Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/736963.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Harry_Potter/Severus_Snape
  Additional Tags:
      Bondage, Kink, Cling_film, Fetish, Misuse_of_Muggle_Artefacts
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-03-26 Words: 7447
****** Slick ******
by Cybele2013
Summary
     A pair of hand-me-down pants reveals a side of Harry he never knew
     existed. Written after OotP. Hopelessly AU after that.
Notes
     Thanks go to DementorDelta for smacking me with the comma stick and
     for giving me a title. And to all my friends at Livejournal who
     offered me springboards to jump from.
     This story is dedicated to Snaples because I owe her so much.
It started when Harry inherited a pair of Dudley's old silk boxer shorts
He inherited them clean, naturally, and Harry had become quite accustomed to
the thought of wearing Dudley's worn out pants. Normally, he didn't give the
things a second thought. He'd simply accept them, cinching the waist and
tucking the bunched fabric under the equally bunched fabric of his trouser
waistband. All would be held neatly at his hips by an old belt that Harry could
almost wrap around himself twice.
And then Harry inherited the pants. These, unlike the cotton y-fronts rendered
dingy by countless washings that Harry was accustomed to, were nearly new.
Dudley had worn them merely a day before complaining in a fitful rage that they
made his arse sweat. So he traded the shorts for a tube of cream that would
alleviate the chafing.
Harry had sneered when he found them among his clean washing and lifted them
from their nest in his underwear drawer. The burgundy with paisley print made
them hard not to notice. The cloth fell over his hands like cool liquid,
tickling the inside of his forearms. Deciding these would make for an
interesting change, Harry tried them on.
This is where it all began. And now, when Harry looks back to pinpoint the
moment he discovered his hidden kink, he remembers the moment he put on
Dudley's ugly silk underwear. The way the fabric lifted the sparse hairs on his
upper thighs like a cool breeze in the heat of July as he pulled them up. The
almost wet feeling of the material as the smooth silk slipped over the
sensitive flesh of his limp cock. It was as light as a breath over his balls.
Nothing Harry'd ever experienced had come close to feeling so sensual. Within
mere seconds, he was hard. Enfolding his stiffening erection into the generous
fabric, Harry brought himself to the peak of pleasure as many times as his
sixteen year old body would allow.
It was the beginning; that part is clear. What is less clear is how Harry's
affair with a glorified wanking sock has escalated to such a point that he
finds himself where he is now: on all fours, scantily clad in artfully placed
strips of black latex, wearing a dog collar and aching to be obedient.
Harry's back arches defensively as the cold chain of the lead slackens to lie
between his shoulder blades. He takes a calming breath through his nose,
fighting the urge to look behind him, to see his master's appraising eyes slide
over him. Harry shivers reflexively. That gaze has followed him for nigh on ten
years. It is only in the last four, however, that the watchfulness has become
anything more than a nuisance.
Neither man can remember what misdeed brought Harry to Snape's office on that
fateful afternoon. Harry was, as usual, being accused of something. He
remembers that he was, as usual, mostly innocent of the crime. He remembers
that Snape gave him that searching look, seeking to tap into Harry's thoughts
and discover the boy's guilt.
It backfired.
Snape had shot himself in the foot in Harry's fifth year, teaching the boy the
key to his own power. Harry's sixth year had seen the boy ready to engage in a
battle of minds. Snape, who'd underestimated Harry's dedication to learning the
art of Occlumency, had found himself unprepared to defend his own secrets from
Harry's quick invasion.
Harry found himself unprepared to deal with what was hidden within Snape's
mind.
He never expected to see himself lurking there, but the image came to him in a
flash before Snape had the presence of mind to seal his thoughts off. Harry saw
himself, sitting on the cool tiles of the Gryffindor locker room, well after
his team members had retired to the castle. In his hand he held a stick of
butter, nicked from the kitchens. The yellow stuff seeped through his clenched
fist as he spread it along a black plastic bin bag, nicked from the Dursleys.
He saw Snape standing over him, unnoticed, watching as Harry slid his soiled,
greasy hand over his aching erection, coating his swollen balls, and then
sliding his fingers between his arse cheeks, over the puckered opening.
He watched Snape's hand clench tightly over his own crotch through his robes as
Harry fashioned a lining from the bin bag and fit it into his tighter-fitting
y-fronts before dressing.
It had been a game of self-torture for Harry. One which he played often in the
earlier days. Depriving himself of pleasure until he was nearly bursting with
need, purposefully mounting his arousal until the night when he'd hide himself
in the safe darkness of his four-poster where he peeled his pants off, freeing
his erection which was slick with butter, sweat and pre-come and finally
relieve the ache.
It had been a private game, he'd thought.
"You've been watching me?" Harry nearly choked on the notion. Humiliation and
anger battled colourfully in his face.
A sadistic smile graced the thin pale lips. "What are you going to do, Potter?
Tell the Headmaster?" Snape stood from behind his desk and leant over it,
glaring down at Harry. Malice spread across his face in the form of a dreadful
grin. "Do it," the man growled low, "And find out how quickly news of your
private habits spreads across this school."
An unspoken agreement was thereby forged. Silence for silence.
The waiting is the most difficult part. The absence of sensation other than the
slightly chill air and the heaviness of the stillness bearing upon him.
Patience has never been Harry's strong suit. Snape knows this and forces the
younger man to wait even longer, until his anticipation gathers at the tip of
his harnessed cock. Finally, Harry need wait no longer. Snape wraps the metal
lead around his hand and yanks hard, causing Harry's head to snap back, arching
his spine even more splendidly. An expectant moan is strangled by the tight
leather collar.
"Spread your knees," Snape tells him and Harry obeys immediately, straddling
the air and opening himself up for Snape's view. Snape can see the sliver of
the silver ring nestled snugly around Harry's cock and balls. The small leather
strap cuts down the middle, separating the swollen bollocks and attaching to a
smaller metal ring which chokes the base of the younger man's cock. Harry
arches his lower back optimistically, exposing the flesh of the perineum, made
smooth and hairless by masochistic Muggle hair removal strips. Harry is wanton
in his youthful perfection. He knows what images his lover finds desirable and
poses himself to please.
Harry feels sexy.
People had always found him attractive. Harry had no lack of attention where
girls were concerned, although he was never quite convinced that it was him and
not his scar that caught their attention. Even when it came to Ginny, Harry
couldn't be certain if his girlfriend was dating him or the boy who lived.
For months after his and Snape's confrontation, Harry had refrained from
indulging himself in any unusual private play. He tried to content himself to
the average wank, using nothing but spit or the occasional dot of hand lotion
to ease the way. When he looks back on these times, he remembers a constant
dissatisfaction. A restlessness sat in the pit of his chest and expanded the
harder he tried to convince himself that he could be normal. If he wanted to
be. He expected the restlessness to disappear the night he lost his virginity
to Ginny. The experience paled in comparison to even his most mundane jerk
sessions, Harry hoped that through time he'd come to appreciate 'making love'.
He thought perhaps it was merely an acquired taste.
Eventually, Ginny got sick of waiting for Harry to learn to appreciate it.
Their lukewarm relationship ended anticlimactically, both parties mutually
indifferent to the other. When the attentions of two other girls were accepted,
tested, and exploited only to be found equally uninspiring, Harry gave up on
the lot. His energy was best directed toward the battle against Voldemort
anyway. And summer was approaching.
Summer delivered him to boredom. Boredom bred mischief, and Aunt Petunia
wondered what kept happening to the rolls of cling film she was buying. She was
certain she'd just bought a box of bin liners, and had they already gone
through an entire tub of margarine?
Harry's trunk was a bit heavier when he returned to Hogwarts his seventh year.
He used his liberty as a seventeen year old wizard and taught himself to sew
magically, lining his entire wardrobe in bin bags. He took to wearing his robes
in true wizarding fashion - without the rough jeans and soft cotton t-shirts,
his tackle free from constricting and unimaginative y-fronts.
His hard work was rewarded the first time he slipped into his school robes. An
indescribable rush of arousal flooded through him. For the first time in his
life, he knew what it was like to feel sexy.
With strict warnings to the house elves not to touch his clothes and with
muffling charms to silence the rustle, along with cleverly applied cling film
to subdue any potentially embarrassing reactions that the plastic caused, Harry
spent the first three months of his seventh year at Hogwarts in a constant
state of sexual bliss. Nothing could take the pleasure away from him. His
secret was safe.
Or would have been safe.
In retrospect, Harry was lucky that the potion they were studying was a slow-
acting dissolving agent. At the time, he didn't feel lucky. In fact, he
distinctly remembered his entire life flashing before his eyes when Malfoy had
accidentally tipped over his entire cauldron onto Harry's lap.
Protected by the plastic, Harry didn't feel the wetness as it seeped through
his robes. He felt the heat first. He looked up, eyes wide, heart clenching
with panic, toward Snape who took the time to smirk slowly. Among the non-
Slytherins in the advanced class there was uproar, which grew to near riotous
rage at Snape's calm, "Now, now. Accidents happen." Harry sat stiffly as
Hermione tried pulling him from his chair, pleading with him to "hurry before
it starts to work"
Harry's robes began to smoke. The heat against the plastic grew hotter, and
Harry thought he could smell it begin to burn. Looking down, he could see the
robe start to dissolve away revealing the slightest bit of plastic underneath.
Layer by layer his robes would melt away, revealing the depth of his
perversity. Harry was afraid to move. His hands clenched the bench, knuckles
going white. Finally a barked, "Potter!" snapped him out of his stunned state.
"Come with me, quickly."
Snape walked hurriedly through a door at the front of the room. Gathering up
his courage, Harry sprinted to follow the man into a room lined with shelves,
hosting supplies. He shut the door quickly behind him. The reek of the potion,
mingled with the stink of burning plastic made Harry's eyes water. He grasped
the front of his robes, holding the burning stuff away from his skin. He looked
at Snape with a mixture of terror and desperation.
"Take it off, you stupid boy!"
Harry shook his head dumbly. A searing pain at his ankles caused him to cry
out. Belatedly, it occurred to him that his socks were soaked through.
Suddenly, it seemed his skin was on fire.
"This is hardly time for modesty, you idiot," Snape growled and stalked
forward. With a wave of his wand, Snape cut the front of Harry's robe open and
pushed it roughly from the boy's shoulders. Harry crumbled to the floor,
awkwardly kicking off his shoes. He reached down to remove his socks and found
that they had already mostly dissolved. The potion worked on his skin now.
Harry was vaguely aware of Snape roughly grabbing one of his feet and casting
away what was left of Harry's sock. He opened his eyes to see Snape sprinkling
a purple powder over the skin. It didn't cease the pain, but the burning was
not eating any deeper. Harry took a deep breath, wiping a hand over his face
and collapsed back onto the floor as Snape retreated to the shelves again.
Tears gathered and fell from Harry's eyes as the pain continued on. Without the
immediacy of fear to go along with the agony, the burning of humiliation rushed
in as a complement. Harry's attention focussed mercilessly on the tight cling
film still wrapped around his groin. He squeezed his eyes shut and wished for
death.
Snape's touch was disturbingly gentle as he applied a thick layer of viscous
cream around Harry's ankles and up Harry's calves. The pain immediately dulled
to an ache. The Potions master treated the other leg with the same careful
touch. Harry opened his eyes, intent on reminding himself to whom those
soothing fingers belonged.
Their eyes met for one eternal moment. It was the first time Harry fully
identified the man as human. Snape's eyes left Harry's and raked down the
stretch of pale torso, and then down further to where Harry's cock was trapped
tightly in transparent film that allowed Snape to see just enough. Pink spread
through the sallow skin. Snape averted his eyes, focussing on Harry's
discarded, half-eaten robe. Harry looked over and saw the shiny black of the
lining.
He didn't know whether to be embarrassed or terrified. Snape had already seen
more of Harry's sexuality than anyone else. He'd already kept the secret quiet
for just over a year. Would he continue to do so? Harry tried to tell himself
that so long as Snape stayed quiet, he didn't care how his professor thought of
him. It wasn't important. The man couldn't possibly think less of Harry anyway.
Harry didn't know what to make of the tickle of excitement at the back of his
brain. Snape had watched him once. Harry had convinced himself that Snape had
only watched in horrified fascination. The look on the man's face at this
moment, however, didn't speak of horrification. Some alien, desperate hope
opened inside Harry to think that Snape might just understand. He didn't know
what that would mean, exactly. He didn't imagine then that anything would come
of this understanding. It was only that Harry wanted to believe that someone
else in the world might like what Harry liked. Even if that someone was Snape.
Snape cleared his throat and stood up. He walked to a shelf and pulled a folded
old robe from it. "Get up," he commanded.
Harry scrambled from the floor, protectively wrapping his arms around his waist
as he stood. He was shivering, though he wasn't cold. He searched his brain for
some kind of reasonable explanation for his rather unusual choice of underwear,
but could think of nothing to say. He kept his eyes glued to the floor.
"I trust this will do until you can return to your room," Snape said, sounding
as though he was putting a lot of energy into maintaining the irritated edge to
his voice.
Harry held out his hand to receive the offering. He was surprised when his arm
went into the robe's sleeve. He looked up, wondering why Snape was dressing
him, but Snape walked behind him, evading the younger man's questioning
expression. Harry reached the other arm back, and the thin coarse fabric slid
over it to rest on his shoulders. Snape rounded him again, standing so close
that Harry stepped backward. Snape tugged the front of the robe insistently,
keeping Harry from putting any more space between them. Harry searched the
man's face. Snape's eyes were focussed on the task at hand.
His fingers brushed down Harry's torso and over Harry's stomach as he buttoned
the robe slowly. Harry wondered what Snape was doing, or rather why Snape was
doing it. The only answer he could come up with sent his stomach lurching with
both fear and an even more frightening arousal. He could feel the swell of
blood under the restraining cling film. The pressure increased the lower
Snape's fingers progressed. Snape's expression was a mask of intense
concentration. Nothing in it suggested that he had any thought other than
ensuring Harry was dressed.
Snape's fingers brushed the uppermost strip of cling film, and Harry's hands
rushed to Snape's shoulders to keep himself from stepping away. Snape's eyes
snapped up to meet Harry's. The man's mouth dropped open. For a moment, he
looked as though he'd been slapped.
Harry took a deep breath to stop his head spinning. "Sir?"
Snape stepped back very quickly. "You may leave as soon as you're finished
dressing. The burns should be healed in three hours. I'd advise against wearing
socks until then. I'll send a note to Professor McGonagall to dismiss you from
afternoon lessons."
Snape pushed past Harry and shut the door against Harry's shocked, "Yes, sir."
Confused and angry Harry returned to his room. Closing his eyes did nothing to
rid his mind of Snape's intense regard. Harry felt shame which made him even
angrier. The secrecy of his ritual had been breached. No one was meant to know.
He was not meant to know. And now that he did, something was broken. Shame
replaced the thrill and Harry felt dirty.
Methodically, he went about removing the bin liners from his clothes. He
stopped when he came to the last one, telling himself he'd remove it later. He
couldn't bring himself to do it now. Harry slipped into bed, bringing the mess
of discarded plastic along with him under the sheets. He hiked up his robe and
removed the cling film. He felt the plastic, cool and smooth, surrounding him,
teasing his skin. His cock stretched up, the head gliding along the plastic.
Harry pulled his foreskin back, biting his lip as the sensitive head slid along
the smoothness, rendering it shiny with pre-come.
It was wrong.
It had to be wrong. He was certain that no one else would ever dream of doing
such a thing. He didn't know why he could dream of nothing else. And he
couldn't imagine how anyone wouldn't respond to the smooth touch, to the
luxurious feel of it when slicked. Like silk or oiled skin, the way it slips
around you gently, easily. Harry moaned low, stroking himself slowly, angling
his erection up against the plastic so that the tip kissed the shiny black with
every down stroke. He imagined Snape was watching.
It made him feel sexy.
The chain of the lead is attached to the ring that grips Harry's balls. Harry
can feel the cold metal stretched tight against his skin, separating his arse
cheeks. He kneels before his master, his wrists in leather cuffs behind his
back. His mouth opens wide, and his tongue extends to catch a taste of his
master's cock. Whenever he leans forward the rough links of the chain grate
over his opening. The teeth of tiny metal serpents bite into his nipples and
from their tails, weights fight against gravity. Every slight movement is sweet
agony.
"Suck it," Snape orders in a low, warm voice that keeps the chill of the air at
bay. Harry gives a faint whine as he forces his head against the restraint to
wrap his lips around his master's erection. His bollocks protest the continued
pulling. His cock strains in the opposite direction, persevering despite the
pain.
Snape's hands cup Harry's cheeks, his fingers curling behind the Harry's ears.
He takes pity on the younger man and moves his hips forward, rewarded by a hum
of gratitude that resonates through him. "Look at me," Snape orders on a shaky
breath.
Harry raises his eyes, which water despite him. He focuses his blurry vision on
the man above him - feeling at once powerful and humbled as he always does in
these situations. Love and gratitude swell within him, strangling his laboured
breaths.
Snape pulls away abruptly, causing Harry to lurch forward, but catching the boy
before he can fall face first onto the floor. Snape falls to his knees before
the younger man and reaches between Harry's thighs and back behind Harry's
balls to unclip the lead. The slight brush of Snape's fingers against the tight
and sensitised skin of Harry's bollocks is nearly enough to make Harry come. He
feels his body contract, and a loud groan escapes his throat. His cock jerks,
but the ring around the base keeps the climax at bay.
Harry shakes from the intensity. His head hangs forward slightly. Snape's own
face comes close to his own so that Harry can taste the warm breath on his
lips. Snape's tongue slides across the slit of Harry's mouth, which opens
invitingly. Harry's own tongue chases the sensation. Snape pulls away.
"Please," Harry whimpers, forgetting himself. A stinging slap across the face
reminds him of his place in this game. Harry's cock twitches with another
intense surge of arousal. He's long ago stopped asking himself why he likes
this. His pride still suffers slightly every time he submits, but that too is a
part of the game. Harry is Snape's slave.
Snape is a slave to Harry's fantasies, whatever form they take. It's been that
way since Voldemort and Dumbledore, Snape's former masters, were killed.
Harry didn't have much idle time on his hands the last part of his seventh
year. He had his NEWTs to study for, his Quidditch team to bring to victory,
and his lessons to complete. His private time coincided exactly with the time
he was meant to spend eating and sleeping.
It wasn't meant to be spent lurking under invisibility cloaks in his
professor's private chambers. He'd tried a number of times to convince himself
to quit doing it. And every time he'd decide that he would quit. Tomorrow.
It wasn't exactly voyeurism. Most of the time Harry merely watched Snape
marking papers or reading. He memorised what the man's face looked like when
not drawn to intimidate. He got to know the man by his habits. The man drank
enough coffee on a night to keep a giant awake for a week. Harry wondered how
Snape ever managed to sleep and then decided he probably didn't. Snape rocked
his foot back and forth hurriedly whenever he was sat quietly reading.
Sometimes Snape would simply stare into the fire for what felt like hours.
One night, whilst watching Snape watch the fire and waiting for Snape to make
his nightly trip to the loo so Harry could slip out unnoticed, a look of what
Harry could only describe as supreme desolation crossed over the man's usually
stoic expression. Snape buried his face in his hands and drew his feet up to
rest at the edge of his chair. Snape wrapped his arms around his knees and
pressed his forehead against his knee caps.
For the first time since he'd began doing it nearly four weeks previous, it
occurred to Harry that he was intruding upon this man's private life. That what
he was doing was perverse - not in the way that wanking into plastic was
perverse. In a bad way. It was wrong.
Harry wanted to look away, but couldn't. He stared at a man broken down to
honesty. He wanted to walk over and comfort Snape. He wanted to make a noise,
announcing his presence. He wanted Snape to stop being human because it was
making him uncomfortable.
And then Snape did. His feet slipped back to the floor and with one deep
breath, Snape was composed once more. By looking at him, one couldn't tell he
ever felt anything. Slowly, Snape stood up and walked toward his bed chamber.
Harry stood too, waiting for his cue to slip out the door He listened to the
silence for the telling click of the bathroom door shutting.
He heard instead the sound of a drawer opening. And then a slight rustle - a
sound that sent a shiver down Harry's spine for it was the sound of plastic.
Harry tip-toed to the open door and looked inside the room in time to see
Snape's robes slip from the man's shoulders, leaving the man in a long-sleeved
under robe. Snape moved out of the line of Harry's sight and Harry heard it
again. The rustle. The sound of synthetic heaven.
Snape crossed the room in front of Harry. Harry saw what he recognised to be
part of a bin liner dangling from Snape's fingers. Harry's mouth dropped open
when it occurred to him that it was what was left of the bin liner that had
been eaten by the dissolving agent. And Snape was carrying it to bed with him.
It was all he could do not to voice his excitement. He held his breath to keep
from doing just that and watched intently as Snape hiked his under robe up to
his waist. Part of Harry wanted to run away. He oughtn't watch this.
This was what he'd been coming here to see, said the reasonable, randy part of
him. And it was true, but Harry had quite given up hope that Snape ever
masturbated. Let alone with plastic. Harry's plastic.
Holy fuck.
Harry shoved his fist in his mouth. Snape's fist closed around his erection.
Harry's eyes feasted unabashedly on the organ and wondered what it would feel
like in his own hand. Snape stroked, half-heartedly, it seemed. With all the
enthusiasm of one washing his hair, Harry thought. The plastic lay, unused and
unlubed over Snape's naked thighs. Harry wished more than anything that he
could throw off his cloak and show the man how to do it properly.
Snape sucked a lungful of air up through his teeth and sped up his
ministrations, every now and again collecting spit with his fingers and rubbing
it over the head of his cock to ease the way of foreskin. If Harry could speak,
he might have advised the use of butter, or hand lotion even. But he stayed
silent. His own cock was hard at the sight, and when Snape reached for the
plastic, pulling it over his cock, Harry's own arousal surged painfully. Harry
swallowed a groan even as Snape let one go. He watched the man tense, mouth
opened wide with a silent scream, and then shudder.
Harry imagined the man's come shooting over the smooth plastic. Snape gathered
the shiny black material around his cock, confining the evidence of his
pleasure. He fell back on to his bed, his legs hanging loosely to the ground.
For a few seconds he lay catching his breath, one hand sliding the plastic
lazily along his flesh. A minute later he sat up again, laying the plastic,
spunk side up, on his bed and then standing. His under robe fell to his ankles,
hiding him from Harry's sight.
Snape walked to his bathroom. The door clicked shut.
Unthinking, Harry crossed the room. He didn't make a conscious decision to
snatch the plastic into the confines of his cloak, taking care to protect
whatever slickness remained. It was automatic. His escape from Snape's chambers
was a quick one; the trek to Gryffindor tower had never seemed so long. Harry
slipped out of his cloak and into bed, bringing his stolen treasure along with
him.
"You little bastard!" Snape growled the next day, pushing Harry against the
closed door of his office with a force that spoke of a rage that had been only
tenuously held at bay all throughout the lesson. "It was you, wasn't it? You
were in my chambers last night, weren't you?" Snape's face was scant inches
away from Harry's. He smelt of coffee. "You took it," Snape growled.
Harry's hands were held defensively against Snape's shoulders. His breath came
in frightened blasts. "T-took what?" he stuttered.
Snape bared his teeth to cover a moment of uncertainty. He studied Harry's
face. Harry blinked defensively. He could see Snape second guess himself. He
could nearly hear Snape come to the conclusion that if it wasn't Harry, he'd
only incriminate himself by accusing the boy.
Snape let go his grip on Harry's robes and stepped away. He was mid-turn when
Harry uttered a quiet, "You do it wrong."
Snape's head snapped toward him. "What?"
"It's better if you use something slick inside it," Harry said with forced
calm. His stomach was threatening to jump out his throat, and his heart was
trying to hammer a hole through his sternum, but his expression remained calm.
His gaze, steady. "I like the feel of butter best." Harry took a deep breath.
"Come feels nice too," he said, his voice cracking.
Snape stared at him through an unreadable expression. The man radiated
intensity as he stepped forward. He looked ready to say something, and Harry
braced himself for it to be something horrible. He didn't expect Snape to slap
him.
Harry cradled his wounded cheek. His wounded pride reared up, ready to fight.
His common sense told him that he deserved the blow. That he should consider
himself lucky if that was all he received by way of punishment. Harry turned
around, hand going to the door handle. He stopped at the awareness of Snape's
presence directly behind him. When Snape said nothing, Harry took a deep
breath. "You watched me once."
"I watched you. Once," Snape repeated. His hand moved to pull Harry's from the
door knob.
"I won't tell anybody. I mean, I couldn't really, could I?" Harry turned around
slowly in the tight space between Snape and the door. He raised his eyes to
meet the other man's.
Snape raised his hand and gripped Harry's chin, tilting Harry's face up. Harry
winced as pointed fingers dug into his cheeks. He stared back at the man
defiantly. He couldn't say he was afraid, exactly. Snape didn't frighten him.
He knew that Snape couldn't punish him in any official sense. But there was a
strange urgency in the air. A busy sort of energy vibrated between the two men.
This was more than an interrogation. It was a turning point.
Snape laid his other hand against Harry's chest. "How did you get into my
chambers?" he asked, pushing gently until Harry's back was flush against the
door. He released Harry's jaw and ran his fingers over the sides of Harry's
neck.
Harry's voice was steady, frank, when he answered. "I followed you after you
left your office last night. I slipped in before you shut the door."
A flicker of annoyance lit Snape's dark eyes. Harry imagined it was more self-
directed. Snape had had no inkling Harry had been there. "Why?" Snape's palm
pressed against Harry's Adam's apple.
Harry swallowed with some difficulty. "I don't know," he answered, quickly. He
searched his mind for a better answer. He didn't know what he sought to gain by
spying on Snape. At the time, it just sounded like the thing to do. He'd
questioned himself about it a hundred times and the only thing he could come up
with was a vague emotion in response. Compulsion. Harry shook his head. "I
really don't know."
Snape's hand closed--not enough to cut off Harry's breath, but enough to hint
that it could do if Snape got the notion. Snape leant in, pressing his lips
against Harry's ear. "You do," he breathed. "And so do I." Snape pulled back.
"The question is what do you mean to do about what you've discovered?"
Harry took a shallow breath, his fist clenching around Snape's robes. Snape's
hand relented and moved to the door beside Harry's head. Harry focussed on
Snape's expression which had never been so open before. He saw the heated
intensity. A fiery hunger burnt within those black eyes. Eyes that saw only
Harry. Eyes that saw Harry completely, down to the naked truth. Eyes that liked
what they saw.
 
Harry kneels over a footstool covered in shiny black PVC. His master kneels
behind him, fingering his hole relentlessly. Harry begs for the man to take
him, to finally bring the game to a close. He begs for cock. He begs to be
filled. To be used. And anything else his master tells him to beg for. His
mouth moves over the words senselessly. He hasn't the control required to
express the needs on his own. The words are fed to him on a breath through his
ear.
Finally his pleas are considered and Snape slips inside him easily. Harry's
relief manifests as a grateful whine. Master and slave roles are forgotten for
the sake of need. Pure animalistic lust drives either man's hips forward and
backward. Inhuman growls replace the discourse of the game. Harry touches
himself for the first time tonight and feels the organ's gratitude swelling.
The blood races to greet his hand; the pressure builds. The cock ring ensures
that there is only one outlet for release. Severus' hands slide up Harry's
torso and rest at the clamps as the man angles and drives into Harry's
trembling body. Harry's never worn them this long and can only guess at the
pain that will come with removing them. Anticipation with an edge of fear
overwhelms him.
Harry needs this. He doesn't consider the reasons why. He's decided the why
doesn't matter. He needs to feel, and that need is so forceful that pride and
dignity are subdued by it. He doesn't think about how he must look - wanton and
foolish, a slave to his own twisted pleasure. He feels no shame in appearing so
weak before this witness. He voices his desperation freely, without fear of
judgment.
For while Snape doesn't share them, he understands Harry's needs. He takes his
pleasure in indulging them.
Harry stood in the centre of Snape's bedchamber. Even with his eyes closed, he
could see his former teacher's expression. Snape watched him, curiosity
glimmering in the man's eyes as Harry responded to his attentions. He dragged
his tongue across Harry's lips - the only exposed part of Harry's body. The
rest of him was wrapped in cling film, bound by the surprisingly strong
plastic. Harry's fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. He longed to touch
his new lover and thrilled in his inability to do so.
Snape had wondered if a binding charm wouldn't have the same effect. Harry had
tried to explain that it was the ritual as much as the effect that he found
exciting. Snape supposed as a Potions master, he understood. He used his time
carefully, stretching out the minutes, testing Harry's patience.
Harry was rewarded by the sound of cling film peeling away from the roll. He
felt the soft touch of the stuff on his thigh and then felt it tighten over his
skin as Snape stretched it, wrapping it around Harry's legs, binding them.
Harry wobbled as his knees were brought snugly together, but he regained his
balance. Snape stopped wrapping just above Harry's ankles.
"Are you all right?" Snape asked, his voice uncertain. It made him nervous to
have someone so completely at his mercy. Or maybe he felt nervous that someone
trusted him enough to allow him so much power.
Harry's lips formed a reassuring smile at the muted question. "Lay me down," he
said.
A moment later he hovered weightlessly over the floor. Snape lowered him slowly
to the ground. The world around Harry was dulled. The shrink wrap enshrouded
Harry's senses giving him an awareness of the cool ground below him, without
allowing him to properly feel it. His mouth hung open as though his sense of
taste strove to make up for the deprivation of all others. "Touch me," he
whispered.
Snape obeyed, lowering himself to Harry's side and running his fingers lightly
over the rough texture of the plastic. Parts which were stretched cleanly were
as smooth and warm as the skin underneath them. Other parts were thickly
wrapped and the skin below only barely visible.
Distantly, Harry could feel the touch of those hands. His senses reached out,
eager to feel more. Unable to register the sensations properly. A mere tickle
of awareness. Harry breathed shallowly, mentally tracking Snape's hands, trying
to divine where they would go next. Always surprised.
Harry breathed. His fists clenched and unclenched at his side. His teeth
scraped repeatedly over his lips.
Snape's hands continued their gentle torture, sliding over Harry's legs, a
finger trailing the stretch of plastic between them, touching nothing at all.
Harry felt even that. The awareness of where that finger could go if not for
the barrier. His inner thighs tingled from want of touching. His bollocks
contracted as Snape's touch didn't quite reach them.
Harry's fists clenched and unclenched. He breathed shallowly. His body twitched
with want of freedom. With want of feeling.
"Kuh," he panted. "Kiss me," he managed. "Please," he offered and was rewarded
by the smooth, wet press of lips. A tongue filled his mouth caressing his own
tongue while a hand kneaded the hard length of Harry's erection, which lay flat
and bound against Harry's abdomen.
Harry couldn't breathe. His fists clenched at his side. His body managed a
tight arch, balancing on the back of his head, the heels of his feet. The
pressure on his cock increased, moved faster. Distantly, Harry heard Snape's
own ragged breathing. He felt it over his cheeks and jaw. He tasted it on his
lips.
It was more his anticipation than stimulus that drove Harry over the edge. His
entire body jerked as his seed seeped into the minute spaces between skin and
plastic. He could still feel the pressure of Snape's hand smoothing over his
bound cock mercilessly. He twitched, trying to get away from the touch. Just
for a moment. Long enough to recover.
When finally Snape deemed Harry'd had enough, he moved to straddle the younger
man. Harry felt Snape's legs position themselves on the outside of Harry's
arms. Harry stuck out his tongue to identify the object tickling his lips. A
small choked sound vibrated in his throat as the salty taste coated his tongue.
He could sense the movement above him and knew what was coming. He lay helpless
and happy to be so. Waiting for Snape to finish, to claim his own reward for
services rendered. Within minutes Harry's cheeks were splattered with wet
streaks that his tongue strained to taste. Snape slid down Harry's body,
settling his weight upon the younger man. It was warm. Unsubtle pressure.
Concrete.
"Thank you," Harry said.
 
"Gods, Harry," Snape groans and quickens his pace.
Harry's breaths come in hiccoughs as he nears climax. "God, yes, yes... Now!"
The clamps are squeezed open, and the pain is nearly equal in the intensity of
pleasure. Harry screams until his voice cuts out. White hot fire sears at his
torso, burning a path through his bollocks as the swell of pressure finally
explodes despite the impediment. The waves continue to wrack his body,
contracting everything inward until it is spit out the only available outlet.
Severus continues to slam into him until he too goes tense. He wraps his arms
around Harry and brings him close as he shoots deep inside his lover. Harry
shudders still and can do naught but breathe and wait for the thrashing inside
him to stop. Both men slump forward finally against the ottoman. The PVC is
slippery with Harry's seed. His stomach sticks to it every time he takes a
breath.
He grins senselessly against the fabric. His lover kisses his neck and lays his
cheek on Harry's moist skin. "All right?" Severus breathes.
Harry gives a mirthful grunt. "I think I almost died. God," he sighs.
"Intense." He trembles still and hisses every time his nipples accidentally
come into contact with the ottoman. He knows it will be days before they can be
treated roughly again. Severus knows this too and shifts back, pulling Harry to
the carpeted floor with him. Both men lie there, breathing peacefully. Neither
moves to clean up right away. Harry doesn't mind feeling messy. Snape has grown
to tolerate it, pushing aside his disgust to savour the afterglow.
Harry finds Severus' hand and squeezes meaningfully. The small gesture is
enough to communicate all that must be communicated at times like this.
Severus entered Harry's small flat in Hogsmeade. Harry looked up from his book
and grinned. He put the book aside and stood, studying Severus' face as
Severus' eyes took in the younger man's newest 'outfit'.
Long, pale, newly-waxed legs stretched out of very short black shorts, made of
that material the boy was so fond of. Latex, Severus remembered. Cutting just
under the knee were shiny black boots that were probably meant for a woman with
very big feet. Harry's top was bare, but for a harness of criss-crossing strips
of patent leather, decorated with strategically placed silver rings that
Severus was certain to learn the reason for. The boy turned demonstratively,
and Severus' eyes were momentarily trapped on the bunch of fabric inching into
that sacred place where only Severus was allowed to go.
"What do you think?" Harry asked.
Severus shook his head exasperatedly, but couldn't quite keep the fond smile
off his lips. The boy was a piece of work that Severus was only just beginning
to understand. In the nine months since the boy had left school, Severus had
come to know the boy more intimately than all of Severus' previous lovers
combined. And yet, Severus doubted that he'd seen all there was to see. Harry
was in a constant state of self-discovery. Severus, in a constant state of
surprise.
He'd never understand fully Harry's obsessions. He'd quite given up trying,
content to bear witness to and participate in the younger man's games. To be a
helping hand, so to speak. Harry needed him, Severus knew, though he wasn't
certain how long he'd be required. He half-expected the boy would find someone
with similar proclivities. Someone who would take an honest sexual interest in
the boy's games.
Severus' own pleasure came only in indulging the boy's fantasies. In his own
way, he supposed, Severus needed to be needed.
"Wait right there," Harry said, a mischievous grin lighting his face.
Severus raised an eyebrow and watched the half-naked boy run, surprisingly
steadily, into the bedroom. A rustle of a plastic bag, a moment of silence, and
the boy reappeared. He wore a simple black dog collar, a metal disk dangling
from a ring. He held his hands behind his back.
"I bought you something," he said, smiling. He stopped in front of Severus and
lifted his chin. "Read it," Harry urged.
Snape lifted the tag. He smirked at the inscription. "Property of Severus
Snape," he drawled, reading aloud. He raised an eyebrow. "I've never cared for
dogs," he said.
Harry gave an impertinent look and took one of Snape's hands, depositing a
leash. "You'd better start caring for dogs," Harry said with a pleased
expression. He sank to his knees, looking up. "I require a lot of attention,"
he added with mock seriousness.
Severus glared down at the boy, who nuzzled his crotch. Grabbing a fistful of
hair, Severus yanked the boy's head back. Harry groaned. With a resigned sigh,
Severus sank to one knee and attached the lead to the ring at Harry's throat.
"You require obedience training," Severus corrected.
Harry gave a wicked grin. It was a look Severus knew well. The glint in the
boy's eyes hinted at a whole new world of possibilities, limited only by his
seemingly endless imagination. The stir in Severus' trousers promised that the
adventure would be a pleasurable one. The hitch in his chest made him doubt
that it was he who held the lead.
Littered around the room are the props of their great game, forgotten for now.
On the bedside table a leather collar forms a semi-circle around a chain lead.
A cheap metal disk, tarnished from years of play, still proclaims ownership
proudly.
The two men lie close together in the centre of a large bed. Harry's arm drapes
comfortably over Severus' side. Severus' fingers stroke it lightly before
weaving between Harry's own. Their minds wander their separate paths toward
sleep. Severus pulls Harry's arm tighter around him as though insisting that
the physical aspect, at least, shall remain together. It's an unconscious move
that touches some distant part of Harry's own subconscious, assuring him that
he is needed too.
Harry steps back from the edge of sleep to lay a soft kiss on the back of
Severus' neck. Severus knows that Harry will still be there in the morning.
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