Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters belong to JK Rowling
Rating: Well, it’s a fisting fic for a Fuh-Q Fest, so voila! NC-17
Summary: Sirius wants fulfillment; Remus gives a helping hand. Explicit PWP
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The room is oppressively hot. The heat emphasized the stale mustiness of the air and magnified the cloying silence. Strategically placed sconces cast highlights on the few accoutrements the room had. The rest of it is cloaked in secretive shadows, abode of carnal memories and deviant eroticism. A wardrobe stood along one wall. Next to it is a small dais on which a throne-like chair sat, its hollowed seat peering on to a neck rest. A claw-footed porcelain bathtub is in one corner, an incongruous presence to any unaware of its purpose. A gigantic crossbar is on another wall, cuffs on its endpoints. A large mattress dominated one side; countless stains a testament to its prurient usage. In the center of the room is a platform, a stage almost; its placement makes it a focal point, drawing stares immediately. Above the platform, reinforced chains from the ceiling suspend a sling; magical enhancements giving it added stability. In front of the platform, a man is kneeling

That man is I, Sirius Black.

I am naked except for a studded collar around my neck. The collar’s purpose is symbolic more than anything else . My knees are hurting from being pressed against the hard surface of the floor for the past half-hour. I don’t mind. It really won’t make any difference if I did anyway. I have been given my orders. Remus is very precise with what he wants me to do. I never question his intentions. They are my intentions too. But more than our respective roles in this particular aspect of our relationship, it is my overwhelming love for him that makes me follow his orders. I’m very secure in the knowledge that Remus reciprocates my love. I know this because he is going to give me what I am asking him to give me.

Twelve years of my life were spent locked up in Azkaban. Twelve hellish years because I did not trust the one man I should have. All of this boils down to one thing.

Trust.

When I escaped from Azkaban, I was a shell of a human being; physically, mentally and emotionally. I needed help. The one man who suffered the most from my lack of trust was the one man who was there for me. Remus was there for me. He was my savior; my salvation; my will to live. Together, he and I picked up the shattered pieces of my life, of our lives really, and built it back up to a passable semblance of what it was before. But I did not feel whole, complete. Not yet. There was still the issue of trust. My lack of it. Remus had given back his trust to me wholeheartedly, his tremendous capacity for compassion enabling him to do so. I was more fucked up. My mistrust was crippling me, us; it was an invisible barrier that hindered my road to recovery. One night Remus sat me down and said that there might be a way wherein we can work out my trust issues. What he said was so shocking that I flat out refused at first. He gently and patiently explained to me that what he was suggesting, short of giving up one’s life for another, and we weren’t quite prepared for that melodrama, was the ultimate form of trust between two men. It was not even about sex, though it was definitely sexual; it was more about placing your trust in another person’s hands. (I have to admit, now, that that statement has a literal ring of truth to it, though I was too scared back then to appreciate its ironic prescience.) He told me to think about it. If I weren’t open to the idea, we would figure out something else. So I thought about it. It was a combination of things that led me to my decision. We were desperate. It was an intriguing option. And the daredevil in me, that long forgotten imp that always urged me to try new things, woke up after a long slumber. I told Remus what I had decided on. We started slowly. We had to. It was new ground for us. Over a length of time and several 'sessions', my trust gradually came back. Imagine that. But we did not stop. The healing phase turned into a physical need for both of us and it became a regular, special part of our sexual reawakening.

Yes, indeed, it is all about sex this time.

Isn’t life wonderful?

I hear his footsteps slowly approaching the door. A rush of love joins the excitement pounding in my heart, a tumultuous, thunderous whirl of emotions that put a lump in my throat. My cock, which has been at half-mast, becomes fully, painfully rigid, slapping against my belly, pre-cum spilling from the slit on the head. Saliva is pooling in my mouth in anticipation of what we are about to do. My spit is so voluminous that I am in danger of foaming at the mouth like some rabid dog. In a way, I am a rabid dog. My Remus inspires a reckless, all encompassing madness of lust in me; a lust that only he can assuage. Not that I am complaining. I always give myself completely, heart, body and soul, to the madness. I crave it. I need it.

The footsteps stop. I know he’s standing at the doorway, just to keep me waiting a little longer. Fucking prick tease! I keep my head bowed down in supplication. The delay is almost a penance until such time when I am blessed enough to lavish worship and adoration on him.

The footsteps start again. I hear him approaching and I can sense his stealthy, deliberate tracks, a wolf circling its willing prey. My body is trembling. Fear, lust, dread, delight, waiting and welcoming all mingle into paroxysms that shake my whole being. I see the scuffed toes of his boots and I can’t control the fleck of saliva from escaping my mouth. The spitball falls to the floor, catching a miniscule reflection of the lights shining overhead. It must be one of life’s great mysteries how one can be drooling freely yet have a dry throat all of a sudden. Maybe it’s just me.

“Good boy,” he intones. That voice! What can I even compare it to? The nearest thing I can come up with is the single-malt that he favors. But even the Scottish Highlands’ finest does not come close to the way his tones intoxicate me. Its mellow fire scorches a web throughout my psyche, captivating and leaving me with a burning desire for more. “Look up.”

I do so. As cliché’d as it sounds, my breath catches. The moon to my star is standing right in front me. Mysterious. Ethereal. Haunting. Clichés like I said, but all too true. I’m shamelessly biased; but Remus is beautiful. Don’t believe me? Let me describe what I see.

Honey colored hair is interspersed with a generous sprinkling of quicksilver, giving a noble dignity and a distinguished air to his mien. His pale, austere face is lined with the ravaging vicissitudes of his life; instead of being marred, it put his quiet, indestructible strength and character into emphatic clarity. It is said that the eyes are the windows to the soul. There is no further proof of this than with him; his are the very windows to his humanity. His gentle gaze is host to a myriad array of emotions. Right now, his lucid orbs are sparkling with two very human ones: lust and authority. My cock strains even harder, my pre-cum dribbling steadily now. To think that only women can be awash in a puddle of wetness! Many who have seen him say that he is too thin. Maybe he is. But he is not all skin and bones. He is definitely not frail. His lean body belies a surprising amount of physical power. The play of shadow and light in the room puts into relief all the taut muscles on his slender form. Corded. Sinewy. Hard. His upper body is bare, its only adornment a thin leather cord tied around his left biceps. Chocolate suede trousers ride scandalously low on his slim hips, clingy as a second skin, leaving nothing and everything to the imagination. The trousers are tucked into high black boots, completing the look of a Marauder ready to pillage and plunder. Oh my, but I can empathize with the wenches of yore. His treasure trail is visible, leading down to the top of his pants where it pointed the way to an enticing mound. His cock. My treasure. The light from the doorway is shining on him from behind, bathing him in an otherworldly glow. Apollo is the sun god but he has nothing on my lunar deity. As I said, Remus is beautiful. And hotter than hell itself.

“Have you been a good dog?” he asks in that velvet-steel way of his, his little joke lost on neither of us.

My answer is a whimper, managing to contain all my needs and desires in that piteous sound. I can’t wait any longer.

As if on cue, he takes a step forward. And I take my cue from that.

Moaning with delight, I flick my tongue out and I start licking his boots. The leather is bitter and I revel in its taste. Not missing a lick, I look up at him. He stares down at me, impassive. But his bulge is more noticeable than before. My hands creep up his legs, hesitant, waiting for permission. His head nods, almost imperceptibly.

I move to his crotch, raining kisses on the outline of his erection. He grabs my head and mashes my face on to his hard prick. The soft suede chafes at my lips. The heat of his arousal is stoking mine further. I hazard another look. This time his head is leaning back, eyes closed. Incoherent murmurs of pleasure are coming out of his mouth. The sounds are music to my ears, knowing that I am their cause. It gladdens my heart that I, too, have some power over him.

Putting my arms around his torso, I hug him close to me, proceeding to devour his body. His skin has a sweaty, erotic tang, no doubt brought about by the rising temperature around us. Our palpable lust can only add to the sizzle. I latch on to a nipple, taking the tender nub between my teeth and tugging with just enough force to make him growl. I do the same to his other nipple, more forcefully this time, and his shoulders hunch forward in response. My cock is harder than ever. His neck is the next target of my greedy assault. The tender skin becomes a repository for my enthusiastic suckling. There are sure to be bruises the next day. I spend a long time nuzzling the pounding pulse at the base of his neck. So much vitality concentrated in such a small spot. As usual, we are perfectly in sync, his lifeblood and my heartbeat thumping in precise cadence. Truly, we are meant to be together, mating for life and all that. Here I am, spouting cliches once again.

I grab his wrists and hold them up behind his head, exposing his underarms. His armpits are quite possibly my favorite part of his body. The hairy, hidden hollow is the epitome of his masculinity. I bury my nose into the tender spot and take a deep whiff. The scent is divine: earthy, vital, and unmistakably male. It is so him. I lick the sensitive flesh, lapping up as much of his sweat as I can. He frees one wrist from my grasping hands and pushes my face deeper into his armpit, his groans matching my own. I surface and we kiss, tongues seeking each other. We share his taste, his essence. We end the kiss and he pushes me down, gentle as always, but with a determined air. I’m shivering from lust.

His crotch is in my face again. My hands are trembling as I unbutton his trousers and pull down the zipper. The same scent from his armpits assaults my nostrils but more intensely this time. The musk from his pubes is more concentrated, more pronounced; I nuzzle the soft, curly thatch. The cock I fish out is as hard as my own, pulsing in my hand after being freed from its suede prison. His breathing is shallow, ragged.

“Now!” he commands hoarsely.

With a moan of longing, I lean forward and catch the head of his cock between my lips. The early seed of his arousal trickles on to my tongue, sweet and salty at the same time. He breathes out a sigh and pumps his hips, his prick going in and out of my ravenous mouth. I use all my expertise in fellatio to give him pleasures; sucking, licking, tonguing. I finger my own cock and start playing with it, furtively because it is forbidden at this time.

His admonition is stern and swift. “Don’t touch yourself!”

Chastised, I let go of my painful erection and let out a frustrated sound. But I don’t question or complain. We know our roles. My rashness is always forgiven; he is well aware of my impatience. To make up for my actions, I concentrate on him. My mouth never misses a beat from sucking him and my hands travel all over his body. I pinch his nipples, twisting them in the way I know he likes. I am rewarded with a plaintive groan. I rub the back of his thighs and legs. My hands cup his firm buttocks, each cheek a perfect fit. I squeeze the taut flesh and pull his cock to my hungry suction.

He plays with my hair, stroking it and cooing encouragement. I double my efforts and take his cock deep into my throat. His cries increase in volume and I know that he is close. He holds my head in place and thrusts. One minute I’m sucking his cock; he’s fucking my face the next. I’m almost choking; tears well up in my eyes. He is relentless; growling along with the ruthless pounding that he is giving my mouth. My hands travel to the tight valley of his ass cheeks and seek out his sphincter. I penetrate it with a finger. His thighs are trembling. Beads of his perspiration shower down on me, mixing with the sweat of my own body. I press his prostate and he goes over the edge.

Drops of pearly come scald the back of my mouth. My throat convulses in an attempt to swallow the voluminous ejaculate spewing out of his cock. I must say that I am successful as I gulp down with greedy satisfaction. His breathing slowly returns to normal and his cock shrinks back to tumescence. I give it a couple of last licks.

My cock is so rigid that I am liable to burst.

He pulls me up and gives me a long, languid kiss, coaxing the remnants of his seed still coating my tongue into his own. His lips travel to my ear. “You know what to do,” he tells me in a seductive whisper.

A frisson travels throughout my whole body. It is my turn.

I answer him, my voice hitching. “Yes, Master.”

For he is.

He has always been the stronger one. He is the anchor to my tempest, the reason to my impulse, the calm to my instability. Don’t get me wrong. I am not making him out to be a cold, emotionless man. Far from it. It’s just that, whereas I wear my heart on my sleeve, he takes a more cerebral approach. But once he let goes, watch out. I always tease him that when he finally unleashes it all, the world won’t be able to contain it.

As I turn around, he gives me a playful slap on my ass. Cold? Hell, no! He is Moony of the Marauders after all.

I step up on to the platform and look back. He’s walking behind me, zipping up his trousers. His movements are reminiscent of a predator once again, full of purpose and hunger.

The sling sways slightly when I sit on it. I wait for it to steady before I lie down. The leather is cool against my clammy back. The light overhead is jarring in its brilliance, leaving me momentarily blinded. I settle for looking at him instead. He lifts my legs and shackles them with the restraints attached to the sling’s suspensions. We have assumed the position, if you will.

He stares down at me, eyes penetrating and full of tenderness, unexpected yet unsurprising. “My beautiful Sirius, my bright, shining star. What will I ever do if I don’t have your glow to bask in? When you were gone, my whole life was paralyzed in a void of despair; in darkness so bleak and so pervasive that it almost overwhelmed me. My soul had sunk to unfathomed depths. My emotions were nothing but a desolate wasteland in the grip of eternal frost. My heart was a mockery of its former self, a husk that functioned only in its most basic capacity. I don’t know how I ever survived. I think that my subconscious memories, filled with the light of our love and joy, provided me with the sustenance to keep on going. I had beacons that provided me with a way; a destination; a path to sanity. But you did not have that luxury in Azkaban, did you, love?”

Trust Remus to bring eloquence into the middle of sex. My heart is singing and I have enough of an ego to be touched by what he just said. But I am also horny. There will be time for sweetness and mushiness later. I lick my lips in a suggestive manner to entice him back on track.

He looks amused. “Very well.” He goes back into Dom-mode but his eyes still retain a small sparkle of mirth. He grabs my hard-on. “Hmm, this could use a helping hand,” he says cheekily.

It’s my turn to growl. I glare at him. I swear to god if I hear another pun…

He squeezes my cock, reminding me that we are back to the business at hand.

I groan inwardly. Now who’s coming up with lame puns?

The hand around my cock applies just enough pressure to bring me to that delicious transition between pleasure and pain. I groan out loud. His other hand makes a play for my balls and an equal amount of force is used to squeeze. I am helpless with longing. Merlin, but if he asks me to flagellate myself in front of Snape right this very moment, I’ll do it! Such is my desire. My pre-cum is now a steady flow, which he uses to coat my cock as he jerks me off.

Without taking his hands away from my genitals, he lowers himself to a kneeling position. I cannot contain the raw wail emitting from my lips. We’re barely into the prelude and I’m close to hyperventilating. I spread my legs as wide as my shackles will allow, offering him my vulnerable opening. A big wad of spit blasts my asshole, immediately followed by a probing, insistent tongue. No dainty licks from him. I am getting full-blown analingus from an expert. Sex is the one area in which he does not hold anything back. He embraces erotica and all its wonderful nuances with the lust and vigor of a true sensualist. Mild-mannered Remus J. Lupin a carnal epicure? Oh, yes. And I’m lucky enough to be the recipient of his unrestraint.

My hands are clenched at my sides. His moist, enthusiastic rimming is driving me out of my mind. His enjoyment is obvious from all the snorting, slurping noises he’s making. The raunchy, filthy sounds are strumming my lust into a feverish intensity. I don’t know how long I’m going to be able to hold back. Good thing his hand is gripping my cock constrictively, tempering me from premature climax. I would have otherwise gone over the edge before the fulfillment of our deed.

A momentary disappointment flickers inside of me when he stands up and walks away. But it is quickly quenched, replaced by something primal; something raw that shakes me to the very core. It is the visceral awareness that a deviant cycle is on the cusp of completion. The final act in our passion play is about to commence. I feel the familiar thrill of dread that I always experience every time we engage in what we are about to engage in.

He is back, a can of Crisco clutched underneath his arm.

I had laughed the very first time he took out the Crisco and informed me that it suited our needs perfectly. It was just so preposterous. Whoever heard of a muggle-made shortening being utilized as a sexual aid? But it worked out perfectly, just as he claimed it would. I chalked it up to his ingenuity. Only later did it dawn on me that he knew of it due to some prior knowledge, some prior experience. I did not want to know how he had acquired that bit of knowledge. I guess I was too afraid of the green-eyed monster and all the other assorted inner demons that his answer might arouse.

I pinch my nipples, following a routine I had established for myself. He smiles at this indulgence. He sets the Crisco down. Looking me straight in the eyes, he sticks his middle finger into his mouth, his cheeks hollowing. The gleaming, coated digit mesmerizes me as it slides out slowly from between his luscious lips.

My eyes close when his finger pokes its way into my asshole, which is still wet from his rimming. His finger slides in easily.

I twist my nipples harder. “More.”

His finger comes out and goes back in, joined by another. My slick chute swallows both digits. He pushes gently, loosening me up.

My head is spinning as I gasp. “More.”

Two more of their brethren joins the fingers inside me. The walls of my ass expand to accommodate them all. The pre-cum is pooling on my stomach, so strong is my lust. I am stretched wide but I want to be stretched to the limit. I abandon myself to the madness.

“More! I want all of it!” I am begging this time.

I hear the popping sound when his fingers come out.

Even with my eyes closed, I know that he is lubricating his arm with a liberal coat of Crisco. I open my eyes in time to see him kneel between my legs again.

“Relax, Sirius,” he urges me.

Relax? How can I relax when my whole being is on fire and trembling with need? But I try to do as he asks. A semblance of it is all I can manage.

Crisco is an incredibly effective lube. The four fingers he had in my ass before slide in slick and smooth. His thumb goes in too. His digits are going clockwise and counter-clockwise, massaging my rectum into looseness. His knuckles are brushing at my opening. My buttocks tighten in instinctive resistance. I will my body to be limp. It is not a difficult thing to do, what with all the stiffness concentrated in my cock.

I am not even pinching my nipples anymore. I want no distractions. My hands are holding on to the leather webs of the sling.

I am waiting.

I am ready.

His hand is now a balled-up fist. It is not dissimilar to a giant cock head, pushing and prodding at my asshole. The entry is always a problematic stage in the fine art of fist fucking, the fist being more massive than the rest of the forearm. There is always an initial pain for the fistee. But not for me. Our previous experiences serve us well.

His fist slips past my sphincter; I actually feel the ridges of his knuckles. He lets me get used to it. My anus is stretching to accommodate him. His wrist is now inside me as well. A couple more inches are as deep as he can go. I have almost half of his forearm crammed up my chute.

Dear lord, but it is fantastic!

My breathing is constricted as I wallow in the indescribable feeling of utter fullness. My pleasure is multiplied a thousand-fold for I am getting it from the one I love above all others. The sound I make is not loud. It is a deep, heartfelt moan of satisfaction.

He knows what to do. He allows me a few moments to savor the penetration; and then he is going in and out. Waves upon waves of incredible sensations wash over me with each fisting thrust.

My hands are clawing tightly at the leather underneath me, not touching my cock in a desperate attempt to prolong the fisting. But I am beginning to feel lightheaded from my overwhelming need and I know I cannot deny myself any longer.

I reach for my cock, the thought of impending fulfillment lending speed to my jerking off. My body is writhing as I furiously play with my dick. The sling sways from my frantic movements but his fist keeps its steady course.

Jacking and fisting meld into a rhythm that is bringing me closer and closer to climax.

With a triumphant cry, my lust culminates and scads of semen explode from my prick, splattering all over my chest. My body is shaking and shuddering as it empties all its pent up longing. I am so lost in the intensity of my orgasm that I am oblivious to anything else.

I gradually relax, my energy having been sapped along with my come. My breathing returns to normalcy. I become aware that he has taken out his fist and is watching me, an indulgent grin playing on his mouth.

I lay where I am, spent and sated, basking in the afterglow of our love. He kneels next to me. He brushes the hair off my face and kisses me on the forehead. We look at each other and smile. No words are needed.

It does not get any better than this. This is something we are going to always do, to always have.

For as long as he lives.

For as long as I live.