Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Under the Manor	By : WillGirl Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 13318 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Disclaimer: I make no claims to Harry Potter, either books or movies, and all rights belong to JKR. No money or other recompense is being made from this story.

Chapter List
- 9
- 10
- 11
Harry watched the dark streets trundle past his window, bringing him closer and closer to his home, and wished that they might never arrive. He was surprisingly comfortable sitting there on the shabby backseat of the taxi, Malfoy curled up next to him, slumbering against Harry’s shoulder; their fingers interlaced companionably; while the cabbie sat oblivious in the front seat, humming off-key to the quiet murmur of the radio.

He and Harry had joked about alcohol, and its propensity for turning blokes into idiots ever since humanity had invented fire so that people could see the stupid things they did while drunk, and laughed quietly so as not to wake Draco, and then lapsed into silence. Harry felt very cozy there in the backseat of the cab, next to Malfoy, and even while that frightened him there was a part of him that hoped it might last forever.

But the cab drew to a stop at last, and Harry reluctantly detached his grip from Draco’s hand, and fished in his pocket for cash. Draco stirred blearily when Harry tugged him out of the cab, but he stumbled heavily on the kerb, his senses clearly muffled. Harry instinctively caught him before he could fall, wrapping an arm tightly around the taller man’s skinny waist. He smiled thanks at the cab driver when the man hopped out to help him walk Draco up the stairs, and tipped him heavily for his assistance, despite the hot stab of resentment Harry felt at being thus aided. He could have managed Malfoy by himself; who did this cabbie think he was, to take Draco’s arm so proprietorially?

Harry pushed that thought away, reminding himself that he had no right to manhandle Malfoy without leave, either, and forced himself not to hex the helpful Muggle for his pains.

He fumbled with the lock long enough for the cab to drive away, then pulled his wand out and opened the heavy front door to Number 12. Draco’s skinny form was a warm presence against Harry’s side, but the slim man seemed to weigh almost nothing, and Harry easily hauled him down the long hallway to the living room. He settled Malfoy on a couch and then left to get them both some water; Kreacher, thankfully, seemed to be asleep. Harry had told him long ago not to bother waiting up for him on the nights when he stayed out late, wandering the city, but the Elf didn’t always listen, and the last thing Harry wanted right now was to try and explain Draco’s inebriated presence to a tea-bearing House Elf.

Harry paused halfway to the kitchen and decided that he didn’t want to risk the Elf hearing him moving around so close to his nest, and detoured into the dining room instead. He felt a bit ridiculous filling fancy silver goblets with conjured water from his wand, but comforted himself with the half-silly thought that Draco probably drank out of absurdly expensive things like that all the time. The sheltered pure-blood might not even know what an ordinary “water glass” was, Hogwarts having used goblets for its meals as well.

Harry was smirking like an idiot when he came back into the living room—if there had been any doubt that he was thoroughly drunk, it was certainly gone now—because he was far, far too amused by the mental image of a toddler Draco drinking out of a plastic-lidded goblet in lieu of an ordinary sippy-cup.

Draco was sitting up on the couch now at least, although he was bent nearly double with his head propped heavily in his hands. Harry would have bet that he had tried shaking his head to clear it, and was now regretting the violent motion. The posture was a familiar one.

“Here,” Harry said, dropping onto the couch next to Malfoy and holding out one of the goblets. “You should drink this, it’ll help.”

Malfoy looked up through a bleary-eyed grimace and took the offered drink, but made no move to swallow it. His hand trembled and Harry instinctively reached out, catching the goblet—and thus the hand that held it—before it could fall. He swallowed hard and resisted the urge to fling Draco’s hand away from him; resisted the urge to wrap his fingers tighter around that cool hand, and pull himself in close.

“It’s...it’s just water,” Harry said at last, his voice strangely husky.

Malfoy kept staring, his face blank and his eyes cold grey mirrors, and Harry swallowed hard, pinned by that icy, appraising gaze. Then Draco gave a tiny little shrug, lifted his hand away from Harry’s, and nearly emptied the goblet in three long swallows.

Harry found himself unable to tear his eyes away from the elegant curve of Malfoy’s neck as he swallowed. Then the goblet came down, and Draco looked at him again, and Harry quickly looked away. He gulped his own water too fast, and nearly choked on it; Malfoy raised an eyebrow, but made no move to help. Part of Harry—the clumsy, embarrassed part—was grateful, but another part (the part that he had been trying to ignore for the past half-an-hour) just wished that Draco had touched him, even if only to help him clear his lungs.

“So, um...” said Harry, and then fell silent, with nothing else to say.

Draco sank back tiredly against the couch, his lips twitched for a moment into an amused smile, and he closed his eyes. Harry fiddled nervously with his half-full goblet, then put it down quickly on the side table before he did something mortifying, like spill the remaining contents across his lap. He watched Malfoy surreptitiously out of the corner of his eye, wondering what to do.

Certainly he wasn’t going to shove Draco through his floo, like he had told his friends; the man was too drunk to walk, so Harry wasn’t about to trust him to the violent mercies of fireplace-travel. And even if Harry had been sober himself, he wouldn’t have risked taking Draco home via Apparition; his previous visit to Malfoy Manor had taught him that lesson, and he didn’t want to end up stranded there inside the wards while Draco slept it off.

There were plenty of bedrooms upstairs, of course, and it had been Harry’s original plan to just deposit Malfoy in one of those, and prepare some hangover-draughts for the morning.

But to get Malfoy into one of those bedrooms, Harry would have to help him up the stairs. And the idea of pressing himself once again that closely against Draco’s lithe, unresisting body, was troubling. Especially when thinking that a bed would be the inevitable destination of their climb. Harry wasn’t sure if he could keep himself together, not under those circumstances; not when there was that breathless, insistent voice in the back of his head, the one he had been resolutely not listening to since the moment he’d spotted Malfoy outside the pub; not when that familiar warmth was uncurling itself in Harry’s groin.

Suddenly Harry realized that there were fingers on his thigh that were not his own, and he hadn’t been imagining them.

The feather-light touch of Draco’s hand sliding back and forth across Harry’s slacks sent all conscious thought out of his head for several minutes. Finally he wrenched his gaze away from the hypnotizing digits, and forced himself to look at Malfoy’s face. His pale head was still limp against the back of the couch, his eyes closed, but he seemed to be breathing a little bit more raggedly than he had been before. A pale pink tongue flicked out to lick thin lips, and Harry’s breath stopped.

His lungs started up again with a shuddering gasp and Harry reached out with a hand that, surprisingly, did not tremble, and he shook Malfoy gently by the shoulder.

Draco’s eyes snapped open and the faint touch against Harry’s trousers vanished so quickly it might have been only a drunken mirage. “Potter?” he said, his voice slurred and uncertain, as if he’d forgotten where he was, and why, and with whom.

Harry nodded, then forced himself to speak: “yeah. How you doing?”

Draco mulled the question over for several minutes, before finally coming to an answer: “Drunk,” he said.

Harry snickered. “Yeah,” he said, “me too.” Harry forced himself to his feet—forced himself to move away from Draco and from the couch—and gestured vaguely in the direction of the upstairs. “Come on,” he said, “you can crash here. We’re both of us too drunk to get you home, anyway.”

Draco frowned. “Absolutely not,” he said, his indignation removing most of the slur from his words.

“Well neither one of us is fit to Apparate,” Harry explained as patiently as he could, “and frankly, I wouldn’t trust you to the floo right now, either.”

“Well I’m not staying here,” Draco mumbled petulantly. He was assiduously avoiding Harry’s eyes now, his bleary gray gaze flickering all around the room instead.

Harry vaguely remembered Malfoy saying something about having come here before, probably back when he was a child and Walpurga Black was alive, and he toyed with the idea of asking him what he thought of the changes Harry and Ginny had made to the place, but he didn’t.

Instead he sighed heavily. “Well, what else are you going to do, then?” he asked tiredly. Harry sank back to the couch, a bit unsteadily, being careful not to sit too close.

Draco frowned. In his heavy state of inebriation, he looked like a child presented with an impossible puzzle. “Dunno,” he muttered. He slumped back against the couch and dropped his head, turning away from Harry. He seemed to be sulking. He said nothing else for several minutes, but shuddered once or twice, and then drew in on himself as if to fend off a blow.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked.

“You of all people shouldn’t have to ask that question,” Malfoy snarled, spinning around to glare at Harry. The ferocity of his gaze made him appear almost sober, despite the way he wobbled when he moved, and had to clutch at the arm of the couch to maintain his balance upon it.

Harry recoiled all the way to the other armrest. “I—I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I thought...I mean...I thought that was, well, dealt with. That part of it, at least. You know, that night, when we...I mean...”

“That’s because you’re an idiot,” Draco snapped back, and then lapsed into silence.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, because he didn’t know what else to say. He found himself patting Draco’s shoulder, the way he would have to comfort Ron or Hermione, and quickly drew his hand back. He didn’t know if he imagined Malfoy’s slight sigh at the loss of contact. Harry slid a little closer to the pale, wretched man, just in case he hadn’t.

“Fuck,” Draco muttered, and his head dropped back limply against the couch again.

Harry swallowed, and tried not to stare. “Is there...is there anything I can do?” he asked.

Draco’s eyes opened only a slit so that he could stare sideways at Harry. His face twisted into a tired imitation of the scornful sneer that Harry was so accustomed to. “What do you think?” he asked.

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know,” he replied honestly. “But if I can, I will. It only seems fair.”

Draco gave a short, brittle bark of laughter. “Fair!” he exclaimed. “Only you, Potter, would think that helping me would be fair.”

Harry shrugged again, uncomfortable now. “Well, it’s not like I want you to suffer,” he muttered.

“You should,” Draco said coldly.

Harry didn’t know what to say to that at all.

He settled for, “you’ve just drunk too much, is all.”

Draco nodded grudgingly. “That’s true,” he admitted. “I didn’t mean to—not in a Muggle pub. It just....happened, somehow,” he mumbled, “didn’t mean to...feel quite odd, actually...”

Harry smirked. “Maybe you’ve been roofied,” he said, although there was nothing funny about that idea. Except for the fact that the image of Draco Malfoy, the Potions Prince of Slytherin House, getting slipped something by some random Muggle—well, that was hilarious, Harry had to admit. Besides, it hadn’t actually happened, so he wasn’t a horrible person for laughing at the idea—was he?

“Don’t be absurd,” Draco snapped back automatically.

Harry snickered. There was that familiar Malfoy pride.

“Well come on,” he said, “if you’re that drunk, there’s no sense you trying to get home, is there? And it’s not like you haven’t stayed the night here before, is it?” he asked, gambling that family get-togethers had on occasion turned into overnight stays.

After a moment, Draco nodded hesitantly.

“Then come on, I’ll help you get upstairs, and you can sleep it off, and go home, and we don’t ever have to mention it again. All right?”

Draco seemed to consider the proposition quite seriously, then nodded. “Very well,” he said, and struggled upright.

In the end Harry had to help tug the long-limbed wizard upright, and then catch him before he could face-plant across the coffee table. Draco frowned, apparently quite disgruntled at his lack of coordination, but allowed Harry to sling his arm across his shoulders and help him to the stairs without any further protest.

Getting up the long staircase proved to be more difficult than Harry had anticipated, and not merely because of the horrifying arousal he was sternly fighting. The both of them were very drunk, and the staircase rather narrow, and the steps steep. Several times they nearly fell, and had to grip wall and banister quite hard to prevent that.

Then, three steps from the top, Draco kissed him.

Harry’s brain vanished in a sea of icy fire, every thought swamped and submerged beneath the sensation of Malfoy’s tongue in his mouth, his fingers on his face. Harry clutched frantically at the banister behind him with one hand, and even more frantically at Malfoy with the other. He moaned into the kiss and pressed back until Draco was pinned against the wall, with Harry’s hands moving hungrily all over his body.

They made it off the stairs somehow and stumbled forward down the hallway, lips and fingers tangling, touching, tugging; never moving too far apart. They staggered into the first doorway that fell open behind them, and collapsed across the bed. A distant part of Harry’s mind noted that they were in the room that he still thought of as Ron and Hermione’s, even though they had moved out months ago; he couldn’t stop a horrified giggle at the thought of what either one of them would say, if ever they learned that Harry had snogged Draco Malfoy on the bed that had once been theirs.

But snogging was the least of what Harry intended to do, and he fumbled desperately at Malfoy’s clothing, desire and alcohol combining to make him clumsy and helpless. Long, cool fingers slid up the inside of Harry’s shirt, and tugged it off over his head; Harry tangled his hands in Draco’s pale hair and tackled him backwards onto the bed, kissing hungrily.

Eventually Harry managed to get Malfoy’s shirt off, and then there were someone’s socks in his hands, and then a belt; somehow they both ended up undressed, in a disjointed series of moments that flashed like strobes across Harry’s mind; he was too consumed with the feel of Malfoy moving nakedly beneath him to pay any sort of coherent attention to how they had gotten there.

Draco seemed to have moved beyond the point of being able to form intelligible words—whether from arousal or the alcohol Harry neither knew nor cared—but his breathless moans and the way he thrust up against Harry’s body made his desires evident without a need for speech.

Harry kissed his way down Malfoy’s long, scared, skinny body, and before his brain could catch up and think about what he was doing, he had captured Draco’s cock in his mouth. Malfoy moaned and writhed beneath him, and fire ran through Harry’s veins and wiped all thought from his head.

He licked and sucked at the hard, thick shaft, and was too preoccupied to be horrified by the realization that he was thinking about Ginny, using his memories of the two of them to figure out what to do and how. Of course, this was utterly different from what Harry had done before, done for her; that was no help. But he tried to reenact what she would do for him, instead, and it seemed to be working, because Draco appeared—and sounded—quite pleased with Harry’s novice efforts.

After several surprisingly delightful minutes, Harry’s jaw started to ache and the fire in his own groin grew undeniably insistent, so Harry abandoned that endeavor and kissed his way back up to Draco’s face. Malfoy yanked him into a hard snog, plundering Harry’s mouth with his tongue, and wrapped long legs around Harry’s side. Their throbbing erections met and rubbed together and Harry moaned into Draco’s warm mouth.

Malfoy made little whimpering noises of wordless pleading, and Harry moved instantly to oblige. He groped at the nightstand, but there was nothing there that helped, and he cursed fluently. Then he remembered a spell that Charlie had told him about (he and Ron and the twins had spent two or three hours casting it at one another like snowballs, laughing uproariously, after Charlie’s lesson) and he slipped off of Draco to rummage in his discarded trouser pockets for his wand.

Draco moaned plaintively, and had half-sat up to slide after Harry, before he scrambled back on to the bed with a wide grin that was half-nervous and half-manic. “I—I dunno if this will work,” Harry stammered, “I may not remember—but—well—” He bent down and spread Draco’s pale legs wide, then placed his wand at the edge of Malfoy’s puckered, inviting hole, and gave the thin shaft of wood a little flick.

The holly-and-phoenix-feather didn’t fail him, and neither did his memory; a slow, cool wetness poured from the tip of Harry’s wand and liberally coated Draco’s arse. Malfoy gasped and shivered, and his head fell back against the bed as his spine arched in pleasurable surprise.

Harry grinned and tossed his wand onto the nightstand, making a mental note to thank Charlie later—and then overwriting that one with another mental note, to thank no one, ever, because he couldn’t tell people about this, what was he thinking—and then he wasn’t thinking anything at all, because he had slipped a finger inside the warm, wet cavity, and Draco was practically writhing beneath him as Harry stretched and tugged and teased.

Malfoy was totally incoherent now, shuddering under Harry’s ministrations, his elegant fingers clutching desperately at the sheets. When Harry slipped a second finger in to join the first and scissored them, Draco keened, and thrust himself hard at Harry’s hand, arching halfway off the bed.

That was enough for Harry; if Malfoy wasn’t ready after that...

Harry tugged his hand free and wiped it absently on the sheet. The air caught in his throat at every breath, and he was concentrating so hard that he was biting his lip. “You...you ready?” he asked Draco, his voice a harsh whisper.

Malfoy nodded desperately, his limbs already trembling with exertion and expectation. Harry slid forward and pressed himself against Malfoy’s dripping hole; they both moaned. Harry eased forward, gently pressing his way inside; he gasped as the ring of tight muscles closed around his cock, practically pulling Harry inside without his help.

Draco was tight, almost painfully so, and Harry forced himself to go slow, to ease himself inside gradually; Malfoy shook underneath him, and his long fingers clutched at Harry’s shoulders hard enough that he was sure they would leave bruises; his legs trembled against Harry’s thighs, and the rest of him trembled around Harry. Draco’s head was flung back, his pale hair splayed like a shattered halo, and his pointed face was drawn into a pinched expression that might have been pain, and might have been pleasure, or might have been both.

Harry was shaking with the effort of restraint, and every molecule of his body yearned towards release. Malfoy gave a little whimper, and pressed himself upwards, spearing himself deeper onto Harry’s cock, and Draco’s heady gasp of pleasure at the sharp penetration was all the encouragement that Harry needed: he thrust down hard and deep, and felt Draco convulse around him. Malfoy’s long legs curled around Harry’s, urging him onwards, and Harry needed no more urging.

He pounded his way deep into Draco’s arse, relishing every gasp and moan and that one heady, breathless shriek. Draco seemed to have grown seven more hands, from the way his fingers were suddenly everywhere, moving over Harry’s sweaty body, tugging and caressing and clutching. Harry buried his face in Draco’s shoulder and thrust, thrust, thrust...

Draco moaned and moved with him, one intoxicating rhythm consuming both their bodies. Malfoy murmured something that Harry couldn’t make out; he replied with an equally unintelligible string of syllables. It didn’t matter; they had moved far beyond the need to speak, and now thrust together as one.

Then there were cool hands against Harry’s chest, cool hands dotted with colder rings; fingers scrabbling at his collarbone. Malfoy alternately clutched and pushed at Harry, as if trying to throw him off and yet afraid that he might leave.

Harry realized, suddenly, what Draco must be doing, and froze in mid-thrust; Draco moaned and tried to move them both on his own, but Harry had gone rigid. He licked his lips and swallowed against a throat that had gone desert-dry. “Okay,” he whispered, “okay,” and eased back into the rhythm of push and pull and gasp.

He leaned sideways—Draco twitched and gasped at the sudden change in direction, and his legs tightened convulsively around Harry’s—and he groped blindly for the nightstand. On his second try his fingers brushed against the end of his discarded wand; he stretched a little further and closed his fingers around the thin shaft, and drew it from the table.

Harry hesitated, hovering over Draco, one arm braced against the bed and the other holding his wand aloft. Malfoy didn’t seem to realize what Harry held; he was too consumed in how he felt. Harry licked his lips again and steeled himself with a nervous smile. He could do this, surely; he had, after all, felt identical desire himself, the last time he had been in bed with Draco, their positions reversed.

He had, after all, nearly enjoyed it himself, long ago, when the binding had been real, the helplessness genuine. This would be nothing like that, Harry assured himself; this was willing, this was wanted. He could do this.

Harry braced himself on the bed with his wand hand so that his other would be free; with it, Harry caught Draco’s wrists—they were thin enough that he could grasp both with one hand, albeit only barely—and drew them away from his chest. He pressed Draco’s arms down onto the bed over his head, and held them together; now he lifted his wand, and swallowed hard, and took a very deep breath.

“Incarcerous,” Harry whispered, and soft ropes spiraled from the tip of his wand to wrap around Draco’s skinny wrists. Harry flicked the wand and the rope arched up, wrapped around the headboard, and drew Draco’s arms with it.

Draco gasped, his eyes fluttering, his pale cheeks very flushed. Harry leaned down for a long kiss that made his head spin, only drawing back when Malfoy gasped for air. The wand rolled away from Harry’s hand and off the bed; it clattered on the floor, and Harry didn’t care, he could find it later.

He ran his hands down Draco’s sides, feeling Malfoy tug at the binding; feeling him struggle faintly against Harry. Harry closed his eyes, and remembered what it felt like to be helpless, and a wanton moan escaped him.

He sped up, thrusting harder into Draco; he was moving almost desperately now, his arousal carrying the rest of him along with it. Not that the rest of him was protesting, mind; but then, there wouldn’t have been a chance to, even if he had tried. Which, thankfully, he hadn’t. If he had missed this bliss...but there was no time for ifs and perhapses now.

Now there was only Malfoy, his hands bound over his head; his heady gasps helpless, his words incoherent; his body moving in time to Harry’s thrusts; his struggles so weak they could hardly even be called halfhearted, but struggling nonetheless; and Harry envied him, because he knew what it was like to struggle, and to love the way it felt to fight.

Harry moaned and pressed his fingers into Malfoy’s pale thighs, spreading his already splayed legs wider; pushing in deeper. Malfoy shook beneath him, and around him, and Harry shook in concert. His breathing had gone as ragged as Draco’s, and their steady movements were veering towards the erratic. Harry knew it would not be long, now, and he was torn between the desire to climax now, and the wish that he could just stay here like this forever.

But forever was impossible, so now happened instead. Harry’s orgasm tore free of him with a sharp scream, and exploded like bright stars across his eyes. He thrust wildly, helplessly, his body moving to some internal command that carried Harry along with it with more inevitability than an Imperius. He shook all the way down to his bones as he pounded out the last drops of his violent pleasure into the utopia of Draco Malfoy’s body, and then he collapsed, breathless, upon the skinny man beneath him.

Harry’s eyes fluttered closed and his world narrowed to the sound of breathing: his own slowing gradually, while Draco’s remained fast and desperate. Harry could have stayed like that forever, his arms around Malfoy’s sides and his sated cock nestled warmly in his ass, but Draco’s harsh breath in his ear and a sharp, hard pressure against his gut told him that there was unfinished business to be dealt with.

Harry forced himself upright, sliding free with a shiver-inducing pop; for a moment, he was captivated by the sight of his own pale semen oozing from Malfoy’s shaking arse. Then his eyes wandered upwards a few inches, and he grinned.

“Guess you’re too slow again,” he heard himself chuckle, “but don’t worry; this time, I’ll be glad to give you another chance at the snitch.” Malfoy whimpered, and thrashed weakly, his hips arching up towards Harry involuntarily. Harry leaned down for a kiss, but then moved away, for the first time realizing that bondage could be fun for the person doing the tying, too.

Draco squirmed helplessly, tugging in vain at the dark ropes holding his pale wrists out of the way. He panted heavily, apparently still unable to form proper speech; it was the first time that Harry could remember that he had even been able to leave Draco without some sort of scathing reply, and even if he knew he hadn’t managed it with the cleverness of his quip, he relished the moment.

But Harry couldn’t just leave him there like that; he didn’t want to, either.

He moved forward, sliding onto his knees on either side of Draco’s skinny waist. He couldn’t stop grinning. He teased at Draco’s sticky cock with his fingers, enjoying the way the other man convulsed helplessly beneath him, and then he stretched upwards.

Harry slid one hand down the back of his own ass; the other was still wrapped loosely around Malfoy’s hard, hungry shaft. Harry drew them together slowly, sinking down on top of Draco, feeling the hot, wet tip of his cock poking its way inside.

Draco gasped, and writhed, and tried to thrust upwards; with Harry’s shins tucked back across his thighs, and the ropes around his wrists, he barely managed to move, and moaned instead. Harry chuckled and slowly, slowly eased himself down onto the other man.

He should have used the spell again, he knew; should have taken a moment or two to get himself ready; but he hadn’t wanted to, hadn’t wanted to wait. They were both sticky with Harry’s cum and the conjured lubrication, Draco’s cock slick and very stiff, Harry practically vibrating with the afterglow of his own orgasm. That should be enough, Harry told himself—and besides, part of him still wanted it to hurt.

It did. Draco felt very large, stabbing up into Harry’s tight, dry anus; Harry gasped and shivered, and lowered himself deeper. Draco pressed up as best he could from underneath Harry, making little hungry noises that sent shivers of delight up Harry’s spine and down his arse. His limp cock twitched, even exhausted as it was.

Harry ground down hard on Draco’s hips, then rose up, and thrust himself down again. He moaned at the pleasure as Draco’s cock stabbed up inside of him. Sharp pain twitched at his ass, and waves of pleasure almost caused him to collapse mid-thrust. Harry dropped down hard, relishing the agony of delight; then up again, and down as deep as he could go. Harry moaned, rocking back and forth on top of Draco, who shifted eagerly beneath him, trying to help.

Incongruously, an image of Ginny flashed in front of Harry’s eyes, and he understood why she always seemed to enjoy riding him so much. It was amazing, being in control of someone else fucking you. And Ginny looked like a goddess when she did that, head back and back arched, mouth wide with a pleasure too intense to voice. Harry knew his own gangly, scar-riddled form couldn’t possibly look as good as hers did, but he was sure that he felt every drop as much delight.

He rode the spear of Draco Malfoy’s cock, bucking recklessly. Draco gasped and moaned beneath him, twisting helplessly in his bonds, thrusting feebly up at Harry’s arse. Harry raised himself nearly off of the tall shaft, then dropped down as hard as he could; he shrieked with the pain of that, then did it again because it had felt so good.

At some point his hands had stolen to his own cock, hard again despite his earlier exertions; the feeling of Draco splitting Harry wide and open was such an incredible one, Harry couldn’t imagine ever not going hard in response. The savage pounding he was putting his blissfully throbbing arse through had left every nerve on fire, and he tugged at his cock in time to each rise and drop.

Harry moaned, well beyond speech; well beyond anything but the feeling of the pleasure and the pain.

Draco gave a cry and thrust up hard beneath Harry; he came in hot, wet spurts that stabbed at Harry like pure ecstasy. Harry’s own cock shook in response, spilling itself all over his hands, and onto the pale man writhing beneath him. To Harry’s mind, it seemed to last for days, the intermingling of their orgasms. He rode through Draco’s as roughly as he could, almost screaming with delight at the last stabbing assault upon his ass.

At last they collapsed, wet and sticky and utterly spent, their bodies shaking together. Harry slumped against Draco’s chest, and closed his eyes, and drifted off to the sound of Malfoy’s shuddering breath. He barely managed to whisper, “finite,” and the ropes slipped away from Draco’s arms as Harry slipped into blissful sleep.
- 9
- 10
- 11
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Under the Manor