12
by Mickey M.
© January 2004

for ladyvyola

For some reason, the torches made the dungeons seem even darker. Oliver wondered why that was, then didn't really care, because there were better - worse? - things to wonder about, down here.

"So, here you are." Marcus never raised his voice, but it was a growl just the same, and Oliver made a face as the buzzing inside him increased.

"Like I have a choice." But he quivered anyway. Hated this, hated being here, loved it just the same. It was like a bloody drug, it was. Addicting.

"You always have a choice, mate." The smirk on Marcus' face said otherwise. "On your knees now, like a good little bitch."

Oliver stubbornly stayed upright, pushing the envelope a bit. The vibrations inside him increased and he wondered again, still, always, how Marcus managed that. Some sort of arcane sex magic, yeah. But how?

"On your knees. Now."

Almost too much this time, and Oliver moaned as he sank down, prick hard and swollen beneath the robes that many pairs of hands - where'd they come from, so quickly, so silently? - made short work of, leaving him naked.

Five of the Slytherin Quidditch team surrounded him, leers on their faces, pricks out and in their hands, hard already. Five for him to service, or do what they would with him. It was never the same, from week-to-week. Sometimes he gave head, sometimes they fucked him, and the faces always changed. All but Marcus. He was Marcus' pet.

It was Marcus' prick rubbing against his mouth, fingers hard where they touched his face, pinching at his cheeks so he would open. He licked the droplets of pre-come up and felt something clench inside, felt the ravenous need. Shame rolled hot and heavy over him when Marcus laughed, but Oliver didn't care. He sucked anyway, swallowing at the thick, hot flesh, tasting salt and bitterness at the back of his throat.

"Jerk yourself," Marcus grunted, and Oliver wasn't sure if he meant him, or the others, but he slid the fingers of one hand down his aching erection, stroked slowly at first, then in rhythm with his sucking. The only sounds around him were the slap-slap sound of the others jerking off, and the obscenely loud noises he made, wet suction and breathy gasps, underscored by hoarse grunts from Marcus.

It became too much, too quickly, heat and shame and need and hate all coiled inside him like a snake hissing and wriggling. Oliver moaned when Marcus tensed up, when his own body betrayed him, tingles becoming streaks of pure heat. He shuddered against his own orgasm, felt it tear out of him in thick spasms. Wet sticky heat fell on him then, splattering his bare chest and neck, and then his face when Marcus pulled away abruptly, jerking himself roughly to come on Oliver's upturned face.

He heard himself muttering thanks in a shaky voice as he licked his lips clean.