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The hotel room in London was anonymous by design—charmed against scrying, soundproofed, with furniture that could be easily cleaned or vanished. Sally-Anne Perks arrived precisely at eight, wearing a coat over lingerie that cost more than her weekly rent, her blonde hair arranged in careful waves that hid how tired she was.
Three years.
Three years since Hogwarts, since the war, since she'd realized that being Muggleborn meant the Ministry wouldn't hire her, oh sure they publically said that the old prejudices were dead, but in it's place came something more subtle, suddenly questions like which house was your Grandfather sorted, or a question about a random Wizarding event that took place 50 years ago ensured exclusion and Sally Anne, even a veteran who had returned from hiding to fight at The Battle of Hogwarts found herself excluded from any gainful employment.
That had been one problem
The other was that being an orphan meant no family connections, her Hogwarts education qualified her for exactly nothing in the Muggle world she barely remembered. She had no qualifications, no training and as far as the muggle authorities were concerned, her schooling in their system showed she only attended until she was 10. Even working in department or grocery stores needed at least a O Level. She had been working to getting her A levels and O Levels done by the end of the year.
There was one profession that did not care about her lack of qualifications and so she joined the oldest profession there was.
She checked her wand hidden in her garter, just in case, sometimes some clients went overboard, one had attempted to whip her, another came at her with a knife, best be prepared. and knocked. She was rather pleased she was able to hide most of her shock over who was at the door.
Harry Potter of all people, opened the door and some recognition must have flashed in his eyes but it quickly disappeared.
He looked different than the boy in the papers—older, harder around the eyes, with a weariness that matched her own. He was also, she noted with professional assessment, absolutely gorgeous in a way that made her job easier.
"Miss Perks," he said, stepping aside. "Come in."
She entered, shedding her coat to reveal the black lace and silk beneath. "Lord Potter (her clients got a kick when she used honorifics, but this was different , Harry was literally a Lord). You requested specific services. Switching. Power exchange." She kept her voice professional, warm but detached. "My rates are higher for BDSM work. And I have conditions."
"Name them," Harry said, leaning against the desk. He was already aroused, she could see, but controlled. A professional himself, in his way.
"Condoms," she said firmly. "Always. No exceptions. I don't care how many purity tests you've passed or how many healing charms you know. You wear protection, or I walk."
Harry nodded slowly. "Agreed. And if I want to finish somewhere... specific?"
"Then you finish in the condom," Sally-Anne said, "and we discuss what happens after. But you don't come inside me. Not in my mouth, not between my legs, not in my arse. Clear?"
"Crystal," Harry agreed. There was something in his gaze—respect, perhaps, or recognition of another survivor. "And the switching? Femdom first?"
Sally-Anne smiled, letting her persona shift. "Undress, Lord Potter. Slowly. And address me as Mistress until I say otherwise."
Harry obeyed with surprising grace for a man who commanded armies. He stripped methodically, revealing a body carved by conflict—scars everywhere, lean muscle, a cock that hung heavy and half-hard between his thighs. Sally-Anne circled him, assessing, her professional detachment slipping into genuine interest.
"On your knees," she commanded, her voice dropping into the register that made clients tremble. "Hands behind your back."
Harry knelt, his eyes downcast, his breathing already deepening. Sally-Anne stepped close, her lace-clad cunt inches from his face. "You want this?" she asked, grinding slightly against his chin. "You want to serve, Lord Potter? To be nothing but a toy for my pleasure?"
"Yes, Mistress," Harry breathed, his cock twitching.
She made him wait.
Made him kiss her through the lace, made him beg with his tongue and teeth until she was wet enough to slide her knickers aside and ride his face.
Harry was skilled—eager, desperate, his tongue finding her clit with precision that spoke of either natural talent or desperate desire to please. Sally-Anne gripped his hair, grinding against his mouth, using him exactly as she'd promised.
"Good boy," she panted, feeling her orgasm build. "Such a good boy for Mistress. Make me come. Now."
He obeyed, his tongue flicking just right, his groan vibrating through her. Sally-Anne came with a cry, her thighs clamping around his head, her pleasure genuine and sharp.
But the night was young, and Harry had paid for switching.
"Now," Sally-Anne said, stepping back, her voice shifting from command to something softer, more yielding. "Now it's your turn, my lord."
Harry stood, his face slick with her arousal, his cock standing upright and desperate. He reached for the stack of condoms on a nearby table.
"Put it on," Sally-Anne instructed, moving to the bed, arranging herself on her hands and knees. "And take what's yours."
Harry rolled the latex down his length with steady hands, then approached her with a predator's grace. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging in, and positioned himself at her entrance.
"Tell me you want it," he demanded, his voice rough.
"I want it," Sally-Anne gasped, arching her back. "Please, my lord. Fuck me. Use me. I'm yours—"
He thrust into her with a force that drove the air from her lungs. Sally-Anne cried out, her hands fisting in the sheets, as Harry began to pound into her with relentless intensity.
This was the other side of the coin.
submission and dominance, giving and taking, the power shifting between them like a living thing.
"Touch yourself," Harry commanded, his hips snapping against her arse. "I want to feel you come around my cock. Be a good girl and come for me."
Sally-Anne obeyed, her fingers finding her clit, circling in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation—being filled, being commanded, being praised pushed her rapidly toward the edge.
"Good girl," Harry groaned, his rhythm faltering. "Such a good girl taking my cock. You're going to make me come, Sally-Anne. You're going to milk me dry"
"Yes," she sobbed, her orgasm crashing through her. "Yes, please, come for me"
Harry buried himself to the hilt, his body shuddering, his cock pulsing inside her as he filled the condom with thick spurts of seed. He stayed there for a moment, both of them panting, before withdrawing carefully and tying off the latex.
Sally-Anne collapsed onto the bed, spent, expecting the session to end. But Harry was looking at her with dark, hungry eyes, holding the used condom in his hand.
"You said we'd discuss what happens after," he said softly. "I want to see you drink it. I want to watch you swallow my cum from the rubber, knowing you demanded I wear it. The ultimate submission—taking my seed on your terms, but still taking it."
Sally-Anne looked at him, at the condom heavy with his release, at the desire in his eyes that wasn't cruel but was absolutely commanding. She thought of her rules, her boundaries, the power she guarded so carefully. Then she thought of the trust between them, the strange intimacy of the encounter, the way he'd obeyed her and she'd obeyed him.
"Give it to me," she whispered.
Harry handed her the condom. Sally-Anne sat up, her eyes locked on his, and brought the latex to her lips. She bit the knot open, letting the warm fluid pool in her mouth, then tilted her head back and swallowed with deliberate slowness, showing him every movement of her throat.
Harry groaned, his spent cock twitching at the sight. "Perfect," he breathed. "You're perfect, Sally-Anne."
She smiled, licking her lips, feeling his praise settle in her chest like warmth. "Same time next week, Lord Potter?"
"Call me Harry," he said, reaching for his wallet to add a substantial tip. "And yes. Definitely yes."