Such a Good Boy
"You are such a good boy."
That’s the ultimate praise your owner gives you. If he deigns to give it at all, his rich purring voice makes you all go warm and pliable. Then you can barely resist rubbing against him, stroking around his legs when he wears your favourite boots. You adore his calves and even longer thighs, but you restrain yourself, because that’s what being a good boy is about.
Eventually, you’ll get called and you can seek the touch of his body. If you are obedient, there’ll be a reward. As your owner is aware of your heart’s desires, he knows that you thrive on the challenge of being patient. Oh, yes, it’s been hard to learn this, to learn the rules. In your former life you were never one to follow rules, but extraordinary at breaking them. You’ve learned his rules as he has learned your boundaries. And you’ve changed. Probably not you alone.
Being called a good boy is often accompanied by an affectionate gaze. You love his grey eyes at that specific moment. Just for a split second they show you are his like he’s yours. Usually, while you are being trained, his eyes look fathomless and his face is almost expressionless. You’re his pet, and because you are way more intelligent than a normal pet would be, you get the intent of those looks. They call you to attention. Tell you to stay focused on his voice, body language and commands.
That’s what you do. You obey him and get all warm and fuzzy about it.
Sometimes, though, he can still make you forget the rules.
But you’d do anything to get in his good books again. Anything to earn his praise. Things you thought you wouldn’t do, you did them and you’d do them again, any time, any second. For him— and for yourself. No need to deny it.
You are looking forward to today’s session. Your owner seems to be in a good mood, going by the relaxed pose in which he’s sitting in his favourite armchair. Pale and slender fingers are resting on its arms, immaculate black boots shining side by side, a black box sitting on his lap. He looks at you observing your reaction.
When you see the box resting on his thighs you involuntarily start to shudder. You try to catch your breath. Your eyes flutter shut for a second and when you open them again your gaze rests on the wooden floor. Follow the rules, you remember him saying. Composed again, you start to take off your clothes. That’s how every session begins. It comes naturally now. You bend down, starting with your trainers and socks, you rise to pull off your jumper and t-shirt, last you reach for your belt buckle, jeans and pants. Naked, you walk toward him and the pillow resting next to the armchair and his boots. You go down on your knees and raise your head.
You shuffle closer and put your head on his thighs. Seconds later you feel his hand cradling your head, blunt nails scraping over your scalp. You melt against him, feeling his left leg and cold leather boot at your right knee, hip and side and the dimmed body heat of his clad leg on your shoulder and your cheek. Eyes closed you sigh.
You feel grounded, and that’s good, but not good enough. Yet. Oh, yes, you want more. Need more. And then, there is the box. But you know you can’t rush these things, so you let it be. Sighing again you start to slouch, enjoying your owner’s fingers in your hair, even his silent waiting game, while anticipation is rising warmly in your belly and spreading to your groin.
His hand stops caressing.
"Look at me."
Your eyes fly open and you raise your head just a split second later.
He smiles fondly at you and your breath quickens.
"You are my good boy, aren’t you?"
You don’t answer. It’s not that you are not allowed to. But you take delight in being able to communicate silently. He knows that, of course, and doesn’t expect you to use your voice. Yet, an answer he wants.
You blink. Once.
His right hand has reached for the box, while the other stays relaxed on the armrest near your head.
"Do you want to know what’s in the box?"
Eager, you lean into him, blink again and try to nuzzle his hand.
He laughs and your heart starts to beat faster. Mesmerised by the changes you can read in his body language; more tension in his posture, a slight flush creeping up his nape and the dilating of his pupils. He’s aroused. As much as you are. His reactions are more subtle, but you know the signs.
"Yes. I thought so."
He flips the lid open and turns the box for you to look at… a wonderful dark green leather collar with one heavy silver ring on it. The clasp can be fastened by magic or hands, and is embedded with decorative iron-work. A flying silver dragon with emerald eyes. Your eyes, his dragon.
You swallow hard.
Yeah, you’ve been collared before. Like you’ve worn chains and cuffs or have been incarcerated in rough ropes, silken scarves, even sticky tape.
But never like this. This collar has another meaning.
He is asking you for commitment here.
You close your eyes because you need to think. You’ve memorised the explanation. Your owner told you about the importance of being collared. When you first heard about it you couldn’t fathom you’d want something like this. But that was a long time ago and his importance has grown for you. You’ve been in love with your owner for some time now and you’ve known that you’re significant to him as well. But you never knew that he reciprocated your feelings.
Now you do.
He has laid himself bare for you with the statement, feelings and message pooled in this collar.
He wants you to feel loved, completed, proud, excited, safe, warm, protected, and encouraged by accepting his collar. And you give consent to be all of that and more by his collaring.
You cough lightly, trying to suppress your want. You aren’t sure if you shouldn’t elaborate on this idea more thoroughly. But then, your gut feeling has always been good, nearly impeccable.
You open your eyes, locking your gaze with his silvery ones, now almost black with arousal.
And because it’s important and you need him to know, you say it aloud, huskily.
A flicker of relief crosses his eyes before one of his rare genuine smiles blooms on his face.
Which you return with a crooked one of your own.
You’re happy. Not only about getting collared, but because it’s just about you two. No fancy and decked out collaring ceremony, because he knows you would hate a big celebration. He’s asked you in your preferred way.
You know he would have made the same gesture in public– for the whole world to see. He’s proud of you, but takes your wishes into account as well. So, it’s for your sake that you two are alone here.
And, though you didn’t know it could be possible, you love him a bit more just for that.
Getting off your pillow, you crawl between his knees. You hold his blazing gaze with your own, feeling warm and alive. You start to stroke his firm thighs, sparkling with desire, goose bumps drifting over your flesh, more blood running to your groin.
A matching bulge rises in his trousers.
He picks up the collar and leans forward. Both his hands envelop your neck while he adjusts the collar and closes it with a soft click. He lowers his head and presses a kiss on your forehead.
"Such a good boy."
You start to shudder from hearing his praise and feeling the collar for the first time. The leather is cold but becomes warmer with every second on your skin. It’s a perfect fit around your throat. You catch his eyes and raise your hand.
He understands and shows his approval with a small smirk.
With careful strokes, your fingers glide over the collar around your neck. The leather is supple under your fingertips, and you know it’s of high quality and will probably last a lifetime if you want it to. The ring on the front rests below your throat and your imagination runs wild. All the things he can use this ring for cross your mind in a blur. Your breath hitches.
You stroke towards your nape and over the dragon, its tail, wings, head and eyes. When you visualise him looking at you from behind, seeing your collared nape, you need to close your eyes again. Actually, you tremble even more. It displays at a glance that you’re his– and that blows your mind. Smiling like a beacon, you grab your owner’s thighs again, spreading them a bit and crawling as close as you can.
"Do you want to celebrate, pet? Are you going to show me your gratitude?" He cups your jaw with one hand and brushes his thumb over your mouth. "Go on."
Warm, liquid heat coils through your body, surging from your spine out in waves to your front, arms, legs, pooling in your groin, heart and head. Your face flushes. Licking your lips, you take the box from his lap and, in your haste to put it on the ground, it nearly slips off your fingers.
"Eager, are you, pet?" He smirks.
In response you spread your hands over his lap, fingertips brushing over sharp hipbones, thumbs resting near his dick. It twitches under the fabric and you suck at your own lip in anticipation.
You hear him take in a deep breath and you reach for his fly.
He doesn’t help you, he never does until you beg.
Even on your knees you’re strong enough to yank the cloth down, you want to get better access to his soft, pale skin. You search his eyes pleadingly, and after he’s kept you in suspense for some long seconds, he props up on the armrests to assist you.
He wears no pants– not during your sessions.
The trousers pool around his knees but you don’t care that might be uncomfortable. Your right hand reaches for his left and in an encouraging gesture you place it on your head. Then you bend down.
A mélange of musk, salty freshness and his fragrance cumulates in your nose, awakening your feral instincts. You growl while your nose brushes over his cock and into curly blond hair. If you could, you would bury yourself deeper in his essence.
Feeling his cock brushing your cheek you tilt your head until your mouth comes to rest on his hardness. You kiss and lick your way upwards, trying to catch his twitching cock with your tongue and mouth. It’s no good, and you grab the soft skin and hard flesh at its base, finally sucking your owner’s dick into your mouth.
He moans and you join in when musky beads of precome mingle with your saliva.
Your tongue slides around his corona and your lips rub over his shaft to give him the required friction. At the same time you stroke his balls with your hand, letting the tender flesh of his scrotum glide through your fingers. You know what brings him closer to the edge.
And your owner reacts immediately. His hand pulls hard at your hair leaving a welcome tingle on your skin. Simultaneously, he pushes his cock deeper into your mouth while you try to relax your throat.
He’s told you often enough about your talent for cock-sucking, but it can always improve. So, you carefully insinuate your teeth next to your tongue. He fucks your mouth with enthusiasm now and you let the edges of your incisors scratch over his flesh.
"Oh, fuck. . . that’s my good boy." He is panting.
The tension in his lower body rises and you know he’s close. His near fulfilment is your best aphrodisiac and your rock-hard cock jumps between your legs.
Your whimpers are muffled by his dick.
And then he tumbles over the edge. A salty and bitter stream floods your mouth, accompanied by a fractured shout. You keep sucking until his erection subsides.
It takes a minute or two for his breath to slow down while you let your mouth and nose rest in his groin. Then he nudges your head.
"Get up, pet," he says with his usual demanding voice, though you can hear a lingering tenderness in his tone. "It’s playtime now." His hands catch hold of your shoulders to help you up.
You’re still licking your lips when he buttons his trousers. A minute later he’s back to being impeccable and commanding.
And with just one word your heart’s back to beating like a drum.
You both walk over to the bedroom. Your owner follows behind, one hand resting on the small of your back. You can feel his gaze on your collar and it’s even better than imagined, like a burning flame draining all the air out of your lungs.
Feeling giddy you reach the bed and slump sideways onto the duvet.
His eyes follow your moves. "Turn on your back."
"Close your eyes and don’t open them until I say so."
Tentatively you conform to his will once more.
"Ah, that’s my good boy," he says, sounding satisfied and proud. In a deep timbre he adds, "I want you to concentrate on your other senses– hearing, touch, smell and taste. Oh, the things I’m going to do to you."
For a moment you think you are going to faint, because you are breathing too shallow, too fast. You tremble and your erection subsides.
He catches your changing mood in an instant.
"Sssh, pet." You can feel him dipping next to you on the mattress, sliding his fingers against yours. "Nothing bad is going to happen. If you need to see me, just open your eyes. If you need me to stop, say your safeword. Do you remember your safeword?"
You squeeze his hand.
He won’t have it. "No, pet, that’s important. Tell me!"
"Snitch," you croak. You roll on your side trying to get nearer.
"Yes, good boy." He drags you into his arms stroking your skin with firm slender fingers, soothing over your back, collared nape and hair.
Half sitting half lying, you nuzzle your nose into the hollow between his collarbones and sigh. You don’t know what happened a moment ago or why you felt so light-headed. Probably just the lack of oxygen. Though you remember that you had panic attacks at the beginning of your sessions. When you weren’t sure how to deal with some traumatic experiences and didn’t know what you wanted. Back then your trust in him had been a too thin layer. By now you’re aware of your needs and you confide in him. Wholeheartedly.
And because you know that you’re not the only one needing some reassurance here, you open your eyes and raise your head. Your gaze flickers over his mouth and plump lips to his keen eyes and there you get lost– in a pool of silvery affection.
His lips crash down on yours. Their tight pressure and the swipe of a wet tongue entice your docile mouth open. You kiss back and relish the heat of your tangled tongues.
And while you’re kissing fervently the boundaries crumble. At this moment you are not his pet and he’s not your owner. You are just– alive, in love, together and home.
Though you can feel your arousal mounting once more, you stay calm and pliable in his arms. He notices your relaxed breathing and your hardening cock.
"Shall we continue, pet?"
It’s your choice. It always is.
You take a moment to think about it. You could skip this session and it would be no problem to set your pet persona aside until next time. But that’s not what you want, and even less what you need. Not today. Not after his magnificent present, that you are wearing for the first time, this beautiful new collar around your neck.
Your lips are still touching his when you whisper softly, "yes, please."
And with his help you are sprawled over the bed in no time. His hands never leave your body, one holds your hand the other strokes over your stomach and chest.
"Shut your eyes."
Your lids close.
You can feel his body next to you shifting on the bed and then– nothing.
The hand on your chest has stopped, motionless over your left nipple. You can sense its heat, but his fingers aren’t stroking or poking. They hover.
You can’t hear anything except his soft breathing. He’s waiting for your reaction.
It takes every ounce of your will to stay stock-still. It’s so hard to refrain from pushing up into his hand or squirming on the bed. To suppress your whimper.
Your blood starts to rush through your veins, a lucid thump, thump, thump in your ears. Only your breathing elaborates and gives you away.
"Listen, pet. Today’s game is a duel. I want to make you come as soon as possible and you should try to hold on as long as you can."
A long moan escapes you.
"Yes, I know, we’ve already started and you are doing well. But now I want you to put up an even better fight. Resist me like you did at school."
You hear him chuckle and then he adds, "of course, I’m going to win in the end. That’s part of the fun, isn’t it?"
He knows you’ll try when you pull his hand from your hard-on and squeeze it.
You’re taking slow and long breaths. That’s your attempt to prepare yourself for his next move. Deep down you know it’s in vain. You’re too high on emotions from being collared, and your body is already too far gone, with a painfully hard cock that’s dribbling precome on your belly.
But, you’re a good boy, and you love him, and you fight.
"You are doing so well."
His fingers squeeze yours before he lets your hand slide.
You can still sense his other hand floating over your chest only millimetres above your burning skin. And because you crave his touch desperately, but are trying to distract yourself, you start to count. . . . Five seconds later, which felt like aeons, three fingers tweak your nipple whilst his other hand lands on your upper thigh, a hair-breadth away from your balls.
You stifle a moan and hear him chuckle gently.
His fingers fumble with one hard nub then the other before his hand lets them be. A moment later your legs are spread and he’s climbing between them, his movement making the mattress shift. Silken hair sweeps softly over your glans and warm breath puffs over your scrotum.
He stays like that for a moment and the anticipation is nearly killing you.
And you can’t. . . can’t hold back anymore. . . and you grovel.
His tongue slides over your balls and then he sucks them into his mouth. One, the other, both. Your hips buck involuntarily because it feels hot and wet and good to no end. He licks and works on them while his saliva drips down your crease.
One hand strokes your neglected cock, the other circles lightly around your entrance.
And you wiggle on the bed while the sensations crash down on you like a waterfall.
He lets your bollocks glide out of his mouth and you shiver when cold air meets wetted skin. He’s murmuring something and then there’re warm fingers coated with oily liquid gliding over your length, your balls and your arse.
Waves of a clean flowery scent drift up all the way to your nostrils. Yeah, you recognise it. White Lily, whose fragrance is more subdued but fresher than the regal kind.
Both his hands massage your bits again, anointing the fluid all over you. One glides up and down your dick in a firm grip, exerting enough pressure to bring you closer to the edge, the other has ceased its cycles and one finger pushes carefully but inexorably into you.
You moan too loud, unable to stop. So you try to take some shallow gulps of air among your groans.
Matched by his hand on your dick, his slick finger glides in and out of your hole in a fast rhythm. And with every push you can feel its searching caress until it hits its goal.
You fail in restraining your reaction when a hiss escapes your mouth. And though you have done your best to resist your owner’s relentless attack, you can’t anymore.
He does everything to fog your brain with his assaults; slick heat, friction in and around you, clouding the air with one of your favourite fragrances, and you– surrender.
Your balls tighten, your toes curl, and an all-consuming heat floods your body. And then you splatter your release all over your torso and shout out one single word.
When you come home these days there’s one thing to do first– you pick up your collar from its black box and put it on. As soon as the soft locking click reaches your ear you can leave your day and the world behind. Here you’re not on duty as Head Auror, not responsible for the safety of your world, and no one’s saviour.
At home your love holds the reins. He’s in charge and keeps you safe.
Like you want him to.
You’re not a duty, but his partner. And sometimes you are his pet, or even his slave, or whatever you both need you to be.
It’s perfect, and you feel cherished, and unconditionally loved. Even before you were collared your relationship had been a good one, but now it’s secure– your safe haven.
You still remember vividly that first time you felt this way. After your collaring and its celebratory sex he cleaned you up, huddled up to you and cradled you, all the while whispering praise and words of endearment into your ears. There it rose for the first time– this feeling of utter contentment. It has never left you since that day.
You can hear steps approaching and there he is. Tall, lean, blond– yours.
"Harry, you’re home early."
"Yeah, I’ve missed you," you say and grab him for a tantalising kiss.
His hand grasps firmly around your collared neck, palm resting on the dragon clad leather while his fingers stroke the soft hair at your nape.
He breaks the kiss when you’re both breathless.
"Mmh, I see." Grey eyes lock with yours and a smile spreads over Draco’s face.