pulsing, trapped balls, just tickling the skin there to keep you pleading for me. And I would have traced patterns on your back, petting you, making you moan. I’d have bent my face to your buttocks then, and breathed scorching hot breath along the parted crease as I teased you. Will I lick you, or won’t I? I would have kept you guessing for ages.”

His voice is the only thing in my universe. There is only him. I’m clenching and unclenching my arse now, trying so hard to rub myself, to make some friction there and imitate his words. He knows what I’m doing. He calls me his catamite.

“And then I would have given in to your begging, and licked a path up your crack, but too gently to touch your hole. I would have laughed my amusement at your cry of frustration and sunk my teeth into the fleshy cushion of your backside, biting you. I would have bitten you so hard that I would have tasted your blood. But only if you had won.”

My eyes are closed, shut tight, as if this will prevent my undoing. But I know it won’t.

“When I was satisfied that you would carry my mark for weeks, I would have fingered your opening then, making you think I would press up inside your body. But I wouldn’t have. I would have stroked my cock again, unseen by you, as I teased you with my finger.”

I can almost feel his finger stroking me now. I imagine his gaze is locked between my legs, watching the pearly pre-come drip from my slit, watching me pulse my buttocks, the best I can do to stimulate myself.

“I was looking forward to wetting my finger with my body’s own lubricant, and pushing past the tight ring of your anus, probing inside the hot, muscled tunnel that I so want to fuck. But you lost, so I can’t.” He pauses his filthy diatribe, keeping me on tenterhooks for his next softly spoken words.

“The musky, hot smell of you would have reached me then, and I would have jerked my finger out and buried my face in your crack, mouthing and slurping at that tight, puckered hole. I would have tasted you and swallowed you down, and fucked you with my tongue, while you begged me to take you, and take you with abandon. Hard enough to hurt. It’s what you would have wanted by then.”

He’s right, and he knows that I know this. My eyes flicker open, staring into the space where he is and I pump my hips for him, let him see how much he affects me. I hear his breathing and I feel triumph that he is as horny, now, as I am. He needs to continue as much as I need it.

“And by then, I would’ve had enough of playing with you. I’d have propped your hips up high and slammed my cock into you, your tight, dirty hole. I’d spare you no mercy as I fucked you, listening to you screaming my name, your voice as broken as your body. Wishing secretly, inside that filthy mind of yours that there was a big, fat cock fucking your mouth, just as I was fucking your arse.”

My eyes are shut tight; the humiliation, and the need in my body are beyond acute. He knows!I scream inside. He knows, and he’s angry! But next he whispers to me, his voice deadly and scorching,

“And then I’d have given you your second gift.”

My eyes snap open, staring at the space I know he occupies even though I can’t see him. I almost don’t hear him speak over my own panting.

“I found him, just for you. I searched and I found you a nice, big, eager cock, to fill that filthy, beautiful mouth of yours as I fucked you. If only you had won.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing! Can he mean it, or is it the game? I know my brow furrows slightly as I try to figure it out. He laughs, such a dirty, knowing laugh. I am burning all over.

“I would have summoned him to us then, and given him just a moment to register your utter subjugation, before I bade him strip for you.”

It’s no good; my fingers can’t stay still any longer. My hand creeps across my belly, my hip, down below the sheet, touching the slick of fluid that has leaked from me. The sheet pulls away, then. He must have grasped it though the cloak because I still can’t see him. He pulls it, inch by inch, down my body until my fevered organ is exposed, my tentative fingers dancing so close to touching it, and then my spread legs, until I am completely naked before him. He groans his approval even as he continues,

“He would have known exactly what to do. I’ve already told him all about you. What you want.”

My fingers trail over my cock now, and it jerks at my touch.

“He would have grasped your chin and made you take his length right inside. He would not have been gentle. I’d already told him not to be. He would have used your mouth, then. Used it to fuck, to make himself come, while I fucked your loosening hole…pounding into you from both ends; just using you, to make us both come, my little bitch in heat.”

I’m wanking myself now. I can’t stop. I’m not being gentle, either. He knows that deep down inside, I’m a slut. I love that he’s watching me, making me do this to myself.

“I wonder what it would have felt like for you. My cock pounding your prostate on every vicious thrust, stretching you wide open, and his cock, making you gag as he fucked your mouth so brutally, his balls slapping your chin, milking the moans from deep inside you. All the while knowing you wouldn’t be able to come. Not until I let you.”

The tingle of my approaching orgasm is present in every finger and toe, across my whole body, my arm moving furiously, my only accompaniment the wet slapping sound of my masturbation.

“And then I would have taken pity on you as you knew I must, eventually. I would have reached under your frantic body and loosed the cock ring, and you would have been free. I would have stroked you to completion, even knowing you wouldn’t need me to touch you. You would have screamed and screamed. He would have come first, the one in your mouth. The music of your passion would have been too much for him. And as his seed flooded down your eager throat and you swallowed and tasted in desperation, you would have come over my hand then. Hot, brutal spurts that would never have ended, because you needed them so much. And because I would have allowed it.”

And then I do come. Just as he described. Screaming his name into the silence of the infirmary, my voice broken, and ragged. The hot come jets out of me, splattering far up my body, even on my pillow, so violent are the spasms. I am sobbing to myself, unable to do anything else. I know he loves it. I hear his own breath catch, his own struggle to complete his game.

“I would have come finally, scalding your passage with my seed, filling you up, slamming my final thrusts into your compliant body.”

He can’t continue, voice almost broken. I think he must have come himself, then, under the Invisibility Cloak. I hear his own stifled sob as he shudders in orgasm, perhaps into his own hand. I stare at the empty space and wish I could have watched him, as he watched me.

We catch our breath together in the darkened infirmary, he in private, me in public. After a few minutes, he says,

“Why couldn’t you have won?” and then he walks away. I see the door swing shut behind him. And I am alone.

**********

It’s two days before I have the opportunity to pay him back. I bide my time patiently, grinning to myself at the thought of what I might do. Finally, it is the last lesson of the day. Potions. I have to endure close on two hours of ridicule and humiliation. I’ve grown used to it.

I catch the eye of our beautiful, cold Slytherin Quidditch Captain as I roll my eyes at one of the Professor’s better efforts at riling me. He does not look away but holds my gaze, turning it into a stare. His eyes narrow slightly, an evil smile twitching at his lips, before his neighbour distracts him back to the lesson.

I continue my shoddy efforts, mind barely on the work before me. I tolerate further withering criticism to the amusement of the class, before Professor Snape sees fit to leave me alone. At some point I look up again, attention wandering once more. They are staring at me, Snape and Malfoy, stood next to each other – an exercise in contrasting colours. They have the same predatory, hungry look; the same twist of the lips, as they stare me down and I know. All of a sudden, I know.

I look away and smile then, knowing the action I will take to play this out. I take every opportunity to bait Malfoy through the remainder of the lesson. I pin him with my best glare, I jostle him at the store cupboard door, I divert my path to pass his workbench and ruin his potion. And all the time, the Grim Reaper gets angrier and angrier. I always know by the snapping of his robes as he thunders through his classroom. Seven years is a long time in which to study a person’s body language. I laugh loudly in my head, knowing I am causing confusion and unrest.

Professor Snape barks at me at the end of the lesson to remain behind. Another detention, no doubt. But I comply. It works to my advantage to do so. I stand before him, sitting at his desk, as he sneers his observations of my behaviour and performance in the class today. I hardly pay any attention, drifting away in my own thoughts, until he shouts,

“Look at me!” and he is on his feet, leaning into his desk, balancing his weight on his fists. Good. Right where I want him. I cast the Body Bind Charm and seal the door before he registers my moves. I lean in then, mirroring his frozen pose. And I say,

“It was Malfoy, wasn’t it? The cock in my mouth. It would have been Malfoy.”

Not a question any more. Of course he can’t answer me, bound rigid as he is. But I see the sparkle of humour in his eyes and I choose to let him regain the ability to speak. I wave my hand and his face is freed, although I keep his body right where it is. He laughs. That’s all. Just laughs his low, dirty, wicked laugh.

I move then, pacing round his beloved desk, coming up behind him until my body is pressed into his back. I know he can feel that I’m hard. I start to raise his robes, working them delicately through my fingers until the hem is bunched around his waist. Pressing right into him, I focus my efforts now on undoing his trousers. His breath huffs out but still he says nothing. I take my time with his button fly, rubbing him more than I really need to, chuckling aloud at the little hitches in his breathing. So much better doing it by hand than undressing him with a muttered charm.

I lower his trousers and underwear to his thighs, his naked, pale backside pressed against my groin. I don’t touch his erection but I allow my hands to linger on his hips, letting him think I might, and then I pull back. He growls in wordless frustration. I open his desk drawer, still keeping his robes raised, pinned as they are between him and me. I make a fuss of uncapping the lubricant and coating my fingers. I count them off as I oil them,

“One……two……three……four…”

so he knows I’m not going to be gentle. And then I press them into his motionless crack, invading his body, his hot, tight anus, with each finger in turn, before I release him from the Body Bind.

He shifts forward, a little shaken at my bold move but spreads his legs as wide as his trousers will allow. I laugh my own evil laugh then as I shove first two, and then three fingers roughly up him and fuck him hard with them, adding the fourth as he gasps and moans his pleas, making me laugh even harder.

I pull away from him just as he becomes used to the feeling of me there. He pushes his arse back at me, a lewd temptation, but I am too busy undoing my trousers. I push them down roughly, slicking my rigid cock only a little before ramming myself inside him, with one long stroke. He screams for me then and I stroke his hair back from his face.

I pound into him three or four times before pausing to speak.

“You lied.”

He drops his body then, laying his chest flat against the desk, displaying himself to me, and I can see my cock buried in him. He turns his head and he is smiling.

“I know,” he sighs.

I fuck him some more, pushing his groin into the edge of his much loved desk, digging my fingertips into his slim hips. It gives me better leverage. I hope to leave bruises.

“We didn’t lose. We won,” I say, in time with my pounding.

He doesn’t answer me with words. He tells me in moans and whimpers, and screams that he enjoyed his little game, as I plough my way into his body with no mercy. In the end as I’m close to shooting inside him, I gasp,

“I want it.”

And I tell him with my body that I’m coming. He’s coming too. But before he does, he chokes out,

“I know,”

and I come then, shouting his name into the echo of his dungeon classroom, and he screams mine as he succumbs to his desire too, and pumps his orgasm onto the dark wood grain pressing into him.

We stay attached for a minute or two, catching our breaths, regaining some composure. I reach forward to stroke his flushed cheek with my fingertips and he sighs happily, and murmurs,

“I know.”


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