Living On the Edge NC-17 by ragdoll

[rontobermod]

Title: Living On The Edge
Author: ragdoll
Team: Team Winter
Prompts: Viktor Krum, Bedazzling Spell
Pairing/Genre: Ron/Pansy, Ron/Millicent, past mentions of Ron/Lavender and Ron/Hermione, kink with a side order of angst and darkness
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 10,310
Warnings: BDSM (Femme Domme/male sub), spanking, paddling, pegging, object insertion, strap-ons, verbal humiliation, cunnilingus, nipple clamps, cock rings, boot worship, wanking, dirty talk, dirty mags and fetish clubs
A/N: Thanks to my two brilliant technical advisors who held my hand and pointed me in the right directions when I felt like I was floundering. Thanks to my betas and cheerleaders who got me unstuck when I was ready to delete the whole thing and start anew, and much gratitude to my great teammates for their support. To the people who insisted to me that Ron could only be vanilla and fluffy, all I can say is you really don't know what you're missing.



It was all Viktor Krum's fault. At least, that's what Ron Weasley told himself when he'd thought about things and how they'd transpired. Definitely that bloody Krum's fault, although not entirely. Of course Hermione was somewhat responsible and so was his sister, Ginny, too. His brother Bill had had a hand in things as well, although Ron wasn't quite sure if he should really blame Bill or thank him when it came down to it.

If Viktor Krum hadn't snogged Hermione during their fourth year at school, if Hermione hadn't kept up her correspondence with Krum, then insisted on going back to Hogwarts after Voldemort had been defeated, if Ginny hadn't insisted on taking the piss because of his lack of experience...perhaps then, Ron wouldn't have felt as low as he had and buggered off, leaving Harry and Hermione alone on their quest for Horcruxes. Perhaps then, he might not have gone to Bill's house for refuge and found those magazines hidden so carefully in Bill's guest room. But they all had done those things, and so Ron's life had changed dramatically. He was unsure if it was for the better or not.

Ron had not meant to pry, but he had been bored at his older brother's house. He'd left Harry and Hermione alone, Hermione having made her choice between Harry and himself. Bill had not minded Ron being at Shell Cottage, although his new sister-in-law had been quite vocal in her opposition. Even with a war going on, Fleur had wanted Bill all to herself. At times, she'd seemed downright resentful of his presence there. Ron supposed he couldn't blame her, what with her and Bill being newlyweds and all. Still, Bill had stood up for him and let him stay.

But, being newlyweds, Bill and Fleur had spent quite a lot of time behind closed doors, hardly discreet in terms of what they were getting up to. Ron had taken to sequestering himself in the guest room, silencing spells on the door to drown out the sound of his brother and his bride going at it nearly round the clock. The one good thing was that it afforded Ron quite a great deal of time to wank by himself, a luxury that he'd not had in the entire time he'd been stuck in a smelly old tent with Harry and Hermione. That had been one of the many reasons for his non-stop strop on their trip - he was terminally horny - although it was not something Ron could have admitted to either of his friends.

However, the time on his own had also given him the opportunity to poke around the room in search of some other form of stimulation. Bill had about a million books, and Ron had become desperate enough to actually consider reading one. It had been during one of his searches that he'd discovered the secret door in the back of the bookshelf, and then the sealed box in the hidden compartment behind the door. A box full of magazines filled with pictures and stories of acts Ron had never even conceived of before: naked blokes trussed up like Christmas turkeys, shackled, manacled and blindfolded, half-dressed women in leather, corsets and impossibly high-heeled boots wielding whips and paddles and canes, brandishing switches and floggers. And much much more. He'd never seen or read anything like it.

Ron had been intrigued by many of the images he'd seen there. Some were too extreme: blokes with clothes pegs on their goolies and nipples, or someone's fist shoved up their bum, or being attacked by what he could only assume were large Muggle power tools, but overall, he'd found them all exciting. He'd wanked himself raw over the mags time and time again, imagining himself at the mercy of some beautiful leather-clad Amazon princess, making him beg and scream. He wondered who the mags had belonged to: Bill or Fleur, but given the subject matter, as well as how dated some of the magazines were, he concluded they were his eldest brother's. Still, he wasn't about to ask.

In the end, Ron knew he had to go back to Harry and Hermione, even though it was safe and warm and comfortable at Shell Cottage. Reluctantly, Ron had put the magazines back in their hiding place, but not until after he'd used a Geminio spell, learned from Hermione fairly recently, to copy some of his favourites.

Ron had not had the bottle to discuss his new-found interest with anyone. Not Harry, not Bill, certainly not Hermione. At first there were more important concerns: Horcruxes, Deathly Hallows, and Voldemort for a start. And then, everyone was trying to recover from the aftermath of the war; the death of friends and family, the devastation of the Wizarding World, the capturing of Death Eaters still at large. Not to mention his budding relationship with Hermione. He kept his fantasies to himself, but that's all they were. Fantasies.

It had stayed that way until the new Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, had recruited Harry and his friends to work for the Aurors Department, apprehending Dark Wizards and recovering their stolen property. Ron had thought Hermione would be a part of their plans, but instead, she'd chosen to return to Hogwarts to finish her education, claiming that Auror work was the last thing in the world she wanted to do. She'd also hinted at a need for 'space' from both Harry and himself after spending so much time with them for the past seven years. All Ron heard was rejection, and he suspected she was getting it off with some other bloke, if not most of the seventh year boys most likely. All he knew is that she didn't want him any longer, if in fact she ever really had.

To compensate for the way he was feeling, Ron had thrown himself into the Auror business alongside Harry, getting a perverse satisfaction in catching the bastards who'd made the last few years unbearable. Along with the wizards themselves, he and Harry had confiscated quite a lot of property on their raids: magical artifacts, illegal goods, cursed items and a great deal of books. He had been surprised to discover that many Dark Wizards had a predilection for deviant sex, especially where power play was concerned. Some of it disgusted him, particularly the books which dwelt on blood sacrifice and torture as a means to power, but many of them contained very similar subject matter as the mags he'd found at Bill's house. To his shame, Ron had purloined more than a few tomes for his own growing collection of kinky material.

Of course, he'd felt somewhat guilty about doing it, but he hadn't taken anything that was essential evidence to the cases he and Harry were working on. Owning such books was not illegal; at least Ron hoped not, otherwise he was very deeply in the shit. Still, just to be safe, he'd squirreled them away in the London flat he and Harry shared, in a similar fashion to the way Bill had done at Shell Cottage. Ron was reasonably sure that Harry would not find his things. Harry was hardly the sort to poke his nose into his best friend's possessions, let alone rifle through his wardrobe looking for hidden compartments in search of contraband pornography.

It might have stayed at the looking and imagining stage if Hermione hadn't chosen to stay at Hogwarts for the Christmas hols. If Ron had felt unwanted before this, he felt totally rejected now. For all he knew, Hermione was currently busy entertaining Krum in her private Head Girl's room, or had Portkey'd off to Bulgaria to spend the entire holiday writhing beneath the surly bastard. Any plans Ron might have had for reconciliation with his would-be girlfriend had been scuttled; he knew he had to take charge of his own life from now on, as difficult as that might be. The problem was he wasn't quite certain how.

He knew there were private clubs which catered to people with a penchant for the same things he did. He'd seen the adverts and stickers posted in Muggle phone boxes around London advertising such places, but they were strictly for Muggles and Ron didn't think it would be prudent to try his luck amongst them, especially when he had no practical experience at all. He considered asking Bill, but that seemed like a very bad idea since that would have meant explaining to his older brother how he knew about Bill's interest in such things. No, that was not a subject Ron wanted to broach in the least.

It seemed hopeless, sending Ron plummeting down into a pit of frustration and despair. Harry noticed Ron's mood, and even asked him if everything was okay, but Ron was unable and unwilling to explain to his best friend just why he was feeling so low. He was on the verge of desperation when his luck changed for the better. While thumbing through a newer issue of Wicked Witches, Ron noticed an advert he'd never seen before. There written in glowing green, it read "Are you a wizard or witch of discerning tastes who likes to play games? If whipping, spanking, bondage, domination, submission or other fetishes in a safe, sane atmosphere are your idea of a good time, then The Witch's Switch is the place for you!" Next to it was a drawing of a beautiful, curvaceous witch holding a whip. She flicked it, then gyrated her hips and winked knowingly at Ron. The club's name then appeared with an address listed somewhere in Soho, flashing on the page in bright purple letters. At that moment, Ron decided he'd died and gone to heaven.

~*~

Getting to the Witch's Switch had not been an easy task. Ron had managed to find the location on one of his trips around London while tracking down a Dark Wizard for the Ministry. The building had apparently been Unplottable - he'd been in the neighbourhood many times in the past and he'd never seen the building before, but this time, it was there as clear as day; an imposing structure, all ebony brick and ironwork, with blackened out windows and a small sign with the club's name emblazoned upon it. The sign also bore an arrow which pointed downward to a set of black wrought iron stairs which spiralled deep into the ground. Those reminded Ron of the stairs leading down to Snape's dungeon, an association which made him feel more than a bit uncomfortable -the last thing he wanted to do was equate Severus Snape with sex. Dead set on seeing things through, Ron committed the location to memory before heading back to work, feeling more optimistic than he had in ages.

Of course, it was a few more days before he'd actually had the bottle to go there during operating hours. Ron knew it was going to take a bit of planning as well as subterfuge, since he wasn't about to tell Harry what he was up to. That would have been dead embarrassing and he had no idea what Harry's thoughts were about kinky sex in general. He wasn't certain he wanted to know either, especially now that Harry and Ginny were an item. Ron certainly didn't want to think about his sister involved in those sorts of things, least of all with Harry. It would probably scar him for life if he dwelt on it for very long.

It was late on a Friday night when Ron finally got his chance. Harry was off at Andromeda Tonks' house for dinner and a visit to his godson, and Ron had no qualms about telling his mum he could not go home to the Burrow for dinner that night due to a heavy case load from the office. About the only excuse his mother would accept as reason for not coming home for a meal was the pursuit of former Death Eaters.

Dressed in a pair of black dragon hide trousers and a long-sleeved mesh shirt from Gladrags, heavy black lace-up boots on his feet, Ron Apparated near the club, watching the entrance warily. It took him several tries and several circuits around the street before he could bring himself to actually walk down those stairs into the murky depths. Belatedly, Ron realised that if there was a special password or relic needed to get into the place, he was done for. He had nothing but the knowledge that it existed and some deep-seated hope that he would find what he was looking for there.

Much to his surprise, the stairs lead down to a large wooden door; he could hear voices and music coming from behind it. The door swung open as he touched the large brass handle, revealing a large club space. Nothing extraordinary happened as he crossed the threshold, although the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up - whether from fear or excitement, Ron could barely tell. It was dark inside, the interior lit by flickering candles and torches; it took a few moments before his eyes could adjust to the gloom.

He had expected a stark, cold dungeon, but instead the room was lush, decorated opulently and filled with implements of torture he'd only seen in pictures before: stocks, whipping posts, iron cages and spanking benches. The room was full of people - all sorts: men, women and people of indeterminate gender, of all colours, shapes and sizes, and in various states of undress. There were men kissing women, men kissing men and women kissing women, as well as groups of three and four, all caressing, touching, licking and more. In the center of the room, a tall, thin man with wild hair had a small blonde woman, crying and bare arsed, flung across his lap and he was beating her with a switch.

Ron could hear the combined moans, sighs and cries filling his ears, some in agony, some in ecstasy, along with the occasional crack of a whip or paddle striking skin. The scent of smoke from the candles and torches filled his nose, mingled with sweat and musk and incense as well as assorted perfumes, with a tinge of leather and the coppery tang of blood. The sensory overload sent his heart pounding and his blood singing, his cock twitching beneath the tight hide of his trousers in response.

It was as if he had been hit by a Bedazzling spell - he couldn't stop himself from gawking. Everywhere he looked, there were people caught up in acts of debauchery, doing things he'd never even dreamt possible. He knew it was rude to stare like this, but he could barely tear his eyes away. He was vaguely aware of other people looking back at him, eyeing him as if they were hungry dogs and he was a fresh cut of meat. Unsure of the protocol, Ron dropped his eyes down, trying to suss out where he should go; clearly standing about looking like a frightened rabbit was not going to endear him to anyone.

He started to make his way through the crowd, hoping that he could find someone to help him through this very confusing experience without looking like an utter prat. Why wasn't there some sort of guidebook to explain it all? He was hopelessly lost in terms of protocols; none of the books he'd skimmed through had mentioned any of this, and Bill's magazines certainly had been of no use as they were only pictures. Ron was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he failed to notice the very large person headed in his direction. At least until he slammed directly into them.

"Oi, watch where you're going!" Ron exclaimed. He looked up to see a tall, solid looking woman standing in front of him, the top half of her face obscured by a black leather mask tooled to look like a dragon. She was dressed in a tight black brocade corset, skin tight black hide trousers which laced up the sides, revealing patches of pale skin, and the tallest platform boots he'd ever seen, her dark hair scrapped back into a severe bun.

She towered over him, glowering. Her eyes flickered over him, her mouth twisting up into a sneer. "Are you certain you want to address me that way, worm?"

"What?" Ron started, then realised that he was probably causing a scene he would regret. He lowered his gaze, then muttered, "Sorry about that."

The big woman snorted. "New here, aren't you?"

Ron opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by a second woman who had sauntered over toward them. Her movements were graceful, elegant, a willow to the other woman's sturdy oak.

"Of course he is, M. He just reeks of virgin blood," she tittered. This woman was dressed similarly to the first, although she wore a form fitting floor-length skirt of some sort of shiny material. It had a slit up the side which ran all the way to her shapely hip, revealing long fishnet clad legs and treacherously high stiletto heeled shoes. She was much shorter and fine boned, with large breasts which threatened to spill out of her corset at any minute. Her black hair was cut into a stylish chin-skimming bob, and she too wore a mask, this one resembling a cat. Her lips full and painted an alluring scarlet, although when she smiled it was more predatory than reassuring.

"I am not a virgin!" Ron insisted nervously.

"Aren't you?" the second woman said in a mocking tone. "Is this your first time here?"

"Well, yeah," he admitted grudgingly, although he suspected they probably knew that already.

"We like fresh blood," said the woman called M. She reached over and tugged at a stray lock of Ron's hair; he tried not to flinch. "Assuming you want to play, of course."

"I'm Mistress P," said the smaller woman. "And my friend here is Mistress M. Fancy playing, do you?"

"I-" Ron could feel himself starting to blush, the tips of his ears burning. "I think so."

P's gaze settled on him. "You've got to be certain or we can't continue. Or more to the point, we won't. You've got to know what you want before we can give it to you."

Ron had the strangest notion that he ought to know who they were; there was something familiar about the pair of them, but he knew better than to ask for their real names. He swallowed hard, trying to force away the lump in his throat and then replied, "I do want to play. I've just never done it before."

"That's a bit obvious," quipped M.

Ron only blushed further.

"There are private spaces if you'd prefer," said P. She pointed to the far side of the room with a short wave of her hand; her nails were covered in shiny scarlet varnish, the same shade as her lips. "You don't have to play in public if it makes you uncomfortable."

"Yeah, I think I'd prefer that. Could we...?" His nipples were stiffening beneath the rough mesh of his shirt and his erection was throbbing painfully.

"The proper question is 'Mistress, if it pleases you, may we play in a private room?'" M said gruffly.

"Now now, M, this is the boy's first time, and everyone's got to start somewhere," P said with a shake of her head. "We can forgive him a few transgressions the first time round. Still, it won't hurt him to learn, I suppose."

"I want to learn," Ron murmured, a shiver of excitement running up his spine. "Mistress, if it pleases you - the pair of you - may we please play in a private room?"

"Not as stupid as he looks," M said.

P smirked.

"And what makes you think that we'd want to play with the likes of you, pig?" M continued to Ron's dismay.

He looked at P desperately, uncertain of what the proper answer was. "Erm-"

"Oh, but he's gagging for it, M," P snickered. "Just look at how eager he is to serve us." She ran a hand up his arm, caressing his shoulder lightly. "Perhaps if we train him up, he'll learn to be useful after all."

M raised a sceptical eyebrow. "I suppose we could try. Not sure he'll be clever enough to catch on though."

"Oi!" Ron blurted. "I'm not thick!"

"See, P," said M, "he doesn't even have the sense to hold his tongue...and we haven't even started yet."

P shook her head in disappointment. "She's right, you know. If you were ours, we'd have to punish you for that smart mouth of yours." She reached up and traced along the edge of Ron's lower lip. "Pity too. It's such a pretty mouth. I could think of a number of better uses for it."

Ron bit back a moan, keeping his head still as P dragged the blunt of her nail beneath his lip, then down his chin to his chest. "P-punish me?" he managed out, his voice almost a squeak.

"Submissives are never permitted to speak to their mistresses in such a fashion," P explained coolly, her finger now drawing abstract patterns over Ron's chest. "I see M and I would have to teach you to behave."

She let out an exaggerated sigh. "I think we would have our work cut out for us."

"Y-yeah, you reckon?" He squirmed in anticipation.

P's eyes narrowed beneath her feline mask, her smirk growing wider. "Oh yes, my dear."

Ron lowered his eyes in what he hoped was a sincere expression of submission and repeated, "Mistress, if it pleases the pair of you, may we please go to a private room so I can receive whatever punishment you think necessary?"

P and M exchanged furtive looks, and then M grabbed him by the band of his dragon-hide trousers, all but dragging him across the crowded floor and into the confines of a private room, P following close behind.

~*~

The door to the private room shut itself, locking with a loud click. Ron eyed it nervously, wondering if perhaps this had been a very big mistake on his part. He knew very little about the club's rules, let alone the two women who were now sequestered with him.

"Sit," ordered Mistress M, pointing to a hard wooden chair.

Ron did as he was told, trying not to fidget. His erection was throbbing painfully as it pressed against the tight confines of his trousers.

Mistress P slipped her wand out of her sleeve and waved it with a flourish. A large roll of parchment and a quill appeared in front of her. She grabbed them, and then handed them to Ron. "You need to take care of this before we can go any further," she explained. "It's a beginner's contract. You need to check off what you will and won't allow us to do, what your preferences are and the like. It ought to be self-explanatory. Once you sign it and we look it over," she indicated Mistress M and then herself, "we will proceed."

Ron looked at her blankly.

"It's a standard contract," P continued with a hint of exasperation. "Part of the club's rules. We can't do anything you won't allow, we won't do anything that's not on the list. It's a bit like an Unbreakable Vow, but it will only last for the duration of our session. Without it, nothing's going to happen." She batted her long eyelashes behind her mask. "And you do want something to happen, don't you?"

"Or we can just leave now, worm," M added with a snarl. "Perhaps you'll be lucky enough to find someone else willing to put up with your worthless arse..."

"No!" Ron protested. "I'll do it. I just didn't know..." He was blushing again, his cheeks burning with humiliation. "I'm just...you know, new to all of this." He began to look over the list; it was very long and detailed. He had no idea what half the acts listed on the parchment were, suspecting he would need an extensive encyclopaedia of sexual practises to suss them all out. For once, he kept his Gryffindor nature in check, deciding that going in blindly and agreeing to everything on the page, especially without any clue as to what he was agreeing to, would probably be entirely too reckless. Keep it simple, Weasley, he thought. There would be time to sample more exotic things in the future, assuming tonight's adventure didn't kill him outright.

In the end, he checked off things he understood and scratched out the things that made him feel a bit sick. "I don't want to be a toilet," he muttered as he crossed off a few acts with so much enthusiasm that he almost made a hole in the parchment.

"Finished?" asked M gruffly.

Ron nodded. "Yeah. Erm, yes. Mistress."

She responded with a cold look. "Took you long enough, Useless."

P glanced over at the parchment in Ron's hand. "You've got to sign it here." She tapped her nail against the line on the very bottom. "Otherwise it's not valid." Before Ron could even think to do it, she added, "And it's got to be your proper name, otherwise it won't take."

Ron hesitated, wondering if he should give them his true identity. That could be extremely dangerous, especially if the information fell into the hands of the wrong people. He was a Ministry employee for a start. Perhaps it had been a bad idea to come here.

Noting his obvious discomfort, P flashed him an indulgent smile. "You're safe here. The club's got all sorts of spells in place to make certain no one can give out the true identity of anyone who comes in here, no matter who they are. Minister Shacklebolt could be beaten, blindfolded and buggered in full view of every single patron and no one would be able to speak of it once they left the club. In a place like this, discretion is necessary for everyone involved. The potential for blackmail is just too great."

The last thing Ron wanted to think about was Kingsley Shacklebolt under those circumstances, although he felt a little tremor of fear at the thought that the Minister could be under the very same roof, doing the very same things as he himself was doing. Even worse was the thought that Shacklebolt might see him on the premises, doing Merlin knew what. Scowling, Ron drew in a deep breath, then scrawled his full name on the page before handing it back to P.

The two women put their heads together, looking over the contract solemnly. Every once in a while one of them would point at something Ron had either checked or negated, smirking and snickering. Ron could feel his courage wilting like a lettuce leaf left out in the hot sun; the only good thing was that his hard-on had done the same, thus momentarily relieving the pressure in his groin. Finally, they finished poring over it.

"Stand up," M ordered.

Ron did as he was told.

"Turn around, hands against the wall."

Confused, he followed her orders, leaning forward.

"Good boy," breathed P as she pressed the parchment against his arched back, proceeding to sign her name on the line under Ron's own. M followed suit; Ron was certain she had deliberately written hard enough to scratch his back with the tip of the quill. "Sit down again."

Slumping into his seat, Ron craned his neck, attempting to read their signatures as P moved away. She made sure to keep the parchment out of his line of sight, sending it zooming across the room to hang on the far wall.

"The contract will last only as long as our session does," said P. "When we all agree it's at an end, the contract will disappear and all terms will be null and void. Other than the anonymity spells, of course."

"We still need your safe word," M interjected, looking at Ron with contempt.

"Safe word?" Ron echoed.

"Safe word," repeated M with a roll of her eyes. "Are you as stupid as you are ugly, worm?"

Even P seemed a bit surprised, blinking at him slowly. "Safe word. The word you use to tell us to stop. And then we do."

"Well, why can't I just say 'stop'?"

"Why d'you think?" asked M scornfully.

"I don't know!" Ron exclaimed. "If I did, I wouldn't ask, would I?"

Ron could see M's eyes narrowing behind her mask, her large hand clenching against her thigh. "You'll pay for that smart mouth of yours."

"Some people get off on the thought of being ravished or taken," P explained, sounding as if she were talking to a small child. "They enjoying begging and pleading, but they hardly want their Dominant to stop. So saying 'stop' is a bit silly and a bit useless. We need you to give us a word that tells us you're serious and not just having a lark."

"Oh." Ron's ears started burning once again. "Erm...Bulgaria, then. Will that do?" He had no idea why he'd thought of it, but it seemed appropriate enough. That's probably where Hermione was headed to shag Krum right this very instant… he just hoped he wouldn't forget it himself.

"That's a good boy." P reached over and mussed Ron's hair as if he were a well-trained poodle. The touch of her hand against his scalp made Ron's cock twitch; it lay at half-mast, pressing against his thigh.

"I-is that it, then?" he asked, looking over at P, then at M hopefully.

M's mouth quirked up into a cruel smirk. "Oh, yes."

"Yes, my dear Ron. We're ready to start."

He wondered how P could have possibly known his name, then realised that, of course, it had been written on the contract. He drew in a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves, his stomach suddenly doing somersaults.

"From now on, you will only speak when spoken to, pig." M loomed over him, her voice harsh. "You will not say anything other than 'Yes, Mistress' or 'No, Mistress' unless you are asked a direct question and given leave to speak freely. We don't care about your utterly valueless opinions. We don't care what you want. You're only here to serve us from here on in. Do you understand that?"

"Y-yes, Mistress." His mouth was suddenly dry, his tongue thick and unwieldy.

"You will not look at us directly," P said. "You will keep your gaze averted at all times. If you do as you are

told and please us, you will be rewarded. If you don't, there will be punishment. You do want to please us, now don't you?" She fingered his hair again, twisting the locks around her fingers and yanked gently.

He managed a little nod. "Yes, Mistress."

"I can't hear you," said M.

"Yes, Mistress," he repeated, this time a little more strongly.

"No more sitting for you," said M. "I want you naked and kneeling for me. Now. And don't take all day about it."

Ron lurched to his feet, his legs suddenly trembling beneath him. He struggled with the laces on his boots before toeing them off, and then set to work on removing his clothes. His hands were clumsy as he stripped off the mesh shirt, which suddenly seemed to be clinging to him harder than a Giant Squid. He finally managed to get it off, throwing it on the chair behind him.

"That's no way to treat your clothing, you useless prat," M barked. "Fold it neatly!"

"Y-yes, Mistress. I'm sorry, Mistress," Ron blurted, doing his best to do as she asked before fumbling with the zip on his trousers, his fingers shaking violently. Somehow, he managed to strip them off, the cool air of the room causing goose pimples to rise on his bare flesh. Even though he'd changed in front of other people, girls included, for Quidditch hundreds of times back at school, it suddenly struck him that he was nearly naked in front of two women. The slow burn of mortification ran over his face as he stood there in just his pants, struggling to pull his socks off without falling over. The stone floor was cold and rough beneath his feet as he stood, hooking his thumbs into the elastic of his underpants and tugged them down, oddly thankful that he could not see the expressions on either woman's face as he did.

His erection sprung to life, bobbing up as it was freed from the confines of his black cotton pants. He could feel their eyes upon him as he shuffled awkwardly in place, waiting for some sign or further order.

M let out a snort. "Hardly even worth the view," she muttered. "I said I wanted you to kneel. On your knees, dog!"

Shit. At least Ron knew he'd get this bit right - he'd seen enough photos of men kneeling in front of their Dominants in his mags to know the proper position. At least, he hoped it was what she wanted. He dropped down on the floor, kneeling on his haunches, his heels digging into his bare buttocks, his hands clasped at the small of his back as he lowered his head in obeisance. His erection was throbbing dully, the moist tip pressing into his belly.

"See, M, he does know something," P cooed. "Now, isn't that a pretty sight?"

"Hardly. But at least his gob is shut for a while," M grunted.

"Surely we can come up with some better uses for it than wittering away?"

That made M laugh. She walked closer, her heels clicking against the hard floor. "So, does anyone know you're here, sissyboy?"

Ron shook his head, gnawing on the inside of his lower lip to keep himself focused.

The tall woman loomed over him and nudged him with the toe of her boot. "So, if we chose to keep you here to use for our amusement forever, no one would know, would they?"

"N-no, Mistress."

"Is that what you want, Ron? To be kept as our slave?" asked P, once again stroking his hair. "Do you want to be used by us?"

"I-I don't know, Mistress."

"You always were a weak little girl, Weasley," M spat. "A weak, pathetic little blood-traitor who never could do anything properly."

Ron tensed, a whimper escaping his lips as he heard her use his last name. How had she known these things about him...? He pushed the thought away - everyone knew about his family, especially their part in the War. That's what it had to be.

"Now, now, M," P said. "I'm sure Ronald will do his best to prove his worth to us tonight. He wants to serve us. He wants to be a good boy. I can tell."

He nodded, trying to tamp down the rush of panic threatening to overtake him.

"We'll see." M grabbed hold of Ron's hair, yanking his head up to face her. She shoved her foot beneath his chin. "Lick it."

He wasted no time in sticking out his tongue, applying it to the shiny patent leather of her boot. To his surprise, it wasn't foul tasting at all, just slippery and rough beneath his tongue. Ron lavished the top of it from toe to ankle before licking his way up her calf in long strokes, and then down again.

"Enough." M shoved him away, before she stalked away to a long wooden bench across the room. She untied the laces of her trousers, pulling them out to remove the garment entirely. Now clad in only her corset, black knickers and her boots, she settled down on the bench. Ron could see her legs stretched out: pale and thick with muscle, not fat. "Come here, pig. Crawl for me."

He lowered himself down onto his hands and knees, scrabbling awkwardly across the rough floor as it bit into his skin. P followed behind him, giggling and giving him quick slaps on his bottom as he made his way toward M.

"Not fast enough," M tutted, her head shaking in dismay. "Although I suppose it's something that you're at least attempting to follow orders."

P leaned over him, grasping him by the hair and pulled his face against hers. Before Ron could think, her mouth was on his, kissing him hard. Her tongue darted into his mouth, probing, and her fingers burrowed in his hair. Ron moaned against her lips, doing his best to kiss back. It was several minutes before she pulled away. "Slut," P murmured. "You're just desperate for it, aren't you? Tell me."

"Y-yes, Mistress," Ron whispered.

"I told you his mouth could be put to better use," P said to M with a laugh. She stood up, her skirts swishing against the floor. "I think he needs a bit of adornment and then, perhaps, a taste of what he'll be in for if he doesn't behave."

Ron trembled in anticipation as P sashayed to a closed cabinet, opening the door and sifting through an assortment of implements. She chose something that glinted and jangled - he couldn't quite see - and then shut the cabinet again before turning her attention to a rack hung with a variety of paddles, whips, crops and canes.

"Hmmm." P considered the instruments in front of her, fingering each one lightly in turn, before helping herself to a small black leather paddle. She hefted in her hand as if to test its weight, then smacked it against the flat of her palm where it landed with a resounding crack. Ron couldn't help but jump at the sound. P just laughed. She came back to his side and bent over him, reaching out to pinch his already hardened nipples, first one, then the other. Ron did his best not to wince. "Hold still..."

In her free hand, P held a silver chain, a pair of flat clamps dangling from each end. With deft fingers, she attached them to his nipples. They didn't hurt as much as Ron feared, more of a constant pressure than actual pain. P smiled at her handiwork, then tugged at the chain, causing Ron to hiss. "There. That looks much better."

"Over my lap, sissyboy." M hauled him up on his feet, practically throwing him across her knees. The skin of her bare thighs was warm and soft against his own as M arranged him to her liking, pulling his arms over his head, shoving his legs apart. Ron's cock ached, trapped between his stomach and M's legs, his nipples thrumming from the cold metal clamps; he forced himself to lie still rather than grind against her.

"What a lovely arse he's got," said P, caressing Ron's bottom. She cupped each cheek and squeezed before smacking them lightly in turn.

Ron whimpered, the need to move growing stronger with each passing second. It was so hard to stay motionless when all he wanted to do was rub his cock against her. He could not remember a time when he'd felt more vulnerable and helpless - or more humiliated. He'd been about 8 or 9 the last time he'd received a spanking from anyone, in that case, his mother. Fred and George had pointed fingers and sniggered as she'd whacked him, and wound him up for days afterwards, probably more for getting caught than actually being punished. He couldn't even remember what he'd done to deserve it, just the punishment itself. In any event, it had been nothing like this.

M brushed P's questing hand away with her much larger one, the blunt of her nails dragging over his arse and between his legs. She tugged at his bollocks, more arousing than painful, causing Ron to gasp. And then she began to strike him. Her hand landed on his arse with a loud smack, the slap smarting so much it brought tears to Ron's eyes, so powerful that it slammed him several inches forward. He stifled a groan, trying not to squirm, and braced himself for another blow.

There was a volley of them; M's hand landing on him over and over until there were twenty in total, each one harder and more painful than the last. By the time she had finished, Ron was certain he'd be unable to sit comfortably for the next several days. His arse felt sore and swollen, stinging as if he'd sat on a beehive; he could imagine how red it must be.

"My turn," breathed P. "Hold him still."

"Mistress, please..." The words escaped from Ron's lips before he could stop himself.

"What was that?" M fisted at his hair, jerking his head upright.

"I-" Ron said lamely.

"You were told not to speak unless given permission, worm," P reminded him, her tone stern.

"I'm sorry, Mistress. I'm sorry!"

"Not as sorry as you're going to be," she replied. "M, hold him in place."

"Gladly." M's grip was like a vice, her broad fingers digging into his waist and shoulder as P positioned herself by Ron's hip.

"Fifteen strokes of the paddle, and you will count them out loud. Miss one and we'll start from the beginning. Understand?"

"Yes, Mistress. As you wish, Mistress." Ron's voice quavered as he spoke. The black leather paddle was shoved under his nose.

"Kiss it first. And thank me for keeping you in line."

Ron did as he was told, his lips pressing against the smooth leather in reverence. "Thank you, Mistress P. Thank you for keeping me in line. I'm a very wicked boy."

"Yes, you are. Now count."

One. Pain like he'd never known before blossomed as the paddle hit his bottom, causing Ron to cry out. Two, three, four, five... The paddle was even worse than M's hand on his already tortured flesh. For such a small woman, P was surprisingly strong, and she seemed to know exactly where to hit him to cause the most pain. ...thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. By the time the ordeal was finally, thankfully over, Ron was sniffling softly, tears rolling down his flushed cheeks.

"Up." M ordered, shoving him off her lap. "Sissyboy."

"Yes, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress." Ron slid to his knees, his buttocks on fire, his erection rock hard. Without being told, he lowered his head to kiss M's booted foot again, and then did the same on the pointed toe of P's shoe.

"Much better," said P. Her hands roamed over his bottom again; she let out a satisfied sigh as she examined her handiwork. She slid her fingers forward, first toying with his balls, then stroking his cock. Ron closed his eyes, savouring the feel of her hands on him, and bit back a groan. Her hands gripped him, constricting around the base. Ron heard a light 'click' and then realised the tightness he was feeling was no longer from P's fingers. "Lovely."

Ron shifted slightly to relieve the pressure on his aching knees. He was mortified to hear the tinkling of a bell coming from between his legs.

Both M and P began to laugh.

"It's even nicer than this," said M, pulling on the chain hanging slack on Ron's chest, the action making the clamps feel even tighter than they had before. The pain shot straight to his groin, eliciting a small cry from his throat. "Fuck me, the bugger's enjoying himself."

"I could have told you that, M," P replied, her eyes flicking down to Ron's crotch. He fought the urge to cover himself with his hands, fearing what would happen to him if he even tried. "It's rather obvious, isn't it?"

"Pity he won't be able to do anything about it." M reached down and gave his erection a hard smack, laughing as she watched his reaction.

"I think our little pet here needs to focus less on himself," P said with a wicked grin, "and more on us."

"Agreed," said M. "His bits aren't particularly interesting to me. I reckon," she gave Ron another nudge with her foot, "he ought to be paying more attention to mine."

"Cracking idea," P giggled. She grabbed Ron by the hair, pushing his face forward into M's crotch. "Go down on her. Perhaps if you do a good enough job we'll do something about that stiffy of yours."

M's laugh was cold, cruel. "Or perhaps not." She stood to her full height, towering over Ron like a giantess. "I doubt he's got any skill at all. We'll see if he can manage to do more than just slobber all over me."

Ron swallowed down hard, wondering just what she had in mind. Truth be told, M was right. He didn't have any experience with women other than Lavender or Hermione, and that had been severely limited. Being at school had put a damper on what he and Lavender had been able to get up to, even though she'd been more than willing to do anything he'd wanted. If it hadn't been for Lavender, he might've died a virgin.

Things with Hermione had been even less satisfying given that they hadn't officially got together until after the Battle of Hogwarts and she'd left three months later. Not to mention they'd both been living with their parents, and she'd insisted they take things slowly. Much too slowly for him.

"Let's put him to the test then and see." P's voice shook Ron out of his reverie; he snuck a glance up to see what both women were up to.

Mistress M peeled off her knickers easily, revealing her slightly curved belly and smooth, hairless mound. Ron's toes curled at the sight. She sat down on the bench, legs spread wide. "Do it," growled M. "Lick me like the filthy dog you are."

Anxiously, Ron shuffled forward on hands and knees, settling between her splayed thighs. The heady, musky aroma of her cunt hit his nose, the skin pink and glistening; she was so wet. Lowering his head, he gave an experimental swipe of his tongue against the soft flesh. M squirmed, making a pleased, throaty noise as he did. Emboldened, Ron began to lap at her folds, savouring the taste, the scent, the feel of her. Without asking permission, Ron raised his hands to brace himself against her heavy thighs, burrowing his face in deeper as he sucked greedily at M's swollen clit. Her moan of enthusiasm and slowly rocking hips were enough to reassure him that he was doing it properly.

He was so engrossed in what he was doing for M that he was only vaguely aware of P's caresses, her fingers stroking down the length of his spine, brushing over his tortured buttocks and his aching sack. Ron gasped against M's skin as he felt P's fingertip probing between his arse cheeks, drawing slow circles around his arsehole. He fought to keep his concentration on what he was doing to M - he was there for her pleasure, not his own. A sharp tug on his hair kept him in line, as if M was reminding him too.

P withdrew her fingers as M clamped her thighs around his head, practically suffocating him as she pulled at his hair, holding him fast. Ron began to lick faster, his tongue flicking over the hard nub of her clit and the softer skin surrounding it. P's touches returned, although this time they were accompanied by something warm and slippery. It felt nice, even when she slipped her fingertip inside him, probing gently. He groaned, his hips twitching in response. The groan grew louder as she added a second one, stretching him further.

It felt...fantastic. Better than he'd ever expected. He tried to keep his attention on M, who was clutching his hair so tightly now he expected to have bald patches by the time they were through. P continued to work him with her fingers, thrusting and twisting, then inexplicably removed them. Ron let out a wail of frustration which was answered by a laugh.

"Ah ah, patience," she said, a hint of mockery in her tone. "You really are such a slut."

"Don't. Stop," moaned M, then boxed him soundly on the ear.

"Mmph." Ron had no intention of stopping. He felt P's fingertip penetrating him again, causing him to arch his back, pushing his arse up to meet her. To his surprise, it felt thicker and longer than before. It wasn't until he felt P's hips flush against his sore arse that he realised this was something entirely new.

"Relax," P ordered, her voice husky as she ground against him. Her fishnet stockings were unbearably rough against his swollen skin. "You're ours to do whatever we want with. To fuck. To suck. To beat. To use. And you will not forget that, will you?" One of her hands dug into his hip, the other reaching under to grab hold of his cock, stroking and squeezing.

Ron shook his head as furiously as he could given the circumstances. M's breath was coming out in harsh, ragged gasps, her nails cutting into his skull. As P began to move in slow, deliberate thrusts, M began to spasm, her whole body quaking. P quickened her pace, each thrust slamming him forward into M's shaking body. Ron clung to M to keep himself steady, although her arse was bouncing furiously against the hard wooden bench, her cries growing louder and fiercer.

"Ah, fuck...Weasley." M's words broke off into a strangled cry as she gave one final convulsion, then her hold on him relaxed. Ron came up for air, panting hard. M stared at him, slumped on the bench, the ghost of a smile on her lips. "Not bad. Worm."

Ron averted his gaze. "Thank you, Mistress."

"Good boy," said P, pushing into him once again. "Now you mustn't come until I give you leave. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mistress P." He could hear her breathing heavily behind him as she stroked him in time with her thrusts, the bloody bell tinkling madly. His balls were threatening to explode, the cock ring cutting painfully into his turgid flesh. He had no idea how he was going to keep himself under control.

"So tight," P breathed. "Such a tight little arse you've got. Bet you love being taken like this, don't you, slut?"

"I-" Ron stammered. "I've never-"

"You let all the boys at Hogwarts bugger you, didn't you? Didn't you?" she continued, her fingers constricting around his cock in a stranglehold. "Don't lie to me."

"N-no, Mistress." Ron bucked his hips, desperate for release. "I swear. Ungh...I sw-swear." He was so close to the edge, he could barely contain himself any longer. "Please, Mistress...pl-please..."

"Please what?" M asked.

"Wanna come. Please-"

P released her hand from his cock, giving him a quick slap on the arse. It hurt like hell, causing him to grimace. "No."

"We don't care about your needs, pussyboy. Only our own." M sneered. "You're so stupid you can't even remember that, can you? Now move that scrawny arse of yours."

Ron whimpered, the bell jingling loudly as he gyrated his hips as best he could.

P's breath was hot on his neck as she leaned forward, driving herself in harder and deeper with each thrust. "You can come when I say...mmmm..." she crooned. M got to her feet, coming to P's side. Ron glanced over his shoulder to see M putting her arms around the smaller woman, her large hands cupping P's breasts through her corset as she whispered in P's ear. "So close...so close..." P's words turned to keening moans as she shuddered violently against him and inside him. Finally she stilled, pressing soft kisses along his spine as she moulded herself against him, hands returning to his cock to stroke.

Ron closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath, desperately trying to hold himself back as his body screamed for release. He was trembling as P squeezed and twisted his cock with deft fingers, then felt himself being shifted backward to sit on her lap, still impaled on whatever she'd used upon him. M knelt in front of him, drawing him in for a long, lingering kiss; Ron yielded to her, not protesting as she shoved her tongue in his mouth. She tugged upon the chain, then freed his nipples from the restrictive clamps. The resulting pain was excruciating, as if she'd set them both on fire. Ron's cries were stifled by M's lips; they soon grew to sighs of relief as the pain began to subside. Relaxing, Ron sucked on her tongue, whimpering as she tugged and teased his still-sore nipples with thumb and forefinger.

P settled Ron on her lap, his long legs stretched on either side of her as she worked him with her hands. It felt as if they were coated in the same stuff she'd used before, slick and warm as her hands slid up and down his length. P's lips were on the crook of his neck, her teeth grazing at the sensitive skin. He squirmed, whimpering with need. Ron wondered how long they were going to prolong his ordeal - and if he would survive to see it through.

"I'm going to let you come now," P whispered in his ear, her voice husky and low. A frisson of further excitement ran up his spine. "But you must do it nice and loudly. We want everyone in the whole place to hear you, to know what a dirty little slut you are. We want them all to know that you love to come for us. Do you understand?"

"Uh huh." Given the type of club it was, Ron wasn't quite as ashamed of that knowledge as P might have thought.

"What was that?"

"Erm, yes, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress." Ron tensed as he felt her release the cock ring, expecting to have the same rush of agony that the nipple clamps had produced. Happily, that wasn't the case.

"Good boy." Her fingers tightened around his cock momentarily, squeezing hard. "Now I want you to come."

He began to pump into her hand, relishing the warmth and wetness of P's palm and the intense pressure she was applying. His hips snapped up, then down, moving in sync with her hand. As he rode the object inside him, he moved faster and faster, the orgasm began to build. M slipped her hand downward, joining P in touching him, making Ron groan with pleasure.

"Come on, then, worm. Don't be all day about it..."

"N-no," Ron stammered. "I won't. I'm close, I swear-" He thrust up urgently, desperately in need of release. Starting to shake, Ron clutched at M, then let out a roar as the room went black and his entire body seemed to explode into flames. Wave after wave tore through him as he came, hot gouts of spunk splattering against his chest, belly and thighs. He could feel both women's hands clenching him, milking him until there was nothing left at all. Exhausted, he fell back against P, limbless and spent, his head resting against her shoulder.

"That's our boy. You did so well," she said softly, brushing her lips against his ear. "I'm so proud of you."

"Not bad for a first time at all," conceded M. "We might make a proper sub of you yet, Weasley."

Ron's head jerked up as she said his name, his pulse racing, and studied her masked face through narrowed eyes. "I know you," he said slowly, then wiped sweat off his brow. "You're Milli-"

P cut him off before he could say the name. "She's Mistress M for now. And I'm Mistress P. Once the session is over, we might be the ones you think we are. But for now, we are who we want to be. Who we tell you we are, pig."

He swallowed, realising why he'd recognized P as well. "Is that why you wanted to do this," he indicated the room with a wave of his finger, "with me? Some sort of vengeance thing?"

"Right. Session's at an end." Pansy - Pansy fucking Parkinson- shoved him off her, the object inside him swiftly withdrawn as she scrambled to her feet.

"It's over," echoed M.

The contract flared into flames, the parchment beginning to smoulder and burn as if someone had put a candle to it. The glow allowed Ron to see exactly what P had been wearing. A black leather harness was strapped to her crotch, a rubbery phallus, emerald green streaked with silver, bobbing from the end, glistening with lubrication. He couldn't decide if it looked sexy or ridiculous.

M -Millicent, he realised - was putting on her trousers, lacing up the loose leather strips in haste. "I knew he wouldn't manage to get things right," she grumbled.

"Oi, what's supposed to mean?" Ron snapped, trying to find the energy to stand up and retrieve his clothes.

"It means you were doing so well, and then you went ahead and bollixed it all up," Pansy replied, unbuckling the harness and stepping out of it, yanking her skirt back down.

"You ought to have told me who you were," he countered.

Pansy scowled, pulling off her mask, her face flush with anger. "We thought you knew. Besides, that's not how these things work. Most people get off on the fantasy, don't they?"

"Oh." Ron stood, although his movements were awkward and wobbly. "I'm new at this, aren't I? I didn't know."

"Well, now you do. So next time you'll do better not to insult your Dominants," said Millicent.

"I didn't insult-" Ron started.

"Didn't you, then?" Pansy sneered. "Some sort of vengeance thing, Weasley? Hardly. We come here to enjoy ourselves. If we wanted to do something horrible to you, there are plenty of better ways to go about it."

"I work for the Ministry!" he exclaimed. "I'm hunting down Death Eaters and-"

"And what's that got to do with us?" asked Millicent, unfastening her mask. "We're not bloody Death Eaters. Neither were our families, Weasley. Just because we were Slytherins doesn't mean we were in league with Him."

Pansy cast him a cold look, then shook her head. "Some of us were afraid for our bloody lives, Weasley. We stuck with the winning side because that's how we survive. Some of us prefer to live."

"Well, what were you doing here then?" Ron demanded.

"What were you doing here?" asked Millicent, crossing her arms over her heaving chest.

"Oh." Ron's ears went red and he hung his head, suddenly reminded that he was completely stark bollock naked in front of two women. "Erm. Right."

"As I said, we come here to enjoy ourselves. As did you. Or was this some sort of undercover operation on behalf of the Aurors' Department?"

"Of course not." Ron cocked an eyebrow in curiosity. "I thought you said no one could talk about this sort of stuff outside the club."

Millicent nodded. "They can't. Even if you wanted to raid us, you'd find you couldn't say anything about it outside these walls. It's strong magic."

Pansy nodded. "Believe me when I tell you people have tried it in the past. Doesn't work."

"So, this wasn't some sort of attempt at blackmail?"

"For fuck's sake, Weasley, why can't you accept that we come here for the same reasons you do?" Millicent hissed. "If you hadn't recognised us, we wouldn't be having this conversation, would we?"

Grudgingly, he replied, "Suppose not."

"Well, did you like it?" Pansy asked. "Did you?"

"Of course," Ron scoffed. "Wasn't that obvious?"

Pansy twisted her mouth up into a sly smile. "Just making certain. It could have been an act."

"It could have been-" Ron stopped short when he realised she was winding him up. He laughed, his cheeks now crimson with embarrassment. "Yeah, I did. It was fantastic."

"It takes so little to please you," Millicent sneered. "You weren't half-bad, Weasley. Particularly as a beginner."

"Thanks." Ron looked at her awkwardly, then over at Pansy. "What about you? What did you think?"

"I told you when you were finished. You were a very good boy."

"S-so," he said slowly, picking his words carefully, "if I were to come back here? A-and if you two were here, does that mean we could...?"

Millicent snorted in amusement. "Is that what you want?"

"Might do." It was hard to shrug and act nonchalant when his muscles hurt as much as they did right now.

"Well, we might consider it," Pansy said. There was a momentary pause. "If you ask nicely enough."

"Then again, we might say no," added Millicent. "You'll just have to come back and see for yourself."

"Right." Dismayed, Ron limped over towards the chair which contained his clothes, grabbing his underpants from the top of the pile, and began to dress.

Pansy reached for the door handle, her dark eyes flashing with mirth. "Weasley, we're usually here on the weekends. You'll know how to find us."

Before Ron could respond, she and Millicent had slipped out the door, leaving him all alone in the now cold room. If tonight was any indication of what things could be like, he knew it was something he had to pursue. Ron continued to clean up and get dressed, sore and sated and strangely happier than he had been in weeks.

It dawned on him that he really ought to get in touch with Viktor Krum. The bloke definitely needed to be thanked for everything he'd done. If the news somehow got back to Hermione? Well, that would be all right too. He had a very good feeling that his weekends would never be the same again.