Backlash

“I won’t put up with it, Draco,” Harry says angrily, pacing a circle around the haughty blond, sharp chin still tipped up in defiance, despite being trussed and naked and entirely at his thunderous mercy.

“Weasleys,” Draco says viciously, testing the restraints as he spits the word.

Harry chews his lip thoughtfully then shakes his head. Turning his back on his disobedient lover, he scours the large, leather chest.

“What are you doing? Draco demands, craning his neck to see.

The challenging tone annoys him, so Harry ignores the question and takes his time selecting two of the contents before straightening up and turning to allow Draco an unobstructed view.

“Shit,” Draco gasps, the pale cheeks of his arse clenching in nervous anticipation.

The elegant stock whip’s single tail, crafted from the finest leather, unravels and settles on the floor, the handle grasped securely in Harry’s hand. His other hand directs the riding crop, trailing it up the inside of Draco’s trembling thigh until the popper nudges Draco’s testicles, gloriously exposed and delicious in their vulnerability.

Harry regards them with a moue of distaste. “Your choice,” he says evenly.

Draco looks from one to the other frantically before raising his eyes.

“Harry, please –“

“Hurry up, Draco, if you don’t make a decision, I will, and you know damn well which one you’ll get.”

Fuck, Draco does know, knows exactly how much Harry loves flaying his delicate arse with the stock whip, the brutal crack like gunshot as it slashes through the air currents, the pain it inflicts upon contact never failing to knock the wind right out of him.

“The crop, then,” he shouts petulantly.

Harry tilts his head and adopts such an appalling facade of sympathy that Draco almost laughs. Almost.

“Oh dear, time’s up. Try to be quicker in future.”

Before Draco can inhale and form a protest, Harry lets the riding crop fall to the floor. It lands between his thighs and Draco stares at it, hardly daring to watch as Harry runs the long twist of defined leather between his fingers, drawing his arm back and curling the vicious stock whip with a flourish.

“Oww!” Draco cries, a razor-sharp imprint of fire exploding across his buttocks. He is mortified when his cock twitches with pathetic eagerness, and even more disgusted to see Harry’s greedy gaze light up in response.

“Oww fuck, Harry, that hurt!”

Searing pain ignites as each blow glances off his skin. Draco is sure it must be slicing him open, but Harry just stands there in front of him, drinking in every clench of teeth and silent scream as big, fat tears threaten to drip from the corners of his eyes. He can feel each individual welt when it rises, a vivid slash of red jutting proudly from the alabaster skin.

One last terrifyingly loud crack of the whip as it cuts through the air has Draco sobbing openly, his angry cock leaking a wealth of pre-come.

Finally, the blows cease to land, and Draco’s eyes flutter open. His body slackens in the bonds when Harry drops to his knees and sucks his orgasm right out of him, swallowing around the engorged shaft as Draco pours his climax down Harry’s throat. No sooner does he feel the last spasm work itself out, than Harry is moving behind him, roughly separating the crimson cheeks to expose the pale cleft, unmindful of Draco’s pained hiss as he penetrates him.

“Fuck,” Harry growls, not even giving Draco a moment to adjust before pulling out and driving into him again, “your arse, Draco, so fucking hot.”

Draco tries to meet every gruelling thrust, but his movement is severely restricted by the unyielding bonds.

The brush of Harry’s thighs against his abused flesh is exquisite agony, and the salty sweat pummelled into each stripe of whipped skin is as raw as the lash that created it.

“Is that the worst you can do?” Draco mocks.

Harry snarls and strikes both cheeks callously, digging his fingernails into Draco’s waist. His teeth sink into the bone of Draco’s shoulder, and Draco swears loudly when he feels Harry’s cock pulse inside him.

Sounds of desperation rent the air, Harry’s harsh pants a tepid breeze against the feverish nape of his neck. Harry wraps his hands around Draco’s stomach and strokes it lightly.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he murmurs, carefully pulling out of Draco and moving around to kiss him, “I’m so sorry, did I hurt you?”

Draco jerks his head back and stares at him incredulously.

“Are you stupid, Potter? You know full well I haven’t hated the Weasleys in years. And then there’s the small matter of my safe-word, which I don’t believe you heard me use.”

Harry smiles and leans in to kiss him again. “You should probably think up a new one, though. One day you might have to use it, and then we’ll never be able to have sex again.”

“Why?” Draco demands, “it’s perfect. When else am I likely to shout ‘Molly Weasley’ during sex?”

“Urgh,” Harry grimaces, “please don’t, or I'll be forced to use the riding crop too.”

Draco’s depraved smile lights up his face. “Molly, Molly, Molly.”

***