Calling the Shots
Another month gone, and they breathed a sigh of relief. He'd kept his promise thus far. If he had told, like he'd threatened to for the last six months, their shop would have been shut down and they would have been banished from the wizarding community forever. But their business enjoyed continued success and their customers were just as friendly as always.
But today was Saturday, and in a few hours, he'd come to them again. All part of the bargain he had struck with them, to which they had [secretly] gladly agreed. He thought he'd gotten something over on them. Thought he was making them do something against their will. Of course, they wanted him to think that. They wanted him to think it disturbed them, caused them no end of psychological and emotional damage.
The truth would, in fact, disturb *him* greatly. He couldn't know how much they actually enjoyed it. Looked forward to it, even. Hell, they'd been doing it for years without him and would continue to do it when he tired of his hold over them. Eventually, he'd move along to his next victim, reminding them of what he knew and who he would tell his story to if they ever spilled their guts.
They weren't stupid. They weren't about to tell anyone.
He still traveled by floo, despite his complaints on that particular mode of travel. His disheveled state and soot-smeared cheeks meant only one thing – he would demand they give him a bath.
With their tongues.
"Would you look at that," Harry remarked, trying to sound surprised. He raised his arms and studied the black streaks covering his robe. "I'm all dirty."
They went to work, as always moving in concert. They never fumbled, never bumped into each other by accident. Their movements were practiced and precise. Which was good, because he liked it that way.
He was quickly divested of his robe and the clothing underneath. He levitated himself, allowing them to start at his feet, big toes sucked into identical mouths, tongues sliding, cheek muscles concave. They worked from biggest to smallest, then back again. They had also learned how to fit all five toes in their mouth at once. He liked that, too.
Their tongues slid roughly over his skin. He sighed contentedly as they lapped him clean. Later, when they're alone again, they will talk about tonight and both mention they noticed that, while he seems to be using the same soap, he's apparently changed deodorants.
He does let them drink water, but they aren't allowed to spit. Always swallow. Spitting is rude and messy.
At first, they battled their natural urges. To moan. To clutch his body, rake their stubby nails down his flesh and grind their straining members against him. He quickly cured them of that, demanding they give in. They hesitated, just long enough for him to believe they were sincere. They privately enjoyed it, grasping each other's fingers in a moment of ecstasy, giving a squeeze of encouragement when needed.
He always hardened quickly and could go for over an hour. At first, they marveled at his stamina. They have since used it to their full advantage.
He gets off on watching them suck each other off. They were expected to laugh when he told them 69 was his favorite number, and they did. They've never told him they don't mind. Nor have they told him they've been sucking each other's cocks since they were six years old. They first tried fucking before their first year at Hogwarts. They had vowed they wouldn't go to school virgins and couldn't find anyone else but each other to cure them that summer.
He fucks them both, every time. Usually places them on their knees, side by side, the sweaty flesh of their hips in constant contact, one sliding wetly against the other as he thrusts. They don't know if he's ever taken a cock up his arse, and at this point, they're not prepared to ask him. They know if he wants it, he won't hesitate to make his wishes known. And they won't hesitate to comply.
When he's sated, and after he's had a brief nap, he tells them to lick him clean again. His skin is salty now, and their tongues slide easily over him. Fred cleaned out his ass before their little fuck session, so George gets the honor now.
He seems disappointed tonight, and they exchange worried glances over his prone body. If he's not happy, he might tell. If he tells, they'll lose everything.
They move into action, hands sliding over each other's bodies, moving with familiarity, intent on giving and receiving pleasure. He loves watching them together. And they don't mind *performing* for him. They can let themselves go, enjoy each other's bodies as they have for years and respond in kind.
He's erect again, without touching himself. But that doesn't last long. He ghosts his fingers over his own abdomen, raising goose pimples. His touch hardens as he reaches his groin, and he gives his cock a fierce squeeze. He's groaning with abandon now, his hips rocking in sympathy as George takes Fred cock. He doesn't try to stop his own orgasm as it rips through him, whimpering as their thrusting continues. They wonder if he finger fucks himself when he's home alone, remembering what he does here with them.
They come again. Hard. He's still watching them and they know what he wants now. They crawl across the bed and clean the seed off his flaccid penis, his fingers and his stomach. He points out a wet spot on the sheet and Fred sucks it into his mouth. It tastes more like sweat than semen, but he says nothing.
He often acts as if he wants to stay the night, but 3:00 a.m. usually finds him ordering them to find his strewn clothing and dress his again. They're always careful to count the pieces of clothing and be sure they don't miss anything. He pouted for days when they misplaced a leather jacket, and they read the Prophet with trepidation until they found the garment in the freezer.
Once he's on his way, they retire to the spare room. They sleep in and miss breakfast. Sometime after they rise, they strip the sheets and remake their own bed. They go to the shop and restock the shelves, clean the floor and straighten the storeroom.
And when the store is ready for business early Monday morning, they'll return home and make love to each other. The way it should be done. The way they’ve done it for years.
Harry caught them late last year, in the storeroom of their shop. George, bent over his desk, Fred fucking him wildly. He’d actually believed their story that this was the first time. The only time. But he knew the damage it would cause, both to their business and their family. Arthur might disown them. Molly would probably never look at them again.
So they had agreed to Harry’s little deal. He apparently needed some fuckmates. They didn’t mind having the company. And they would let Harry go on believing he had the upper hand. For now.
One day they would tire of him. And when they did, a well-delivered memory charm would solve their problem in a matter of seconds. After all, it had worked so well on Ron.
~*~*~*~*~* THE END ~*~*~*~*~*