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When Harry returns to the dorm at twenty-three minutes past twelve, (00:23) – about two, and a half hours after curfew - and sees Riddle sat on one of the plush sofas, observing at the door he just came through, he knows he is fucked.
Both literally, and figuratively.
Harry is frozen at the entrance to the common room, neither of them has said a word the entire time, and, instead, have been staring at each other for five minutes straight.
It’s a game Tom likes to play, he waits, and stares, and waits, and stares until the other person cracks. Originally, it’s a power play the Blacks use frequently; Tom knows of, and uses, it thanks to Orion. If Harry were to count on his fingers the number of times he has wanted to strangle Orion for doing so, he would need a few hundred clones of himself.
Harry usually lasts longer, but he’s already fucked up once today, and he’d rather not escalate the punishment he is sure to get.
He looks to the side, breaking the eye contact, and losing Tom’s little game. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry sees the corners of Tom’s mouth upturn slightly, pleased at Harry’s perceived obedience. Tom stands before turning to the path to their dorms, and walks confidently, as though he expects to follow. His expectations are right of course, and Harry swiftly finds himself trailing along like a misbehaved pet. Not to far from the reality of the situation in all fairness.
Walking to the dorms only provides more silence, and anticipation. Tom’s strides are slow, and relaxed. He does not walk with an apparent eagerness, nor does he seem truly annoyed. They are both perfectly aware of what is to happen, Tom need not state the obvious. Harry walks with his head down, he inspects the stone floor, and refuses to meet Tom’s eyes.
When they step inside their dorm (it’s a private dorm, since Tom is head boy), Tom finally speaks. It’s a single word, spoken without emotion, “Strip.”
Harry raises his head, and locks eyes with Tom for a half second before he reaches for the bottom of his shirt. He knows better than to keep Tom waiting. For as long as Harry’s colour is green, he is to obey without complaint or question. While Harry rids himself of his attire, Tom takes the time to sit on the end of the bed. He watches Harry undress with a subtle haze to his eyes.
More, and more of Harrys body is left exposed, and Tom finds himself enthralled by the beauty that is Harry Peverell. From the dip in his spine to the scars littering his body, Harry is the very definition of divinity, and, absentmindedly, Tom thinks that even deific angels who reside in the most paradisical division of heaven must be jealous of his current view.
Harry leaves himself in only his boxers, unsure of whether or not Tom wants those taken off too. The disruption in pace brings Tom back to the present, he wets his lips, and smiles slightly at Harry’s compliance.
“Good boy. Now, come here,” Harry shudders at the praise, and Tom’s tone. They haven’t even started, but Tom’s voice has lowered an octave or two already.
He sinks to his knees, and crawls over to Tom. It’s humiliating, but in the best way. A flush spreads across Harry’s face, and down his neck. He looks positively delectable.
Harry kneels at Tom’s feet as he waits for his next order. If you were to search for the most accurate depiction of submission, you would, no doubt, find a picture of Harry in this moment.
Two hands tilt Harry’s head upwards, holding his face on either side. One hand moves to his mouth, and slightly pushes the pad of its middle finger between his lips. Harry parts them to allow the finger entry to the warm cavern of his mouth. The finger rests on his tongue for a second before rubbing back and forth, applying a light pressure. A second digit joins the first, and Harry eyes water a little as he attempts to ignore the urge to gag. He does so anyway, despite his efforts, and Tom withdraws his fingers to hook them underneath Harry’s chin, and tug at his bottom lip with the thumb.
Harry is given a minute to recover before Tom removes his hands, ands leans back slightly, patting his thigh once as an instruction. His legs are wobbly as he stands, and he has to pause to recuperate. Once he recovers, Harry moves to lay across Tom’s lap.
Tom speaks slowly, and clearly despite his voice being laced with thinly veiled lust, “You’ll receive one spank for each ten minutes that you were out after curfew. Am I understood?”
That means a total of fourteen hits, Harry calculates.
“Yes, Sir; I understand, Sir.”
Harry feels Tom begin playing with is arse; pressing, and prodding it, pulling his cheeks apart, and rubbing a thumb down the middle, using him like nothing more than a toy to stave off boredom. He hums lowly, and continues.
“Good. You’ve done so well for me so far Harry. For the first seven, you’re to remain in your boxers. The last seven will be done bare. I’d like you to count each hit; do you think you can do that?” A lump forms in Harry throat as his arousal heightens at the syrupy-sweet words.
When he tries to speak, he trips over his words, “Yes, Sir. I can- uh- I can do that, Sir.”
Tom caresses his arse in smooth, circular motions. Abruptly, he withdraws his hand only to return it just as quickly with a loud ‘smack!’. Harry’s breath leaves him in a sharp exhale as Tom resumes his earlier fondling. He takes one- two- three deep breaths before saying, “Thank you, Sir, one Sir.”
Tom smiles down at him, pleased. “Good job, my sweet boy.”
Harry feels his heart beat quicken in time with his breathing, and doesn’t quite manage to repress his urge to whine, high, and needy before it slips out, and it’s too late.
Red blooms all across Harry’s cheeks. Tom coos at him, then swiftly brings his hand down against the other side of his arse, and Harry half sobs, half moans at the impact.
“Thank you, Sir, two, Sir.”
The next four spanks come in quick succession, giving Harry little recovery time. He is out of breath, and a tear slips down the curve of his face as he says, “Thank you, Sir, six, Sir.”
On the seventh, Sir increases the force of his spanks slightly. He is the sadist to Harry’s masochist after all. Harry almost screams at when it hits. Almost. Instead, he lets out a broken sob as his erection twitches against Sir’s thigh.
“Thank you, Sir, seven, Sir.”
Sir uses both hands to gently rub at Harry’s arse, relieving some of the lasting sting.
“I’d like the next seven to be done with you completely bare for me. Colour?”
Harry wriggles in Sir’s lap, and pushes his arse in the air, presenting himself, and helping with the removal of his boxers.
“Green Sir.”
Sir hums an affirmation, before sliding his boxers down Harry’s thighs, and removing them completely.
He can’t help but thumb at Harry’s opening, revelling in the gasp it forces from the boy. Harry’s arse is littered with blotches of red, and pinks. It’s one of the most arousing sights Tom has experienced thus far. He cannot wait to see the raw flesh become an even deeper shade of pain.
Once again, his hand collides with Harry’s arse. This time however, the sensitivity is far increased, and Harry bites down onto his tongue to stop himself from waking their dormmates in the room over. He swallows down the taste of copper, and manages to stutter out his response.
“Th- Thank you, Sir-“ a sob, “-eight, Sir.”
Sir brings one hand to Harry’s head to pet at the curls there soothingly. He whispers praises as Harry cries into his trouser leg. A minute or two passes by, and Sir resumes the punishment. By the last spank, Harry’s arse is raw, and his eyes are swollen, and puffy from crying. His cock is throbbing – desperate for attention – and Harry feels floaty from the constant, different stimuli.
The fourteenth hit strikes his arse and Harry chokes out a, “Thank you, Sir, fourteen, Sir.”
Sir rubs up, and down his back before carefully picking him up, and turning him around to straddle Sir.
He must take pity on Harry’s haplessness, because he takes his flushed cock into his hand, and strokes him slowly. It’s so slow at first that Harry presses his face against Sir’s clothed chest, cries even harder at the feeling. It’s simultaneously too much and too little, so overwhelming, yet not enough.
“Please, Sir. Please, please, please, please- “
Harry babbles wretchedly into Tom’s shirt, and Tom feels an engulfing sense of lust, and cruel amusement at the display. He continues teasing Harry for a few minutes, wanting to see the sub break as he grinds onto Tom’s thigh like a bitch in heat. It’s only after Harry does so that Tom, generously, decides to stop his torment, and uses just the right amount of pressure at the perfect speed to have Harry cumming all over himself instantly. Harry heaves out a pathetic sounding, “Thank you, Sir, thank you, thank you,” in response.
Tom resolves to get himself off in the morning, and casts a quick spell to clean up Harry’s mess, before peeling off his clothes, (and giving Harry some) and tucking them both under the covers with Harry curled up against his chest, seeking warmth, and comfort.