|COUNTESS ZERO (countesszero) wrote in severus_sighs,|
@ 2009-11-26 09:03:00
|Entry tags:||event: kink!night, member: carolinelamb, pairing: severus/harry, rating: nc-17|
The Corset by countesszero
Title: The Corset
Word Count: 2,450
Warning(s): Crossdressing, light D/s
Summary: Severus frees himself.
A/N: Written for the Severus Sighs
Thank you whitecotton so much for the beta!
All remaining mistakes are, of course, solely mine.
I chose: Dumbledore's desk, Crossdressing, Red
Disclaimer: Severus Snape, Harry Potter and all associated characters from the Harry Potter universe are the property of J.K. Rowling. The author is making no profit by this story.
"Hush," says the boy with the fiery smile and the blazing eyes.
"Snape," he whispers with a lilt in his voice, caressing the syllables.
How he says your name, as if he knows. There is no derision in the way he speaks it anymore, no childish anger.
"Here, Snape, I won't hurt you."
You'd like to say "Potter" and spit his name out venomously like you used to, but you are not so sure if you could.
"You should not go looking for the darkness," you might tell him. "You should resist the pull."
He is moving in the shadows like a thief, avoiding the puddle of moonlight that streams over you, circling you.
"Child," you whisper in your mind.
Silvery light pours through the window. In its glow, your skin looks like milk.
The boy had a lover with red hair once -- her hair was like a flame that danced and burnt him, a soft, young body, a hopeful smile -- but she has gone and he doesn't remember her face anymore. She never belonged to him. She wanted to love him, yes, but she didn't want to belong to him, to be his. Instead, she wanted him to be hers, and he couldn't have that.
Nobody understands how he needs something that is only his, how he needs an anchor. He doesn't want people who want to belong to themselves, who selfishly hold on to their hearts. These people, he knows, will leave eventually and what good is that anyway?
But Snape, you understand.
You remember how it feels to love and to let love ravage your inside and burn you to cinder. You remember how it felt to want, to need, to desire -- oh so badly -- that you were devoured by your senseless cravings until there was nothing left, not even ashes.
She was never yours to have, never yours to lose, but now her son has come back for you to remind you that even you do not belong to yourself.
There are debts to pay.
So he has followed you, this child who knows death so intimately.
He is innocent, yet has blood on his hands.
He wants to possess someone. He wants to possess you.
And you ... you want to be possessed and desired. No one has ever desired you quite like this. You need not invade his mind to feel his greed.
Do you revel in it? Do you drink his longing as if it were sweet wine, ambrosia for your old, withered heart?
"Hush. I am here now, to take care of you. You shall not be lost again."
So he touches you. His hands are smooth and golden, honey-coloured sweetness.
"Come here, Snape."
It is too hard, isn't it? The responsibilities, the burden.
Now you can understand Dumbledore, realize how his decisions shaped him, how his inhuman strength and power alienated him from everybody else in making him the shepherd, the guardian.
He distanced himself from everything and everyone. You think how you never wanted this. Your wishes were ordinary and simple: to love and to be loved, not to rule, not to fight. But Hogwarts wouldn't let you go.
It is simply not done. There is no peace for you.
You were ready to die, but even death rejected you, and now you are still here, bound to the mortal coil. And you are so tired.
The boy, of course, knows it. He knows you and he is not afraid anymore. He yearns to have you, and how can you deny him? He is a child but his power is vibrating in him, regardless of his youth.
How can you deny yourself.
He says, "Undress, Snape."
You open your robes and methodically unbutton your waistcoat.
The boy does not help you but watches you from the shadow, leaning against the wall. Even in the darkness, you know he is smiling.
You shed all the layers. Black silk pools around your ankles, milk-white cotton and thick wool, until you are naked.
He touches you with the curiosity of a child. Every inch of skin is scrutinized, stroked, then tasted.
Abruptly he stops, gets up and goes around the desk to sit in the armchair.
"I brought you a gift," he says with a smile in his voice, and gestures towards the desk.
You get up, slowly -- you are not the youngest anymore -- and approach the desk, and the shiny red item on it.
He reverently strokes it. Black ribbons glides through his fingers. He lifts it up so you can clearly see the fine stitching, the seemingly delicate but strong whalebone.
The corset is short, not meant to cover the chest. The satin has the colour of blood. You can see him caressing it, pressing his lips against the sinful fabric, tying you into it, tugging the laces until you gasp, until there is a white line on your back where your flesh is pressed helplessly together.
After a long silence, he says, "Come on, I will help you to put it on." He never stops smiling, and you lean into it.
In giving yourself to him, you might finally achieve freedom. Others have told you about this, but you never wanted to believe. You held on to every little piece of control and enslaved yourself unwittingly, burning with fury and disappointment inside. All your life you have felt like this: trapped and caged like an animal, wanting to claw your way out of your miserable existence, to feel for once ... something, anything.
He touches you.
The satin encases you now. You are sheathed in rigid whalebone and silk ribbons, and he pulls the laces tight so you can barely breathe, and it makes you so hard. Even the shame feels good, it prickles on your skin, it slides down your spine, licks your senses. It unleashes all the desire you never knew was inside you.
He bends you over the desk like a common whore, caressing the corset. He grabs a handful of your hair -- surprisingly gentle again but adamant nonetheless -- and turns your head around until you face the mirror.
"Look at yourself," he whispers. He grinds himself against your backside.
While you are naked, your paleness emphasized by this obscenely red corset, he is still fully dressed.
Even in the darkness, his eyes are green like absinthe.
The pressure on your cock, rubbing against your stomach and the polished desk, is delicious and unbearable.
He plans to make you beg, and you know it and you look forward to it.
His searching fingers find your hole and stroke it. You sigh a little and move backwards, against him.
Then he lifts your knees up on the table and spreads them.
With one hand he presses your head down until it touches the desk. Then he guides your right hand around your body to your arse. He pours oil on your fingers, drizzles it into the cleft.
"Fuck yourself," he says, his voice hoarse.
Your position is ridiculous -- kneeling on the desk with your arse in the air, your face pressed sideways against the cool surface, pushing a finger into yourself.
It feels good. It feels better than usual because someone told you to do it and is watching. It makes everything you do and feel more real and tangible.
It's hard to reach the prostate in this position though, even with fingers as long as yours. The angle is not quite right. You barely graze it but it's enough to make you clench and whine a little, and it does what it is supposed to do: it makes you want more.
Another finger goes in and you take care to display yourself, slowly sliding in and out, so he can have a good look.
He is leaning close, his breath warm and moist on your knuckles.
Then he gives you a tentative lick.
But you don't beg yet; you will beg later to undo him. The words are already there in your mind, a constant loop of wanton moans and vulgar swear words.
With your other hand you are pinching your nipples.
He takes your fingers out and pushes his tongue into your hole and -- oh fuck that is so good. It feels so hot and right and perfect and you need more and you need his cock now.
He hums and sucks while you clench and unclench rhythmically. Maybe if he continues you could come from just that. It is a distinct possibility.
He pulls away.
"On your back," he says. He is stroking his cock through his trousers.
Your will, your entire being curls around his voice.
The surface of the desk feels hard and cool against your spine and your shoulder blades.
He spreads your legs with gentle, insistent hands.
Your cock is so hard it almost hurts.
He strokes it with a teasing finger, then the balls in a circular motion and then behind, the sensitive skin between anus and balls. You gasp and writhe.
He circles your hole and then bends forward and licks it again.
Oh fuck oh God!
No matter how hard you push against him, he keeps stroking your quivering little pucker, smiling strangely.
"You know," he leans close over your body and the fabric of his shirt is caressing your nipples just perfectly, "I could take you to Knockturn Alley, just the way you are now ... How would you like that?"
He kisses your lips, then the skin underneath the jaw.
"I would make you offer your hole to any man who just walks by. You would enjoy that, wouldn't you?"
You bite your lip.
He pinches your nipple hard and you wince.
You don't fight the lust inside you. You let it overwhelm you and drag you under.
Finally -- oh yes, oh please -- you hear him unfastening his trousers. You spread your legs wider.
You raise your head -- just a little to look at him.
His cock is beautiful. Not long and pale like yours, but quite short and deliciously thick. You want to have it in you, feel the hardness of it, the heat, to feel every twitch, every thrust inside you. You want to taste it, the smooth skin, the dark head, the clear fluid on the tip.
He follows your gaze, gathers the pre come with his finger and offers it to you, and like a kitten you lick it. You crave more.
"I know," he says.
He kneels on the desk now and then his prick is hovering over your mouth.
"Suck it," he orders. Again, not to meek, not too aggressive, he is assertive, but gentle.
Suddenly he has his wand in his hand. Confused your eyes snap open, following his every move.
He summons your ebony wand with his. He hums again, a spell maybe.
Then he leans back. His cock leaves your mouth and you push yourself up on your elbows to see what he is up to.
Slowly, very slowly, he inserts the wand into your arse. The wand feels ... good. He fucks you with your own wand and it feels so brilliant. Even as he lets go, it continues moving inside you, twisting and pushing and pulling and fuckfuckfuck this is unbearable.
He fucks your mouth again, this time a little harder, a little deeper, but you can take it, you can swallow him. You want him to come in your mouth so you can taste him, taste his cock twitching and pulsing.
He needs you. He needs to have something, and you need to belong.
"Oh you're such a good cocksucker," he moans. "You love to suck cock."
You only whine louder in agreement, and raise your head a bit to take him deeper.
Before he comes, he jerks away, sitting back on his heels.
Then he takes out the wand and oils his cock with languid, slow movements.
"Oh, fuck, yes," you hiss when he strokes your cleft with his cock.
"Please," you grind out finally. "Please."
He doesn't tease you by asking what you’re asking for. Instead he enters you slowly. When he is halfway through, he almost stops, making minute movements with his hips.
"Please," you beg. "Fuck me please."
You are begging as you knew you would, and you have never felt more free than you feel right now.
He seems to be content with this and thrusts into you, in a sharp, upwards angle, the perfect twist of his hips, and you scream.
You claw at him, pull him closer with your legs, arching against him.
"This is what you want, isn't it?" he growls. "You need this." And he takes your cock and starts stroking and pulling it.
It's true, he is right. You can only think of his cock now, how it's pumping in and out of your body, touching this one point inside that connects to your balls and your cock and your nipples all at once.
He insults you, calls you a whore, and it excites you; he calls you filthy, dirty, depraved, and you want more of these wonderful insults. He leans so close his lips touch your earlobe and his other hand is pinching your nipple.
"Next time I'll take you to some filthy toilet and let you suck cocks on your knees. How'd you like that?"
His cock fills you, and you clench harder, starting to spasm. And it is -- oh God! -- it is the best fuck you have ever had, the best cock that was ever inside you, and you come, panting, sobbing, all over his hand and on your stomach, the red corset and your chest, and you feel yourself squeezing his cock, again and again.
Finally he starts moving faster, fucking you with shorter thrusts, out of rhythm, faster and faster; he is swearing and muttering obscenities and then surprisingly he pulls out and moves up, his left arm beside your hand and with his right arm he holds his glistening cock and aims and then he comes all over your face.
There is come on your forehead -- his -- your cheeks, your nose and your lips, in your hair even.
He sits back on his heels, still breathing hard, and watches you lick your lips.
He caresses your face reverently, gathers spunk with his fingers and then lets you lick them clean.
Carefully he unlaces the corset. It slides off you, onto the ground.
Maybe you are free now.
"I love you, Severus," he says, his voice astonished and vulnerable, "and I want you to love me too."