Chapter 13: Unwrapped
The fire in the stone hearth crackled, devouring a log of fragrant pine. Shadows leapt across the low, wood-beamed ceiling of the cabin’s main room. It was a masculine space, lined with bookshelves and dominated by a large, worn armchair where Severus Snape sat, a crystal tumbler of firewhisky dangling from his long fingers. The silence was profound, broken only by the snap of the flames and the distant, mournful wind sighing around the eaves of the isolated Swiss chalet. He stared into the amber liquid, his face a landscape of carved regret and simmering want.
He hadn’t heard them approach. The door from the bedroom corridor, which he’d thought closed, must have been left ajar. The first he knew of them was a shift in the air, a new warmth that had nothing to do with the fire.
They stood framed in the doorway, illuminated by the fire’s restless glow. For a heartbeat, his mind refused to process the image. It was an obscene parody of a festive offering.
Elara and Blythe were draped, if it could be called that, in lengths of red velvet ribbon. The dark, rich crimson stood in stark contrast to their pale skin. The ribbons were tied in elaborate bows around their throats, like grotesque, luxurious collars. More loops were fastened around their wrists, their upper arms, their thighs. The silk was artfully – or deliberately – arranged to cover nothing of consequence. It snaked between Elara’s breasts, a narrow band failing to hide the shadowed cleft or the tight, rose-peak of her nipples, which were puckered in the cool air. On Blythe, a bow sat just below her navel, the tails trailing down over the neat thatch of blond hair, drawing the eye to what was deliberately exposed.
They were utterly bare otherwise. The firelight gilded the curves of their hips, the soft planes of their stomachs, the long lines of their legs.
Snape’s glass froze halfway to his lips. His dark eyes widened, then narrowed, flooding with a black heat. The part of him that was always calculating, always on guard, screamed that this was a trap, a decadent poison. The other part, the raw, hungry thing they had unleashed on the train, roared to life.
They didn’t speak. With movements that were synchronized and eerily deliberate, they walked forward. The ribbons whispered against their skin. They stopped a few feet from his chair, their bare feet silent on the thick rug. Then, as one, they sank to their knees.
Elara looked up at him, her clever face transformed by a wicked, knowing grin. Blythe mirrored it, her expression one of pure, daring challenge. The crackling fire seemed to hold its breath.
“We got bored,” Elara said, her voice a low, confident purr. “Exploring the bedroom. Found your trunk. And this…” She plucked at a ribbon end trailing over her shoulder. “Seemed like a better use for it than tying up parcels.”
Blythe leaned forward, placing her hands on his leather-clad knees. “You’ve been sitting here brooding for an hour,” she murmured. “It’s Christmas Eve. We thought you might like to… unwrap your presents.”
The word ‘presents’ hung in the air, vile and tantalizing. It was a mockery of innocence, a direct thrust at the depravity of their situation. Snape set his glass down on the side table with a precise, controlled click. The sound was dangerously loud.
“You presume,” he said, his voice gravelly, “a great deal.”
“We know,” Elara replied simply. She shifted on her knees, the movement making the ribbons shift, revealing a fleeting, perfect glimpse of the bare slit between her legs, already glistening. “We know exactly what you are, under the robes. We felt it. On the train.”
His jaw tightened. The memory was a brand. His control, splintering under their combined heat. “And you think that gives you leverage?”
“No,” Blythe said, her fingers creeping higher on his thighs. “It just gives us… ideas.”
She leaned in, her breath warm against the fastening of his trousers. Her tongue, pink and deliberate, flicked out, tracing the hard line of his cock straining against the black wool. Snape sucked in a sharp, hissed breath.
Elara watched, her eyes blazing. She reached up and with a slow, teasing pull, undid the large bow at her throat. The ribbon slithered away, falling to the rug. The action was a revelation, a declaration. She was unmaking their little construct, showing him the reality beneath. She was just a naked girl on her knees, offering herself.
It broke the last of his reserve.
His hands shot out, not with gentleness, but with a possessiveness that bordered on violence. He fisted his hands in their hair, not pulling, but holding them firmly in place, anchoring them to his will. “You want to be presents?” he growled, the words dripping with a self-loathing that only fueled his arousal. “Then be silent. And be used.”
He guided Elara’s head forward, pressing her face into his groin. “Unwrap it.”
Elara needed no further instruction. Her clever fingers made quick work of his trousers, freeing his erection, which sprang out, thick and angry and already leaking. She looked up at him once, her eyes holding his, and then she took him into her mouth.
It was not a gentle, teasing blowjob. It was a deep, hungry claiming. She took him to the back of her throat, her lips stretched wide around his girth, and began to suck with a rhythm that was almost brutal. The wet, obscene sounds filled the cabin, louder than the fire.
A groan rumbled from Snape’s chest. His other hand twisted tighter in Blythe’s hair, pulling her head back to expose her throat. He leaned down and captured her mouth in a biting, devouring kiss. It was a kiss of dominance, of punishment, his tongue plunging past her lips as if trying to taste the shame he felt for wanting this so desperately.
Blythe met him with equal ferocity, her hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders, her nails digging through the fabric of his shirt. When he released her mouth, she was gasping. “Fuck,” she whispered, her voice wrecked.
“Your turn,” he commanded, his voice raw, pushing her head down towards Elara’s working mouth. “Share.”
Blythe obeyed, lowering herself, her tongue joining Elara’s, licking at the base of his shaft, sucking his heavy balls into her mouth, her cheek pressed against Elara’s as they worked him over together. It was a vision of pure debasement, their faces blurred in the firelight, their shared purpose filthy and complete.
Snape threw his head back against the chair, his eyes clenched shut, his hips lifting off the seat to push deeper into their warm, wet torment. The dual sensation, the sight of it—it was too much. A coil of heat wound tight in his gut.
“Enough,” he snarled, pulling them both back by their hair.
They looked up at him, lips swollen and slick with saliva, eyes glazed and eager. He stood, his imposing height dwarfing them on their knees. He pointed to the wide, bear-skin rug before the hearth. “There. On your hands and knees. Both of you.”
They scrambled to comply, the velvet ribbons now absurd, pathetic adornments on their frantic bodies. They assumed the position side by side, their backs arched, their round, pale arses presented to him, the firelight dancing over their exposed sex from behind.
He shed his trousers completely, kneeling behind them. He didn’t pause to choose. His hand smoothed roughly over Elara’s flank, then gripped her hip. He positioned himself at her entrance, which was slick and ready. With one powerful thrust, he buried himself inside her to the hilt.
Elara cried out, a sharp, guttural sound of being filled, and her arms trembled. Beside her, Blythe whimpered, her own need a palpable force. Snape set a punishing pace, each drive of his hips slamming Elara forward, her breasts swaying. The sound of skin on skin was a harsh, rhythmic counterpoint to the fire.
He fucked Elara with a focused intensity, one hand clamped on her hip, the other reaching over to bury two fingers into Blythe’s soaking cunt. Blythe moaned, pushing back against his hand, her own fingers sneaking down to rub her clit in frantic circles.
“You see?” Snape gritted out, his thrusts never faltering, speaking more to himself than to them. “You see what you make of me? What you reduce me to?” His words were laced with agony.
Elara, gasping for breath between his drives into her, managed to look back over her shoulder. Her face was flushed, her hair stuck to her sweaty temples. “We… are… you,” she panted, each word punctuated by his movement. “You made… us… this.”
Her words, a twisted echo of his own corruption, severed the last thread. With a final, deep grind, he spilled into her, his release hot and violent, a stifled roar caught in his throat. He held himself there for a long moment, emptying inside her, before pulling out.
Blythe was trembling on the edge. He didn’t make her wait. Still wet from Elara, he pushed into Blythe from behind. She was tighter, and she screamed, a raw, beautiful sound of surrender as he filled her. He was spent, but hard again already, driven by a mindless, addictive need. His pace was slower now, deeper, more grinding. He reached around, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing it hard as he fucked her.
“Come for me,” he commanded, his voice hoarse and close to her ear. “Show me you’re as broken as I am.”
It was the permission, the shared damnation in his words, that shattered her. Her climax tore through her, her inner muscles clenching around him in rhythmic spasms that dragged a second, weaker orgasm from his own oversensitive flesh.
He collapsed between them, rolling onto his back on the rug, his chest heaving. The girls slumped down on either side of him, a tangle of limbs, sweat, and crimson ribbons. The fire warmed their naked, spent bodies. The only sound was their labored breathing and the crackling pine.
After a long while, Blythe propped herself up on an elbow. She looked at the ribbon still tied around her wrist, then at Snape’s profile, stark against the firelight. “So,” she said, her voice small but clear in the quiet. “This is what happens in the containment.”
Snape did not open his eyes. “No,” he breathed, the word heavy with a final, grim truth. “This is the containment failing.” He turned his head, his black eyes finding theirs, holding a terrible, exhausted knowledge. “The potion has boiled over. And we are all in the crucible now.”
A thick silence followed his words, heavier than the fur beneath them. Embers collapsed in the hearth with a soft sigh. The girls exchanged a glance over his prone body, a silent conversation passing between them in the shifting light. The grim finality in his voice was a cold splash against their post-coital haze, but it didn’t extinguish the heat. It complicated it, gave it a sharper, more dangerous edge.
Elara traced a meaningless pattern on his sternum with a fingertip. “So we burn together,” she said, not a question. Her voice was steady, accepting.
Snape’s eyes remained closed, but a muscle feathered in his jaw. He didn’t confirm or deny. It was an answer in itself.
Then Blythe giggled.
The sound was utterly incongruous, a bright, bubbling spark in the dark atmosphere. Snape’s eyes snapped open, fixing on her with a look of profound confusion. Elara’s lips twitched, then she too let out a soft, breathless laugh, her body shaking against his side.
“What,” Snape said, the word flat and dangerous.
“You,” Blythe managed, propping herself up. She gestured vaguely at the three of them, tangled and sticky on the rug, adorned with ridiculous, crumpled ribbons. “The great, terrifying Severus Snape. Brought low by two naked seventh-years and a bit of velvet.” She dissolved into another fit of giggles, hiding her face against his shoulder.
The absurdity of it, the sheer, mad reality, hit Elara too. A snort escaped her, then full laughter, her chest pressing against his arm. It wasn’t mocking. It was release, a dizzy acknowledgment of the impossible tableau they created.
A strange, reluctant tension drained from Snape’s frame. He regarded them, his dark eyes moving from Blythe’s shaking form to Elara’s mirth-filled face. The profound loneliness that always haunted his edges receded, just for a moment, replaced by something warmer and infinitely more confusing. His girls. The thought was an unguarded, startling truth that bypassed his formidable defenses. This was his secret, his personal, exquisite corruption.
A slow, deliberate smile touched his lips, not the sardonic twist he used in classrooms, but something rarer and more genuine. “Insolent,” he murmured, but the bite was gone.
He moved then, rolling onto his side to face them, his head propped on a hand. His gaze was possessive, appreciating. “My favorite sort of insolence,” he amended, his voice a low rumble.
His free hand came up, curving around the full, heavy weight of Elara’s breast. His thumb swept over her nipple, coaxing it back to a stiff peak. She gasped, her laughter dying into a sharp intake of breath. “Professor…”
“Severus,” he corrected, his attention already shifting. He leaned over her, his mouth capturing her other nipple, sucking it deep into the heat of his mouth. His tongue worked it relentlessly, the sensation direct and overwhelming. Elara arched, a low moan pulled from her throat, her fingers threading into his black hair.
Beside them, Blythe watched, her own small breasts aching for attention. She didn’t have to wait. Snape’s hand, which had been groping Elara, slid across the damp skin of her torso. His palm was rough, demanding. It closed over Blythe’s petite breast, his fingers squeezing the soft mound, his thumb finding her tiny, eager nipple. He pinched it, rolling it hard, and Blythe cried out, her back bowing.
“Fuck, yes,” she breathed, pushing herself into his hand.
He released Elara’s nipple with a wet pop, turning his head. “Your turn,” he said, his breath hot against Blythe’s skin. He ducked his head, taking her entire small breast into his mouth, his tongue flattening against the delicate flesh before zeroing in on the tight bud. He sucked greedily, voraciously, as if starved for the taste of her. The contrast was stark—the lavish, consuming attention on Elara’s fullness, now the focused, almost devouring intensity on Blythe’s slightness.
Elara whimpered, her own need flaring anew at the sight. She reached down between her legs, finding herself wet all over again. Snape’s hand left Blythe’s breast, his fingers wrapping around Elara’s wrist. “No,” he said against Blythe’s skin. “That’s for me.”
He guided Elara’s hand to his cock, which was already hard and leaking against his stomach. “Work me,” he ordered, his voice muffled against Blythe. “Get me ready for you. For both of you.”
Elara obeyed, her fist sliding along his length, spreading the moisture pooling at the tip. She stroked him with a firm, knowing rhythm, her eyes glued to the sight of his mouth on Blythe. Blythe’s hands were in his hair now, holding him to her, her hips making small, frantic circles on the rug.
Snape moved back, leaving them both panting. He looked wrecked, his hair disheveled, his lips swollen. “On the chair,” he said, his command ragged. “Elara, first. I want to watch her take you, Blythe, while she’s riding me.”
They scrambled. Elara settled herself astride his lap in the large armchair, guiding him inside her with a slow, gasping sink that made them both shudder. Once she was fully impaled, she began to move, a rolling grind of her hips that took him deep.
Blythe climbed onto the chair, kneeling on the thick arms, facing Elara. Their mouths met in a desperate, messy kiss. Snape’s hands gripped Elara’s hips, guiding her rhythm, his eyes burning as he watched Blythe’s fingers slide between Elara’s legs, rubbing her clit in time with their kisses.
“That’s it,” he grunted, his own thrusts meeting her downward movements. “Make her come on my cock.”
The room dissolved into a symphony of wet sounds and fractured moans. Elara’s climax tore through her first, a silent, shuddering convulsion that clamped around him. He growled, lifting her off him just as Blythe, feverish with want, turned and lowered herself onto his slick shaft, taking him in one smooth, desperate slide.
He fucked up into her, his hands a vise on her thighs, the chair groaning in protest. “Touch her,” he demanded, and Blythe reached back, her fingers finding Elara’s soaked cunt, fingers sliding inside as Elara pressed close against her back, biting Blythe’s shoulder.
It was a frantic, overlapping circuit of sensation. When Snape came, it was with a raw shout buried in Blythe’s neck, his release pumping into her as she milked him with frantic pulses of her own orgasm.
They slumped, a spent, breathing heap in the chair. The fire had burned lower. After a long time, Snape spoke into the quiet, his voice carrying a new, resigned weight. “The train was not an anomaly. This is the pattern now.” He carefully extracted himself, standing on unsteady legs. He looked down at them, his favorites, marked by him. “The world outside this room still exists. And it will demand an accounting.”
He walked toward the bedroom, leaving them in the chair, the truth of his words settling over them like a chill. The crucible was sealed. The only question was what would be forged in the fire, and what would be consumed.