Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1908570.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Cormac_McLaggen/Ron_Weasley, Lavender_Brown/Ron_Weasley, Harry_Potter/Ron
      Weasley, Hermione_Granger/Ron_Weasley
  Character:
      Ron_Weasley, Cormac_McLaggen, Lavender_Brown, Harry_Potter, Hermione
      Granger
  Additional Tags:
      Rentboy!Ron, Blackmail, Extremely_Dubious_Consent, BDSM, Quidditch
      Collars, Almost_pure_PWP
  Stats:
      Published: 2005-12-05 Words: 5517
****** Keeper’s Compensation ******
by puckity
Summary
     Cormac McLaggen should have been Gryffindor’s keeper, and he will not
     rest until he gets some compensation for overt favoritism.
     Unfortunately for Ron, the current keeper, Cormac learns about
     Hermione’s ‘helping hand’ at try-outs and decides to make Ron pay to
     protect his friend and his position.
Notes
     Written in 2005; takes place during HBP, so spoilers following
     accordingly.
     This fic is the result of my beta easily exploiting me to write her
     bulletproof kink with her favorite character. After rigorous
     canonical searching, I finally found a situation in which I could see
     Ron whoring himself out.
     Beta'd by the brilliant/terrible Rachel.
     You can also follow me on Tumblr.
Lavender shifted her weight on Ron’s lap. After several minutes of snogging the
sensation had grown monotonous, and Ron’s mind was drifting in and out of the
current situation. He thought about his essay due in Potions. True, Slughorn
wasn’t nearly as strict—or as openly biased against Gryffindor—as Snape, but
Ron was fairly certain he wouldn’t accept ‘snogging my girlfriend’ as an excuse
for late work. Even if Ginny was part of his special secret club.
Lavender tugged at the short hairs on the back of his neck. Ron flinched. He
had asked her repeatedly not to do that. He thought about the upcoming
Quidditch match against Ravenclaw, and wondered whether Harry had sufficiently
gotten over Cho enough to keep him focused on the game. Not that Ron could talk
about being able to focus on Quidditch; he still couldn’t do it without
inducing a panic fit.
Lavender’s other hand was teasing at the collar of his sweater, the tawny one
his mother had knitted for Christmas the year before. He wondered what Fred and
George were doing right now, just after the holiday rush. The change in their
demeanor made him uneasy; when his twin brothers began taking things seriously,
that was when times had gotten bad. His mind lingered on Charlie and Bill,
before turning to Fleur and her beauty and grace and haughty perfection that
taunted Ron in his weaker moments. But even she had lost some of her draw,
mostly because she was now going with his older brother, and family came before
all else.
That thought brought Ron to Percy. He remembered Percy’s face when he walked
into the Burrow just—had it really only been a few weeks ago? It seemed like
months. Ron had gladly joined with the twins in vilifying his stodgy elder
brother; it was so much easier than allowing himself to consider why he had
abandoned them. That night he left, the look of shame in his eyes. It wasn’t
shame for himself, but rather shame from his family, his home, his origins.
That hurt Ron, even now, but the look in Percy’s eyes that day less than a
month before hurt even worse. It was something he couldn’t quite place; a
confusion of anger and pride and loss—Percy was lost. Ron didn’t want to think
about losing any members of his family, especially when it wasn’t death that
divided them. He didn’t want to think about losing any of his friends either.
Not Seamus or Neville, Dean or Luna. Of course not Harry. Or Hermione.
Lavender squeaked in irritation as Ron grit his teeth at the thought of his
friend who had so recently lost her mind. Ron couldn’t understand why Hermione
had to be so—so Hermione about everything. Why did she have to make matters
difficult for him? Why couldn’t she be more like Harry and less like a bloody
girl. Not that Ron didn’t like girls. It was just that, well, things were so
much simpler with boys. And so much more fun. And everything had been just fine
until Hermione had decided to be a prat and not tell him what was going on with
anything.
Lavender tugged at Ron’s shirt, and Ron started a little at her bold move in
the middle of the Gryffindor common room. She tugged again, only this time his
shirt collar didn’t move. She pulled something up from under it.
“Ron, what’s this?” Lavender broke away from a mediocre kiss to examine the
band around Ron’s neck. The skin beneath Ron’s jaw began to burn. “You told me
that you have sensitive skin, and you’ll get rashes from wearing jewelry. That
was why you couldn’t wear my necklace.” She continued to twist the leather
collar around his neck. “Ron, what is this?”
Ron was too busy—trying to establish the time and figure out whether or not he
would be late for his forgotten meeting—to notice Lavender’s increasingly
quivering mouth and widening eyes. When a tug of the band brought him back to
the moment, Lavender was on the verge of tears. Ron suppressed a grimace. He
refused to be pleased about what he had to do, but he would admit that the
timing was convenient.
“Lavender sweetie,” A small part of his stomach always screwed up at his use of
a pet name. “I just remembered I’ve got this extra practice to go to.”
Lavender’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“Practice? With who?” Ron searched frantically for a member of the team who
wasn’t in the common room.
“Well, it—it isn’t exactly a practice.” Lavender looked dangerously close to
glaring. “It’s more like a training session. To, er, help with my pre-game
anxieties. Slughorn offered to work up a calming potion, and Madam Hooch said
she’d show me a few techniques whenever she got the chance. And I just
remembered that she promised me a session this afternoon.”
This was all a blatant lie, and Ron congratulated himself for making it up
completely on the spot. Madam Hooch may have offered help, but potions or
spells of any kind were strictly prohibited in Quidditch and even if they
weren’t, Slughorn would no sooner give Ron the time of day outside of class
than he would Colin Creevey. However, Lavender seemed convinced enough with the
mention of not one, but two professors, and the chances of her running into
Slughorn or Hooch—unless she decided to seek them out—in the next hour or so
was slim to none. Ron’s breathing slowed down slightly.
“It would be good if you found a way to not get so tense before the matches.
You’re no fun at all when you’re snappy.” Lavender nodded and went to kiss Ron
again, but he turned quickly and her lips met his cheek instead.
“But Ron,” That was Lavender’s pouting voice, and Ron made to push her off his
lap so he could get up. She stood, but didn’t move out of his personal space.
“What is that band thing? Is it a necklace? I thought you couldn’t— ”
“It’s not a necklace!” Ron was affronted. Not that he was about to tell her
what it was, but it certainly wasn’t jewelry. “It’s for Quidditch. Just a bit
of practice equipment. It helps keep my head up and alert.” That was the
biggest pile of rubbish he had uttered since he told Luna that he agreed with
her father’s opinion on the Muggle conspiracy of ancient Egyptian wizard runes
being passed off as ancient Egyptian muggle hieroglyphics. But it didn’t
matter, because he would rather lie to Lavender than be late. And it wasn’t
totally a lie; it had been used in Quidditch training. Granted, that had been a
century or so ago, and now it was only an antique moonlighting as part of
Filch’s collection of instruments for outlawed student corporal punishment.
“Okay,” was all Lavender murmured in response. At least that was all Ron heard
as he walked briskly out of the common room, down the numerous staircases that
would lead him to the first floor and then to the grounds. He prayed that there
would be no interruptions between the Gryffindor tower and the Quidditch
equipment shack. He didn’t want to think about the punishment for a delay.
                                      ---
Ron heard the whistling as he reached for the latch on the shack door. It
sounded like a tune he had once heard Ernie MacMillan sing when he was going on
about Highland pride; it reeked of pomposity. Ron unconsciously tucked the band
back beneath his sweater and opened the door. Cormac McLaggen looked up with
feigned boredom. He was leaning against a table piled with banners and various
other pitch decorations, and in his hand a beater’s club swayed menacingly.
“I see you made it in just under the mark, as usual Weasley.” The reference to
Ron’s performance at the last Quidditch match, where he caught the quaffle just
as Harry claimed the snitch and saved the game from being lost by ten points,
stung a bit. “It’s a good thing you did, because I had a nice little punishment
planned if you kept me waiting.”
Ron snorted, but kept eyeing the club with distrust. Cormac grinned smoothly
and replaced it in its wall hanger. Then without warning he pointed his wand at
Ron.
“Sweater off. It’s atrocious; I refuse to have to look at it for another
second.”
Ron rolled his eyes as he pulled his sweater over his head. “You don’t have to
threaten me to get me to take off my sweater. It’s bloody hot in here, and you
might as well save your demands for when you really need them.” Cormac raised
an eyebrow but didn’t lower his wand, and Ron wondered if he should perhaps
save his smart remarks for after the session.
“Accio collar!” Ron’s whole body jerked towards Cormac. When he was within
reach, Cormac grabbed the leather band around his neck and held Ron in place.
“I see you are doing as I asked.” Ron didn’t allow himself to consider his
reaction to Cormac’s pleased smile.
“Lavender noticed it today. I had to make up a ridiculous lie about what it
was.” Ron avoided directly responding to Cormac’s comment, mostly because he
didn’t know why he still wore that damned thing. It wasn’t as though he saw
Cormac more than once every few days and he was always fully clothed, which
made the band impossible to see. Still he wore it, even to bed. He told himself
that he couldn’t be sure Cormac wouldn’t do a random spot-check in the halls or
the dorms, so he had to wear the collar at all times. It was a brilliant tactic
for denial.
“She’s not the sharpest wand in the class, now is she?” Ron should have been
offended for both his and his girlfriend’s sake, but Cormac knew how little
Lavender meant in the scheme of things. “Besides, you could have told her the
truth. Then she might actually respect you.” Ron tried to storm away, genuinely
upset by the hint that Lavender didn’t respect him, but Cormac kept his grip
tight on the collar and Ron nearly choked himself with the effort.
“Now Weasley, don’t be that way. I don’t want to use the beater’s club again,
but I will if you insist on being uncooperative.” Ron stilled, crossing his
arms defiantly across his chest. “Now, what should we do today? We have, let’s
see, two hours before supper.” Cormac paused for some sort of heightened
effect.
“Well, firsts things first.” He reached for a rusted silver chain bolted to the
wall above the row of beater’s clubs. It probably kept the clubs locked up,
before they got so old that no one bothered to secure them anymore. There was a
clasp at the end to attach to another bolt in the wall, but Cormac chose to
chain Ron to it instead. It was nothing new, and Ron barely flinched as he
heard the clasp snap shut and lock around the collar on his neck.
“Now that you’re not going anywhere, I thought we’d work on something new
today.” A few parts of Ron’s body—parts that he preferred not to
acknowledge—twitched. Cormac turned and walked to the far wall, where several
bits of grooming equipment for the pitch hung. The blades and spikes on them
made Ron’s stomach drop out. Cormac wouldn’t use any of them, surely. He would
want Ron in one piece for further use.
It was lucky for Ron that Cormac had his back to him, otherwise the terrified
look on his face may have induced Cormac to actually use something on that
wall. But he didn’t see it, and instead reached for an old broom rack that sat
propped against the cracking wooden wall boards. After the initial scare of the
sharp tools, this seemed like a mercy to Ron. His relieved sigh caught Cormac,
who paused to study him suspiciously for a moment before walking forward with
the rack. He dropped it with a loud thud, and Ron had to jump out of the way to
avoid losing a toe.
“Sit.” Cormac pointed down at the rack, and Ron looked between his face and the
old wooden frame below him.
“Sit? On that? I don’t think it could hold brooms anymore, much less support me
sitting on it.” Ron scoffed at the absurdity of Cormac’s request.
“I’m sorry, was that a suggestion?” In a deft move, Cormac grabbed the wall
chain and thrust downwards. Ron lost his balance and tipped sideways onto the
dirt floor.
“Bloody hell, are you trying to break my hip?!” Ron rolled onto his back and
gingerly felt up and down the side of his body that had crashed against the
ground.
“Well, that would give me the position that is rightly mine then, wouldn’t it?
But I’m afraid that might make the lovely Miss Granger disappointed that her
cheating at trials was all for naught. And I’m sure Potter would miss his
bestest friend in the whole world not being in the locker rooms with him for
the post-match showers. Am I right?” The glee in Cormac’s cold eyes was not
enough to keep Ron from flushing deep red. He chuckled, and Ron considered
kicking his legs out from under him.
“Strip.” Ron glanced up, already halfway over to the rack. Cormac motioned
vaguely at him. “I don’t want anything between you and the wood.” Ron looked at
the rickety frame, and thought about all the splinters he would have to get
Madam Pomfrey to remove. Harry—whenever he decided to stop chasing down
Malfoy—had better thank him for this. Not to mention Hermione. He was still
caught between flattered affection and bruised ego for her confounding McLaggen
during trials.
Not bothering to stand up, mostly because he didn’t want to be shoved down
again, Ron kicked off his trousers and then his pants, and pulled off his
undershirt. The first few times Cormac had ordered complete nudity Ron had
nearly turned tail and let Cormac turn in Hermione and Harry and lose him his
keeper position as well. Now all he did was stall a bit, and hope that he
wasn’t hard before Cormac had really done anything.
Ron crawled over to the rack and examined it skeptically. “How, exactly, do you
want me to do this?” He ran a calloused finger over the wood; at least it
wasn’t too rough.
“Straddle it. If you kneel on either side it shouldn’t break.” Ron nodded in
sarcastic agreement, but followed his directions. He lowered himself carefully,
and when his thighs hit his heels he felt the wooden edge press against his
arse and the underside of his cock. He adjusted his body into the least
uncomfortable position, and found himself staring at Cormac’s noticeably tented
trouser front. He looked up and down the boy that stood in front of him; Cormac
was dressed in full Quidditch robes, as per usual. What a raging egomaniac, Ron
thought with bitter amusement.
“Today we are going to work on grip control. I watched you the other day; it
was embarrassing. You kept losing hold of your broom handle, and on that last
save it looked as though you were going to drop the quaffle. So, I’m going to
teach you about restraint and learning to move with the grip instead of losing
it and making a complete fool of yourself.” Ron muttered something under his
breath, and the chain jerked upwards. “What was that?” It wasn’t hard enough to
choke him, but it chaffed his neck nonetheless.
“I had just polished my broom that morning. It was still slick. That’s why I
was slipping on it.” Ron grabbed for the chain to give his head some slack.
“Some of the polish got onto my keeper’s gloves, and that’s why I almost
dropped the quaffle.” McLaggen could make Ron do what he wanted, but Ron would
not suffer his Quidditch skills being critiqued.
“Well, if that is that case, Weasley,” Cormac’s smug expression didn’t falter.
“That was an amateur mistake, and you should have known better. Either way,
your grip technique needs improvement.” He tossed something on the ground next
to Ron’s knee. It was a practice keeper’s glove; it was Cormac’s practice
keeper’s glove. Ron stared at it questioningly.
“Put it on. Your exercise today is pleasing me with the glove on. If you can
control your grip enough to manage that, you should have no problems at the
next match.” Ron rather suspected that Cormac found the idea of being wanked
off by his own glove extremely appealing, but didn’t say anything. He put the
glove on his hand, surprised at the snug fit. Cormac moved his robes aside to
give Ron full access to his trousers. There was a moment—just one moment—when
the urge to run back to Lavender and have her nag him endlessly and snog him
with annoying sweetness nearly overwhelmed him. It happened every time;
sometimes Ron felt like he was going to lose whatever meal preceded the
meeting, other times he just felt like giving up Quidditch forever, if this was
what it entailed. But it didn’t matter, because as soon as Ron heard Cormac
pull at the zipper he knew it was too late.
He stared down the penis in front of him for a second, then took hold of it
with his gloved hand and began to work it slowly up and down. Cormac remained
almost entirely still, and Ron waited from his running commentary to begin.
“Alright, not too fast—too fast and you lose control. Not too hard, you don’t
want to snap the broom in two.” Ron briefly considered how he wouldn’t mind
snapping Cormac’s ‘broom’ in two. “Learn the rhythm of the broom; memorize its
movements. Work with it, not against it.” Ron was beginning to feel the beat in
Cormac’s faint sways, and focused his energy on making that arrogant bastard
move some more.
Ron applied gentle pressure, purposely pulling back slowly, and twisted his
hand a little—more to see Cormac’s reaction than anything else. He grunted, and
Ron couldn’t tell whether he was pleased or upset. He twisted harder, not
entirely caring which response he got. That earned him an undignified yelp and
a hard smack to the face.
“You twist your grip like that on a broomstick and you’ll fall to your death!”
Ron’s unoccupied hand touched lightly where Cormac had hit him. It did serve
him right for trying to provoke the volatile boy, but still. It hurt like a
bludger to the head.
Ron went back to less experimental moves. He ran his gloved fingers up the
underside of Cormac’s cock, reached into his trousers to grab at his balls and
slide the rough fabric as close to Cormac’s arsehole as he could, before the
inevitable comment came.
“Oi! Watch it now! I’m no fucking pouf; you’ll keep away from there if you
don’t feel like bleeding today!” Ron bit his lip to avoid smirking; he always
enjoyed how far he could push McLaggen. The first time Cormac had refused to
let him touch his balls; now he was circling his hole before Cormac stopped
him. Not that Ron was a queer or anything, but if he had to do this sort of
thing then at least he could have some fun with his tormentor.
Ron ran his fingers back between Cormac’s legs and felt those thighs shudder.
Unconsciously he had started to slide up and down against the rack, finding the
feeling of coarse wood rubbing hard between his arse cheeks strangely arousing.
His free hand slipped to his cock and he began to pump it inconspicuously.
Cormac looked down at Ron’s covert attempt and an evil glint flashed in his
eyes.
“Tsk, tsk. I don’t think so, Weasley.” Cormac had caught Ron trying for his own
pleasure, and that was against the rules. “Both hands on me, if you please.”
Ron tried not to whimper at the prospect of his own release being delayed. With
the gloved hand still rubbing behind Cormac’s balls, Ron brought his other hand
to Cormac’s cock and started to wank rapidly. Cormac shook his head and grinned
maliciously.
“Weasley, Weasley, Weasley. What have I told you about a job done quick?”
Cormac caught Ron’s wrist in a vice grip. “You know what this means.” Ron tried
to shoot daggers at Cormac but the older boy simply laughed before producing a
set of smaller leather bands from his robe pocket.
“Both hands, Ron.” Ron purposely scratched a gloved finger hard between those
legs as he removed his hand from Cormac’s trousers. His wrists were crushed
together and Cormac yanked the keeper’s glove off Ron’s hand. In a swift
maneuver that betrayed the number of times he had done it, Cormac clamped the
smaller bands onto Ron’s captive wrists and snapped them shut, leaving Ron’s
hands bound in front of him. Cormac’s hands went to the back of Ron’s gingered
head, and Ron covered his teeth instinctively.
During their second session, they’d both learned that Ron had a hair-trigger
gag reflex. Cormac never shoved himself in Ron’s mouth again, and Ron liked to
imagine it was because he had almost passed out and Cormac had at least one
shred of decency in him. It was probably more because Ron had almost bitten
Cormac’s cock off in his gagging fit. Either way, now Cormac was careful to
ease Ron into the act, and never failed to commend his own attributes in the
process.
“I’ll show you what control is, Weasley. You must first control yourself before
you can control the world around you.” Cormac’s hand stilled, and Ron inched
forward on the rack to take the head of his cock into his mouth. He nudged his
tongue against the hole at the tip, knowing how hard Cormac would have to exert
his perfect control to keep from coming at this. He was close; obviously the
glove turned him on even more than Ron had suspected. He worked his tongue
faster, feeling Cormac’s first groan of the session resonate in his lungs. He
let the cock rub against his cheek as just a hint of teeth scraped over the
straining vein on its underside. Then Cormac’s hand seized a chunk of his hair
and Ron took a deep, steadying breath.
It was really a mindless face fuck. Ron almost appreciated not having to do
anything other than continue sucking while Cormac thrust his body forward to
meet Ron’s secured head. For a few seconds Cormac had stopped talking but—as he
always did when he was close—the egotistical bastard started up again, listing
off a litany of all his brilliant assets, more for himself than his audience.
“Perfect control, perfect composure. If you had half my abilities you’d be an
admirable keeper. My technique is exquisite, it’s like watching an artist paint
a masterpiece. And above all, Weasley…” Cormac’s voice broke as Ron brought his
tongue out to push against his cock head. Ron felt Cormac jolt and relaxed his
throat to swallow.
“Above all Weasley, I know when to release.” Ron’s throat coated with thick
liquid. Cormac consistently seemed to forget his rule of power and control when
he came; the noises—grunts, moans, shouts—made Ron extraordinarily thankful
that the Quidditch equipment shack was further from the school than Hagrid’s
hut. When the sounds subsided Cormac went to pull out of Ron’s mouth, and Ron
licked his softening cock clean, because—really—what did it matter at this
point?
As Cormac zipped his trousers, Ron was ruefully reminded of the absence of his
own release. Sometimes Cormac would do him first; never anything like a ‘pouf’,
usually a hand job or something. Other times he would make Ron wait until he
had come. And then there were days when he didn’t help Ron at all, and sent him
back frustrated and aching to bring himself off behind the shack before
returning to the castle. Ron sincerely hoped that was not what Cormac would
decide to do today.
After a prolonged silence, Ron started to get up, only to find his legs had
fallen asleep. He fumbled about with his hands bound, and Cormac looked over at
the commotion.
“What makes you think you can get up? Did I say you could get up?” Try as he
might, Ron couldn’t keep the relief from creeping into his eyes at the prospect
of Cormac not abandoning him in this state. Unless Cormac meant to have Ron
perform some other degrading task, and then leave him still unsatisfied. Ron
wouldn’t put it beneath that wanker.
“Lay down.” Cormac now loomed over him and Ron made to roll off the rack, only
slightly nervous at this new turn of events. “No.” Ron glanced up in confusion.
“Lay down there.”
“Where? On the rack?” Ron attempted to stifle the alarm in his tone.
“Yes. The rack. Arms forward, put your head down there.” Cormac motioned to the
half circular strip of wood were the base of the broom would have rested. Ron
leaned down, readjusting his cock to the new position so it now rubbed against
the side of the rack. If he put his head sideways…yes…it could fit without
being absurdly painful.
“This is your final lesson for the evening. Accepting things that are beyond
your control, and making the best out of the situation.” Ron’s heart beat
violently against his chest; this did not bode well. “You have a bad habit of
giving up without a fight. If an opposing player is getting the quaffle past
you, you decide that they are better than you and you cannot keep them from
beating you. You need to learn adapting skills; when your tactics fail you need
to know your options and what you can do with them. For example, you had the
option of letting me continue to try and seduce Miss Granger after Slughorn’s
Christmas party, turning me in for harassment to Dumbledore, turning yourself
and Miss Granger and Potter in for rigging the trials, or finding some other
way to keep your precious position, your pathetic little crush, your adoring
team captain, and me—all in check. You do what you have to do, Weasley. So here
is something you have to do, because there is really no way you can stop me.
And when you do what you have to do, sometimes you’ll find you might even enjoy
it.” For the first time since their initial session, Ron truly felt his safety
was in danger. Whatever McLaggen had planned, he couldn’t see it and that made
it much, much worse.
A cold, rough object jammed itself directly into Ron’s arsehole. It wasn’t a
finger, though it wasn’t much larger than one. Ron cried out in fear and pain,
and at the thought of what might be coming next. He tried to scramble away, but
Cormac had the wall chain in his hand, and Ron’s neck wrenched with the effort.
A hand crept up his spine, not quite gently, but not with malevolent intent.
Hot tears burned trails down Ron’s cheeks, and the more he tried to reign in
his composure, the harder he lost it.
“Ron, think. Do you want to make this worse for yourself?” Ron’s breathing was
coming out in coughs and gasps. He had been able to focus enough to realize it
was a finger of the keeper’s glove—wet with some slick liquid—that had forced
its way inside of him. He shook his head violently in response to Cormac’s
question; he would have begged for Cormac to not make it worse if he had been
able to speak without choking.
“Well then do what you have to do. And things might just get better.” Ron could
not possibly see how things could get worse, so that left things getting better
simply by process of elimination. That and, of course, the sudden spasm and
shook his body as the blunt glove-tip struck what felt like the center of Ron’s
every nerve ending. The glove was gone before Ron could complain, and what
replaced it—because Ron knew something would replace it—was smoother and
larger. Ron couldn’t rectify the idea of a broom handle pushed up his arse, so
he decided to pretend it was a plain innocuous stick instead.
Cormac pushed the handle deep and fast, and tears were on Ron’s face again when
he stopped, just short of hitting the place that made things better. Unsure of
what was happening, Ron waited for what had to have been a solid minute before
hazarding a downwards thrust. Immediately the handle pulled back.
“What?!” Ron was too tired and in too much pain to deal with this much longer.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Tell me how much you need me. How much you admire me. Tell me how much better
I am than you. And maybe I’ll let you come.”
Ron swallowed bitterly. This was it, what Cormac had been waiting for. This was
the moment when Ron either broke down or gave in; both prospects were
humiliating. He could refuse to do it and get hit a couple more times, probably
get himself and Harry removed from the team, and Hermione put in detention,
lose Gryffindor a fair amount of points and be left here tied up and hard
beyond reason, a broom handle shoved halfway up his arse. He didn’t doubt for a
second that Cormac would do all these things. On the other hand, he could tell
him what he wanted—stifle his pride and get some closure for the time being.
All he had to do was adapt to the situation, adapt his responses and his
behavior to benefit himself in the long run. It seemed much less daunting when
he thought about it like that. Without further complicating considerations, Ron
choked down his anger and gave Cormac what he required.
“You—you’re ten times the keeper I am! You should have been on the Gryffindor
team! You are faster, more skilled—you are everything a keeper should be! I’m
lucky to have you teaching me, I’m lucky you aren’t turning us in! I—I need you
to—” Ron had listed this all off without thinking, without caring how degrading
or ridiculous it was. If this was what it took, he’d do it. But the last
omission, if only because of modesty, deserved pause.
“Yes?” Cormac inched the handle forward.
“I need you to fuck me with that broom handle.” Ron would never be able to look
at his Cleansweep the same again. But that was what he had to do. The handle
began moving again slowly—almost tenderly—but that proceeded to rapidly
disintegrate when Ron’s bucking motions started. Rapid, hard, and slightly
panicked the handle was thrust in and out—and Ron couldn’t tell if it was
Cormac moving it or if it was him riding it. It didn’t matter anymore. He was
feverishly humping the rack, his cock rubbing raw against the wood. His arse
ached with sharp pain, but he was too close now to stop. He was begging,
sobbing, cursing that calm twat behind him over and over. Then he came
screaming, so hard he thought he might blackout. When he finally rolled off the
stained frame, panting and faintly disgusted with himself, Cormac grabbed it
and set it back against the wall.
Ron forced his convulsing body to stand, and Cormac threw his clothes at his
feet. Ron waited, naked and exposed, for him to unclasp the wrist-cuffs. Cormac
walked over to Ron and paused, bound wrists in hand. His long fingers brushed
against Ron’s temple where a bruise must have been forming from when he smacked
Ron earlier. He stared at Ron’s face quietly, then his lips ghosted over it and
Ron wasn’t sure if he had just been kissed or not.
The cuffs fell off his wrists and the chain was unlatched from his collar. He
stood dumbfounded, and a look of fear passed over Cormac’s perfectly calm
features before he stepped away. When he spoke, Ron was puzzled by the waver in
his voice.
“I expect perfect grip control at the next match, Weasley. Or our next session
may call for some bludger use.” Cormac turned on his heel, leaving Ron to
wonder at the strange feeling in the bottom of his stomach that he couldn’t
quite place. He fingered the leather band around his neck, fully aware that he
wouldn’t see Cormac again for another week, at the earliest. No one would know
whether he wore it or not, and he wouldn’t have to answer any more awkward
questions from Lavender if he took it off. He felt for the hook in the back,
but dropped his hand without unfastening it.
Ron decided to let Cormac control him for a little longer.
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