Despoiling Harry
Home Page Amanuensis's
Fanfiction
Art/Fic Tributes
Fic Recommendations
Amanuensis's
LiveJournal
Other Links
Email Me
The characters and the situations within these fanfiction stories are
not my property. They are the property of J.K. Rowling, Warner
Brothers, and others, and are used without permission; challenge to
copyright is not intended and should not be construed. No profit is
being made from the use of these characters and situations; these
written-down imaginings are only presented in an internet forum for the
interest of and consumption by the like-minded individuals who enjoy
them and recognize them as unauthorized fanfiction only, and are not in
any way meant to be confused with the originals NOR presented as
authorized materials of these owners.
The Very Last
by Amanuensis
Summary:
Harry endures what he wants in order to get what he wants.
Pairing:
Harry/snape
Categories:
PWP
Kinks/Warnings:
BDSM. D/s.
Notes:
For the Pornish Pixies Fantasy Fest request made by feklar
"HP or DM is sub to Snape and is punished by being forced to attend all
classes wearing full rope or leather harness, including buttplug, cock
cage, nipple clamps, etc. under his clothes, bonus if he begs for
forgiveness and abso(l)ved with a good hard fuck"
Thanks to betas skuf,
florahart,
harvest_blue,
and fabularasa.
.....
By the time Snape summons the kinbaku demon,
Harry is already on his knees. The demon speaks an ancient Japanese
dialect Harry can't hope to understand, and he swears he can hear the
notes of a shamisen playing as it moves about him, cackling and
conjuring its rope.
Harry submits, chin up, eyes on the ceiling as it threads the rope
about his torso. Soft susurrating whishes over his body, so
delicate they barely riffle the hairs on his skin--until the demon
pulls the rope tight, stealing his breath. The rope passes about his
neck, under his arms, between his legs--somehow contriving to spare his
genitals. The inhuman fingers lace the rope into geometric
patterns--triangles, diamonds, star-shapes--that Harry thinks make his
skinny adolescent body look almost attractive in their adornment.
He is always dazed when he sees the final result in the mirror and
remembers that it is formed from only one continuous length of rope.
It's hemp, and it scratches.
Professor Snape exchanges a few terse words with the demon in that same
dialect before dispelling it. From the demon's grins and the way it
seems to be teasing Snape, Harry has the impression that it and the
professor have quite a history. Harry tries not to think about what
that might mean--if he is not the first student to be on his knees in
Professor Snape's classroom, first thing of a morning, submitting to
these rituals.
But he wants to be the last. If he's very, very good, perhaps he will
be.
"There you are," says Ron around a last mouthful of eggs. "What took
you so long? Herbology's in ten minutes."
Harry scoops eggs and bacon between two pieces of toast, for faster
consumption. "Couldn't find one of my books," he says, hoping he sounds
natural and hoping that Ron was not paying attention to the care he
took in sitting down.
"You're so slow in the mornings, these days."
Harry has moved from his knees to his hands and knees. The anal plug
which Snape is presently using on him is not unbearably large, truly,
except for the flared part just before the narrowed neck--which allows
him to retain the thing--and he's grown used to that. And the external
guard curves along his cleft snugly--gives him minimal trouble in
sitting.
The charmed oil Snape uses--that's the difficult part. Alternately
heating and chilling without warning, it has Harry biting his lips and
fighting to clear his vision, all day long.
"Are you all right, Harry?" says Hermione after class. "You looked
ill there for a moment."
"Uh, no. 'M fine."
Hermione looks at him, eyebrows drawn together, for a longer moment
than Ron would. She's the one he has to be particularly careful about.
Now he stands. He lifts his hands to the back of his neck, his
pectorals rising in their framework of hemp. Snape looks him in the eye
for the first time that morning. He looks disapproving,
displeased--which, for Snape, means he's neither; it's as close as his
expression can come to neutral--as he places the metal clamps on
Harry's nipples. These are the smallest ones, designed to be barely
detectable under clothing, as long as he keeps his robes on--and he
might even manage with them off if he untucks his shirt and hunches.
They are not, however, any less cruel for their size: stiff-springed
steel, with rubber strips lining the vises' edges. Even the ones with
teeth are not so tight as these, and they don't miss a spot in
compression.
Of all the decorations--the punishments--Harry must wear on these days,
the clamps are the only ones he could choose to remove and replace
before he returns for Snape's inspection. But he will not: once he
removed them, he doubts he'd have the courage to put them back.
Besides, he's sure Professor Snape would be able to tell.
They are spelled to loosen twice during the day: just before lunch and
dinner. Harry's careful to anticipate those moments, and prepare: the
moments the blood rushes back to his nipples are the same it will rush
from his face--and have him crying aloud, if he's not careful.
"What's the matter, Potter," sneers Draco Malfoy, "going to faint?
Class too much for you? Wouldn't be surprised; being near that great
smelly lump of a giant would make anyone sick. Crabbe, Goyle, let's get
away from here before we all puke."
Still standing, Harry shuts his eyes in preparation for the part he
hates. Not the cockcage, no. He doesn't hate that--doesn't hate any of
the punishments Snape sees fit to give him. What he hates is the moment
before Snape lifts his cock and balls in his deft hand, the moment
during which Harry must force himself to think the most unappealing
thoughts possible--Dudley eating, stinksap exploding, Umbridge's
detentions (if it's a particularly difficult day)--so that he will not
harden in Snape's hand. It is difficult enough not to sport an erection
from the moment he arrives in Snape's presence--denying his own
arousal, killing it forcefully when Snape is actually handling his
cock, seems criminal. Aberrant.
The steel tube sheaths his cock in an uncompromising downward curve;
the cuff behind its base locks about his balls. Once on, erection is
impossible. Harry doesn't even need the unarousing thoughts for
assistance.
No part of this device is charmed. Just plain rigid steel, and a lock.
Snape allows Harry to watch him return the key to the chain about his
wrist, where Harry might catch that glimpse of chrome glaring at him
during Potions, later in the day.
And then Harry is allowed to dress, and leave.
"I'm exhausted," says Ron, not moving from where he lies on the
grass. "Brilliant practice, though. Don't know how you keep up the
pace, Harry."
"Mm," says Harry, thinking how the pace is nothing, compared to the
guts it takes him to put a leg over that broom at the beginning of
practice. After that, he blocks it out, pretends it's just one more
discomfort of playing Quidditch.
"Wait for me, after the showers."
"No," Harry says, too hastily. "I'll shower back in the dormitory. Left
my clothes upstairs."
Hemp and oil and rubber and steel. These things are Harry's day. These
are the things that mean Snape to Harry.
Which is why he doesn't hate them. Not any of them. If disciplining him
like this is what makes him attractive to Snape, Harry wants it all.
He could give up Quidditch, and be able to return to Snape's classroom
that much earlier at night. He would. But he's read the dare in Snape's
voice, his face, when Snape points that out. Wanting to see if Harry
can endure it. Harry will show him he can.
Though Harry wonders if there isn't a hidden message of longing,
there--Snape's wish to see Harry all the earlier in the evenings,
despite the dare. It's not just his imagination, is it?
Harry enters Professor Snape's classroom, still in his gear. He waits
for Snape's nod before stripping it off, letting it fall where it will.
He is no longer breathing hard from practice, but his breaths deepen,
quicken as he stands there in the hemp, the clamps, the anal plug and
the cockcage, as Snape slowly rises and crosses to him.
Harry shuts his eyes at the first brush of Snape's fingers, on his
cock, or on his nipples, pulling a gasp from Harry no matter where he
begins.
"Was it painful?" Snape might be asking about something that took place
a thousand years ago.
"Yes, sir." Harry is not supposed to dissemble. Snape wants to hear it.
"Did you deserve it?"
"Yes, sir." He says it more fervently.
"Shall I forgive you?"
"Only--only if you think I deserve it, sir."
These words are not ritual. The punishments might be, but Snape wants
Harry's responses unrehearsed, rising to his lips naturally because he
means them, not because they are rote.
Snape's breath grazes the side of Harry's face. "Would you like it if I
did?"
"Yes, please." He lets it come unguarded and unchecked.
The key gleams on its wrist chain. Snape unlocks the cuff at his balls,
slipping the sheath off. Harry's aching cock has been seeping wetness
in its limp state for most of the day; freed, it begins its grateful
rise in mere moments. Harry can hear Snape tch at that, not
without amusement.
Snape spreads his arsecheeks, fingers the anal plug, and then draws it
free. The sudden withdrawal has Harry crying out, shuddering, fighting
to keep his footing.
A slap on his rump. "Bend over the desk."
"Yes, sir." It is a whimper of delight.
Harry braces himself with a breath as he grips the opposite edge of the
desk and lays his chest against its surface. The nipple clamps touch
the desktop with the smallest of sounds as they contact, hurting badly
enough at that alone--not to mention the misery inflicted as he settles
his weight upon the desk, the clamps crushed against his flesh.
Snape has moved in behind him; his fingers stroke the diamond patterns
of hemp framing Harry's spine, a balm to their chafing restriction.
Harry's cock grows harder against the desk.
Then the hands are on his arse, spreading him again, slathering
something cold into his cleft, and then Harry gets both his further
penance and his forgiveness: Snape's cock, pushing against his
stretched arsehole, entering him with a hard thrust, forcing all the
way into him with another. Harry clings to the desk's edge, his cry of
"Yesss--" impossible to hold back as that blunt length pushes its way
past his prostate, his eyes wet with something that isn't completely
pain.
Snape's hands clutch Harry's hipbones. Having gained full ground, he
withdraws a bit, and begins fucking Harry in fierce rhythm. The nipple
clamps bang on the desk; Harry can't tell if they're gouging bits out
of the wood or his skin, and though he moans at it, he can't bring
himself to care.
He's been in need for too long; he doesn't last more than a minute
before orgasm takes him. He howls, feeling the desktop become slick
with the seeming deluge that shoots from his cock, seeing fireworks
behind his closed lids, tightening his arse as though he can force
Snape to stay inside him until they both starve to death, here in this
room.
Snape does not come right away, but continues to pummel away at him,
brutally, wonderfully, one hand sliding between their bodies to grasp
Harry's ballsac, holding his balls in a careful grip that does not
tighten beyond anything Harry can endure, but reminds him who makes the
rules here.
And then Harry gets his reward: Snape's come in his arse and the sound
of Snape's groan in his ears as he comes, shaking as he presses his
cock deep into Harry. In that moment, control lost. In that moment,
guarded displeasure lost.
In that moment, lost.
Snape does not re-summon the demon but dispels Harry's ropes with a
wand-wave, takes the clamps off his nipples and rubs the soreness away
with his fingers, his tongue. Harry revels in that bit of tenderness,
all he is likely to get on weekdays.
Weekends are different. Weekends are Harry and his invisibility cloak,
donned in the evening after the others think he has gone to bed, and
stealing through the corridors to Snape's quarters. Weekends are the
tenderer side of Snape, more of his tongue and less of his discipline.
Weekends are what make Harry think that if there were others before
him, he could be the last, yes, perhaps he could.
But it is only Monday. And once Harry has thanked Snape for his
discipline--humbly, sincerely, and on his knees--he is allowed to don
his sweaty Quidditch gear and head for his dormitory.
And though Harry looks forward to the weekend, that does not mean he
neglects to look forward to Tuesday.
Or any of the days in between.
"There you are. You all right, Harry?"
"Yeah," he says, smiling. "Brilliant."
-fin
Despoiling Harry
Home Page Amanuensis's
Fanfiction
Art/Fic Tributes
Fic Recommendations
Amanuensis's
LiveJournal
Other Links
amanuensis1@earthlink.net