Artwork

Characters/Pairings: Ron Weasley/Severus Snape
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: BDSM, non-con/dub-con, intimidation, M/s, sexual acts including bastinado, spanking, watersports punishment, enema play, comeplay.
Word Count: ~3,227
Summary: Simply, I'd had enough.


Artwork


Simply, I'd had enough.

His insolence has riled me since the day he set foot in this castle, his air of genial arrogance every bit as present in him as in his brothers. Somebody should stop the Prewett-Weasley partnership from reproducing. Every single brother, even the boring one, has taken issue with me. Perhaps it was because I was not beautiful, like they all are. Perhaps it was because I am clearly unloved, whereas they have all tumbled out of the womb of seemingly the most loving woman on the planet.

I look at him, strung up on my diagonal cross which actually had to be dusted off for the occasion. My quick spell over the wood was performed as he knelt in front of me, naked and shivering, a thick chain leading to my hand holding him in place. He looked at his long and bony feet, anything not to have to look at ugly old me.

That has changed. I have forced him to look at me whilst I ruined him. Even now, when he is restrained and can do no more than pant and sweat as I simply stare at him, he knows my power. He knows what I have reduced him to -a snivelling, quivering wreck.

I had to use Imperius to make him kneel. There was such a sick enjoyment of the wide-eyed horror on his face that it made me hard as he curled into place. I suppose I should be impressed that he fought off my command to look at me from below. It only pushed me harder, I suppose.

From kneeling I forced him onto his back, keeping the collar around his neck and using the chain against him. I attached it to the ceiling and enclosed his ankles in cold metal, stringing his long legs up, baring his cock, anus and feet to my mercy; I gave them none. I turned for my leather glove, something to try and protect my hand, and when I returned to him, he glared at me with an insolence so burning I slapped him hard across the cheek. His shout was delicious.

Perhaps my allegiance should have taught me something more worthwhile than how to bring a man -no, a teenager- down to base, and then force him to plummet several feet below it. As I began to lay stinging smacks to his buttocks, however, uncaring of whether I clipped his sac or cock, power trickled through me and, for once, it felt worthwhile. After twenty slaps he was gasping and his skin was a beautiful shade of pink. After thirty, he was biting into his lip and pink had progressed to red. After fifty, he was whimpering continually, his skin beyond description. After sixty, when I could no longer deny the ache in my arm and the sting in my palm, I laid the last stroke and looked up. He was crying, tears running sideways from his blotched fast. His lip was bloody.

I smiled at him.

I let him breathe for a moment, hoping he would cease the tears and buck up. He began to choke slightly as he tried to hide them. I asked him if he needed a tissue. He glared at me.

I summoned a thin strip of wood from behind my desk, one which I often use to point during lessons when I need to cover the board. Weasley recognised it, he regarded it with fear. I lifted it into the air and then, without force, tapped it once over the ball of his left foot. His face relaxed, expecting pain. I smiled at him. He clearly wasn't expecting what I planned to do to him.

I summoned a stool and sat myself down, shedding my outer robe. I appreciated for a moment the curve of his buttocks, the length of his penis when flaccid, the evenness of his balls, his flat belly, his skinny chest, his pink nipples, his flushed throat, his strong jaw, his long nose, his plump lips, and his blue, blue eyes beneath red eyelashes.

When he least expected it, I brought the cane down over the sole of his foot, and again, and again, and over, and over until there were welt marks over the soft skin. It was after leaving him for a moment and beginning again that I heard the first beg. It was hoarse and somewhat broken. His eyes were leaking again and his fists were clenched. I set the cane down and traced my forefinger over the abused soles and he gasped. I knew they would be so sensitive that they were singing to him, crooning with pain and ticklish torture. His toes curled and I watched them, noting the length, the softness of the pads, and the tiny hairs between the foot and first joint in the bones.

I don't think he expected the boiling slash of wax I laced over them. I summoned the candle wordlessly when his eyes had closed for just a second, and then tipped it. I tilted the pillar again, that time over the arch of his right foot. His leg licked, his toes splayed with pain, and he screamed. With each further dripping, he screamed again, until my dungeon was full of the sound of his desperate cries and begs. I kept going until his feet were beautiful artwork, summoning another candle so that the wax differed in colour. Burgundy and black, his feet looked almost bloodied.

“P-Please!”

And that beg was what earned him being strung up on the apparatus in front of me. He leans against it for support, letting it take all his weight. He is sweating everywhere, from his temples to his belly, and his cock hangs flaccid between his legs.

“So, Weasley...” I step closer to him, raising my fingers to fondle that flaccid cock between the tips. He is amply proportioned. I thumb his slit and watch him jerk in shock. I rub in a firm circle. “Do you respect me yet?”

He cannot answer me. I gagged him for that very reason. I don't want him to answer.

“No?” I arch one eyebrow and take his cock firmly in my hand, pulling it away from his body. Slowly I begin to pump, working him to hardness. He is so tired now that even his disgust cannot stop his body's natural reactions to my talented work. “Are you sure about that?”

I part his slit and hear him moan behind the gag. I push back his foreskin and expose the head to the room. I want to lick it, to taste him, but I will not lower myself to give him that pleasure. I take a moment, stroking his cock, to remind myself that this is not about his pleasure; it is about mine.

“No respect? Well then...”

I wordlessly dispel the restraints on his arms and legs and he slumps to the floor at my feet. I hoist him up beneath his armpits and pull him towards the simple bathroom my quarters are equipped with. This is his chance to fight, but all he can do is stumble over his own legs and let me push him where I want him. I help him to climb into the bath and then I pull my wand, dragging his hands up and tying them to the shower curtain rail, which is blissfully high above his head. He is stretched out and hard now, a beautiful sight.

I pick up the glass from the sink which I never use. I fill it with water from my wand and then, unbeknownst to the redhead, I charm it to continuously fill. I put it to his lips and then charm it to hover. I remove his gag.

“You will drink,” I advise him, “Until all the water is gone. Do you understand me? You will not urinate without my position.”

The glass tips with a wave of my hand, straight into his lips, which seem to be open in shock. He swallows, drinking the liquid down until it is empty. He takes a breath of relief too soon; the glass refills and tips again. And again. And again. And again. I retreat to the toilet seat and sit down upon it, watching him glug at the water. His face grows red again and his hips shift awkwardly. Depending on when he last urinated, he will feel the pressure soon enough and I wait for the moment that he moans -the moan of the full, the moan of the feeling of needing to piss and the moan of the humiliated, for knowing that he will not be alone when he does so.

After ten refills of the glass, I wander over to him and place my palm flat on his belly. He gasps and water splashes down his chest. I push inward and he squeals, so beautifully that I make the move again. His voice echoes on the tiles of the bathroom walls and it is heaven. I drop my hand to fondle his balls whilst the glass continues to re-fill. He doesn't seem to realise that, if he simply closed his mouth, he would not be drinking. I glance up at him and see something which sparks instant satisfaction in my veins. His eyes have the haze of the dazed, the haze of a man so over-touched and so stretched to his limit that he can no longer protest anything, even if his life depended on it. I smirk at him and put my hand to his belly again. I push inward and begin to rub in a slow, agonising circle. He moans and more water slops. I banish the glass.

“Now then,” I whisper, still rubbing. “Do you need to piss?”
“Yes,” he grinds out.
“Yes what?”
“Yes please,” he moans again, as I move lower, pressing on his bladder.
“Yes please what?” I push further.
“Yes please... P-Professor...” Ron stammers, his head tilting back with desperation.
“Yes please sir, for your information,” I correct him, and lay a gentle slap to his bollocks.
“Fuck!” he screams, his entire body writhing with pain.

I slap again, just to see him look so beautiful.

“P-Please, S-Sir, stop! Aaaagh!” his words break off into a whimper.
“Stop to find another torture? Of course.” I smirk at him.

I reach behind him for the long shower hose. I unscrew the head and transfigure the end of the pipe into a tapered nozzle.

“Stand with your legs apart.”

He either ignores me or is so tired that he cannot obey, so I shove them apart for him. He loses the centre of his weight and moans again. When I work the nozzle between his buttocks he jerks again. I scrape my fingernail over his pucker and he hisses. I do it again, and then without ceremony put the end of the nozzle to it.

“W-What-”
“SILENCE!” I bellow, deafening even myself in the small room. “Speak when asked a direct question, Weasley, and never at any other time.”

Only his rough breathing can be heard as I push inward with the nozzle, which I know is cold, and work it into his body. I am surprised by his lack of apparent pain. Perhaps the boy has surprised me; perhaps I am not the first to knock at the back entrance of his body.

“There...” I whisper dangerously. I hold the nozzle in place and, with magic -blessed, easy magic, turn on the water.

As soon as it hits his insides, he screams, probably with shock.

“What did you think I was doing?” I laugh, bringing one hand back round to his front and stroking his cock.

I am filling him until he aches, until he doesn't know which bodily function he needs or whether he just needs to come, long and hard. I am filling him until the dizziness sets in, until nausea takes over and he loses control of himself. The sound of the running water, I will know, will remind him of how much he needs to urinate. The odd, cool water filling his bowls will make him need to defecate. And as I begin to pump his cock, hard in my fist, he will want to come.

Soon he is panting, head hung forward between his strung up arms. I notice the fullness of his belly and smirk.

“Clench your buttocks. I am going to remove the nozzle. If a single drip of water escapes you, I will start again.”

Without subtlety, I slide the nozzle from his backside and let it fall. He tenses; he believes me when I say I will put his body through hell all over again if he does not do what I say.

I smirk at the respect I have forced into him.

“Accio plug.” I say it aloud to frighten him. The outstretched object zooms into my hand and I set to work in nudging it into place where the nozzle has vacated. His breath hitches and he moans as I circle the metal into place. It is cold and unforgiving, although self-lubricating. I want no accidental blood.

When he is fully plugged, I step back and look at him. His entire body is flushed; his cock is hard and straining, his belly is slightly rounded. I imagine how his buttocks are parted by the end of the anal plug.

“My, my, Weasley, how pathetic you look,” I say, folding my arms across my chest. “If only those who love you could see you now, hmm? Strung up, full to bursting, and hard all the while, you little slut.”

His eyes widen with shock.

“Yes, Weasley, you call me names behind my back and think I don't hear. You never stop to think what I call you behind closed doors, do you? You thick, worthless little slut.”

His lips part weakly, as if to protest.

“And now you have submitted to me, with barely any protest. Do you long to follow, Weasley? Do you long to be a sheep all your life, to follow, to be told what to do? Tell me, does Potter command you in the bedroom, does he fuck you raw and do you thank him for it on bended knee? Are you as easy with him as you have been for me, slut?”

“P-please, stop.” His eyes close, somewhat pathetically.
“Why should I?” I step closer, so that he can feel my breath on his skin. “Have you ever stopped? Have you ever thought that maybe your words might hurt me? Ever thought that there is more to a situation than your tiny little mind can comprehend, slut?”
“I'm not a slut!” he bursts out, visibly trembling.
“Then why did you submit so easily, hmm?”

I drag the tip of my forefinger along his cock and set it on his slit.

He shakes his head wordlessly and closes his eyes again. I take his cock in hand and begin to pump, slowly at first and then building speed, until the head is slippery with juice and he is canting into my hand.

“Filthy whore.” I hiss the words at him. “You spread yourself for a man you don't even respect.”
“I RESPECT YOU!” he shouts desperately. “I do! I fucking do! I can't match you. Please, please stop doing this to me I... oh God... I...”
“You what?” I ask, unable to help my lips curling into a smirk.
“I need to c-come...” he gasps, pushing his hips forward and his cock into my hand.
“Absolutely not,” I rule. “But you may piss.”
“What, no!” he chokes, mortified at the command.
“Piss yourself, Weasley. And that is an order, not a request. If you don't, the consequences will be severe.”
“I can't...” he whispers. “Not when I'm...”
“Hard?” I finish for him. “Yes you can. Try.”

I grab his cock and point it downward into the bath, he groans. I push into his belly and begin to rub again, so deep and so firmly that his legs begin to shake under the pressure.

“Come on...” I cajole. “You must need to go by now... you're so full of water...”

Almost as if reminding him is the final straw, Ron tips his head back and howls at the ceiling as he releases. It splatters his feet and races towards the plughole. He carries on like a carthorse for what seems like several minutes. I massage his cock as he finishes, making sure he stays hard.

“Good boy,” I say mockingly. “Accio.”
“What now?” he asks weakly. I ignore his insubordination in favour of fitting the metal object in my hand. I put the ball-tipped metal to his slit and push inward. He cries out.

I work carefully, slipping the glans ring into place. When I am done I look up and his eyes are glazed over.

“No orgasm for you,” I almost sing at him.

I cut the restraints on his wrists without warning and his knees hit the bath. Stunned, he is helpless as I finally free my own erection from my trousers and stroke it carefully in front of him. It takes me less than a minute to be desperately there, to be almost bursting.

“Open your eyes,” I command. He does and stares my cock in the face. “Open your mouth.”

Tentatively he does so. I remain where I am, simply pumping myself towards completion. I put one hand on his head to hold it in place and then, thinking back over the night, and every single desperate cry he has made, I come hard over his face. I splatter him with white cream, hoping some of it works its way to his tongue, that he tastes me and knows I have forced him to his knees and humiliated him.

I jerk with surprise when I feel the softness of his tongue caressing me. I look down and see his tentative tongue lapping at my slit, carrying away the remainder of my seed. I massage his head slightly and then, without further comment, pull away. I tuck myself back into my trousers and walk to the door.

“You will clean yourself in the shower. Remove the plug. You are to dry yourself, dress yourself, and leave. I will see you again tomorrow evening at nine. Do not be late. Do not think of telling anybody about what has gone here tonight. Do you understand?”
“I understand, Sir.”

I leave the bathroom and cross to my small sitting room. I pick up the glass of whisky I had been drinking before his arrogant knock on my door. I throw it back into my throat, my head dizzy with satisfaction and pleasure.

It is a long time before I hear noise from the bathroom.

-fin-