He commands me to beg, and I do so.
Each time I accept his instruction, each time I follow his directive, I see his eyes light up and harden, harden just as quickly as the cock in his hand does.
I have long suspected him of perfidy but when he tells me to suck, I do so. The possibility that I may be right makes it all the sweeter.
He doesn’t bother to muffle his moans. His enjoyment has been apparent from the very first time I knelt in front of him and pulled him out, hot and heavy and throbbing.
My tongue tickles his slit and he hisses.
I mouth around him and he pulls my hair.
Some days I’m allowed to drink him down and I do it eagerly. I imagine the picture I make and almost despise myself – I’m on my knees and I suckle him desperately, moaning around my mouthful as he fucks my mouth and whispers to me – dirty words, filthy words, words that make me want to fall onto my back and spread myself open.
If he doesn’t fuck me soon, I will ground myself onto my own fingers, and I don’t care if he’s watching.
He likes to watch.
He likes to push me up against the wall and commands, demands that I keep my hands above my head. He roots around in my robes and is triumphant when he finds me ready.
He knows how excited I get when we fight. It is the nostalgia of past victories.
He pulls me off harshly, his piercing stare trapping me against the wall just as much as his words do.
When I’ve had enough, when he thinks I’ve had enough, he orders me to kneel on the floor, face pressed against stone, arse hungry and open.
I’m allowed to beg at this point.
His fingers thrust into me a little too quickly, a little randomly for me to gain any real pleasure from it. It’s almost as if he’s doing me a courtesy.
With a grunt he is inside, and I can feel him in my slickness.
And as he’s fucking me, he’s telling me how much he hates me, how much he loves this, how good I am, how obedient I’ve become since I’ve started, since I’ve let him control me in this way.
How can I stop? How can I turn him away when he is fucking me so good, so good that I have to bite into my forearm?
He hates when I do that. He wants to hear me moan. He knows I don’t want to need him and he laughs even as he’s coming.
Sometimes I come when he does. Sometimes he wanks me as he’s fucking me.
Sometimes he pushes me over and goes down on me. He lets me come in his mouth and he spits it back over my stomach.
I get up when he tells me to. I’m not allowed to clean myself off. I put my robes back on and wonder if people will be able to smell him on me.
He’s flushed by this stage. He tells me he’s found some toys. He says one day he’s going to ram a butt plug into me and leave it in all day, then maybe, maybe he’ll fuck me. Or maybe he’ll watch me fuck myself and he’ll wank while I do it.
His hate is blinding. His need for me almost eclipses my own desires to please him. The chances of me denying him are infinitesimal.
I don’t think I could stop now, even if I wanted to.
I clear my throat. “The next class will be here any minute.”
He is languid in his dismissal. He licks his lips.
“Same time tomorrow then, Professor Snape?” he says as he leaves.
Story Notes:
Set in an alternative reality where Harry is over eighteen and attending Hogwarts.
