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The taste in Sirius’s mouth is wool, copper, and something syrupy, the kind of sweetness that only comes after too much pain. His tongue moves, the way it always does, seeking out the ache. He finds instead the twisted edge of a silk scarf, forced behind his teeth and knotted so tight the skin at the corner of his mouth threatens to split. He blinks, but the velvet darkness doesn’t lift; her perfume, orris root and resin, clings to the blindfold.
He’s cold, but not shivering. Not yet.
She left the window open to “air out the rot,” as she’d said, and the damp London night slides its fingers over his bare chest, goosefleshing his skin and drawing the tips of his nipples up to tiny points of pain. The bed is too soft, the sheets beneath him scratchy with unlaundered dust, and his hands are lashed above his head. The scarf cutting into his wrists is hers, one of her old ones, reeking of past seasons and cigarette ash and the faintest lingering ghost of Chanel No. 19. There is no time in this room, just the seconds marked out by the mechanical clock on the dressing table: a monotonous, pendulous tick tick tick that, once heard, cannot be un-heard.
He’s not alone, though she’s left him to marinate in his helplessness for an hour, maybe two. Sirius had lost track of time after her fourth glass of whisky.
She enters with no sound at all. There’s a difference in the atmosphere, a flex in the air, a wetness on his cheek as her shadow passes over him. He cannot see, but he imagines her: heels clicked off, stalking barefoot, her nightgown only half-buttoned, a slash of red lipstick still glossy at the corners of her mouth. She’s left her hair up, she always does, so he can’t run his fingers through it. Not that he could now.
Her hands slide beneath his jaw, sharp-nailed and dry as kindling. She lifts his head so he can smell her; she’s closer, a climax of scent that fills his nose and makes his scalp itch. The next words are a whisper, but they’re so clear they seem broadcast from the inside of his skull. “Such a pretty boy. My pretty little disaster. You think you’ll survive the night?”
He wants to answer, but the scarf is too tight. He settles for a grunt, trying to move his head toward her hands, but she denies him even that. Instead, she pushes down, pressing his head into the lumpy pillow, and he feels the strain on his shoulders and spine. He tries to breathe through the pain, through the fullness in his throat. He’d do anything to hear her voice again, even as it undresses him to the marrow.
The slap is almost gentle. Her palm lands on his cheek, a cold weight, followed by the static heat of her fingers dragging down to his chin. He’s sure she leaves streaks of lipstick on his skin; she always does.
“Did you imagine I’d be gentle?” she says, voice dropped now to a guttural hush. “Did you think a few years at boarding school would teach you how to handle real discipline?”
He can only shake his head, just the barest arc; his muscles are corded, straining, and he is afraid of what would happen if he disappoints her. Her thumb moves up, wipes a smear of spit from the corner of his mouth. He tries not to flinch, but she feels it anyway.
“There it is,” she purrs. “That’s the thing I love about you, Sirius. You can’t help yourself. All that arrogance is nothing when you’re under my hand. You need this. Don’t you?”
He needs it. He needs it so much it makes him dizzy. His chest rises and falls, quick and uneven, and he nods as much as the binds allow. She rewards him, she lets the pressure up, just for a moment, and strokes his hairline with the back of her finger. She makes him feel like a child, and he loathes it and aches for it in equal measure.
He hears her move around the bed, the creak of the boards beneath her weight. The tips of her fingers walk down the ridge of his sternum, collecting sweat and leaving welts where her nails drag. She pinches at a nipple, hard enough to make him arch off the mattress, but her hand is already gone, flicking at his hip bone, trailing lines toward his groin. He’s hard, of course. There is no hiding that. She cups him through the thin cotton briefs, his only remaining dignity, and squeezes until the ache edges into pain.
“Tsk. Pathetic,” she mutters, though there’s a smile in the word. “Still so sensitive. Do you want Mummy to help with that, or do you want to prove you can hold out?”
He doesn’t even know which answer is correct; his mind races, and then stalls. She squeezes again, rolling his cock between her fingers, pressing the tip down against his thigh so the friction makes his eyes water. When he can’t answer, she removes her hand.
“I’ll decide, then,” she says, brisk. “You’re not ready for choices.”
He tries to keep his breathing steady. It doesn’t matter what he wants; it never has. She always knew how to get past the shields he’d built, the thin armour of wit and sneer and swagger. She’d made him, after all. She was the first to teach him about the power of a well-timed humiliation, about the sweetness of being corrected.
The bed sags as she climbs on, straddling his waist. Her thighs are warm and heavy on his abdomen, and he can feel the silk hem of her nightgown just above his belly button. She leans down, her weight compressing his lungs, and he hears the faint clatter of her necklace against his cheekbone. Her lips are at his ear, breathing steam and bourbon.
“Tell me you need me,” she commands. Not a plea. Not a request. She wants a confession wrung out of him as a penance.
He tries. The words catch in the scarf, come out as a wet, desperate whimper. She laughs, a low pitch that makes the bed vibrate. She wraps a hand around his throat, thumb pressing just below his jaw, and the other reaches down. She finds him instantly, her grip firm, purposeful, the same way she used to brush out tangles in his hair when he was small: unsparing, efficient, knowing the pain would be worth it.
“Good boy,” she murmurs. “Good, obedient boy.”
She strokes him, slow and measured, squeezing at the base, then running her palm up to the tip, twisting at the top. Each motion is calibrated, calculated to make him squirm, to draw out his humiliation, to remind him that his body is a lever and she is the pivot. He feels the pressure building, a familiar, helpless rise, but she senses it, too, and stops just as he’s about to come, her hand leaving him raw and stung.
She shifts her weight, and the backs of her fingers slap his cheek, not enough to hurt, but enough to reset him. She doesn’t speak, just breathes against his face, waiting for the tremor to fade.
“You always want to finish too soon,” she says, the disappointment genuine. “That’s why you need me. Left to your own devices, you’d be a mess, a ruin. Do you remember what happened last time?”
He nods, mortified, unable to answer. She runs her tongue along his cheekbone, savouring his shame. “Should I be merciful?” she muses, almost to herself. “Or should I let you learn the hard way?”
His cock twitches, desperate for friction, and she catches the motion. She smirks, clucking her tongue, and he knows: she will drag it out. She will never let him win.
Her hand returns, but she uses only her fingertips now, a ghostly, maddening tease. She circles the head, light as moth-wings, until he’s quivering and nearly sobbing with need. The ache in his arms and jaw is nothing compared to this. Every part of him is tuned to her, her heat, her breath, the places where her skin brushes his.
She speaks, but her tone is almost maternal, velvet-wrapped steel. “You have to ask properly, Sirius. Otherwise, I’ll leave you here all night.”
He tries again, forcing the plea through the gag. It’s barely a sound, but it’s enough; she removes the scarf, pulling it out slowly, so the fabric drags across his lips. He gasps, licks at his lips, tastes her on the silk.
“Try again,” she prompts.
“Please, Mummy,” he whispers, the words scraping his throat.
Her reward is instantaneous; she grasps him again, this time with intent. He bucks against her grip, shamed by the noises he makes but powerless to stop. She brings him to the brink, holds him there, then lets go. He whines, writhing against the bonds.
She bends to his ear, her words hot and close. “Not yet. You have to earn it.”
She climbs off, leaving him cold again. He listens to the click of her heels as she crosses the room and rummages in the dressing table. The pause is exquisite. When she returns, she holds something cold and metal against his chest, a brooch, maybe, or a paperweight. She presses it down, uses it as an anchor. He can barely breathe, so focused is he on her next move.
“Let’s see if you can behave,” she says. “If you do, Mummy might reward you. If not…” She traces the tip of the metal object down his ribs, leaving a trail of chill. “Well, you know the consequences.”
He grits his teeth, determined to last. Her hand returns, merciless and tender at once, and she begins again, slow, torturous, breaking his rhythm every time he gets close. She wants him desperate, undone, pleading.
It works.
He’s babbling now, apologies and prayers, all sense of pride dissolved. She laughs, and it sounds almost loving.
“There’s my boy,” she says. “There’s my sweet, helpless boy. Tell me you belong to me.”
“I belong to you,” he gasps. “Always.”
She holds him at the brink again, and this time, she waits until he’s certain he can’t endure any more. Then, with a final, skilful stroke, she lets him go. He comes with a sob, his whole body shuddering, and she watches him, eyes gleaming with pride and something like mercy.
She releases his hands, massages the red marks from his wrists, then tucks his head into her lap. She strokes his hair, humming an old lullaby, and he breathes her in, finally calm.
He is nothing but need, and she is everything he needs.
He could live in this moment forever.
~~~