Chapter 9: Sna teases Elara's tits before fucking her
The following days were a study in exquisite tension. Every echo in the dungeon corridor, every whisper of black robes around a corner, sent a jolt through Elara’s system. Her body remembered his, a phantom ache and a bloom of heat that felt both shameful and delicious. The obsidian toy was gone from her, but its spectral sensation lingered, a ghost in her nerve endings, making her shift in her seat during History of Magic.
She avoided his eyes in class, or tried to. It was impossible. Her gaze would drift, snagging on the pale expanse of his wrist as he stirred a cauldron, on the precise movement of his lips as he criticized a Slytherin’s shoddy work. A flicker of memory—those lips on her skin, that voice in her ear—would sear through her, and she’d have to look away, her cheeks flaming.
She waited for another note. None came.
The absence became its own kind of torment. Had he gotten what he wanted? Was she just another passing experiment, a secret shame now locked away in the dark of his quarters? The thought was a cold stone in her gut, more painful than any of his punishments. Her pride, a stubborn, resilient thing, warred with a need so profound it frightened her.
On the fourth night, pride lost.
She waited until the castle was submerged in the deep silence past midnight. Slipping from her dormitory, she padded through the hushed halls, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. She wasn’t summoned. She was volunteering. The act felt dangerously powerful.
The door to the dungeons was, unsurprisingly, unlocked. He was standing by a high bookshelf, silhouetted by the soft, greenish glow from a bubbling cauldron on a low flame. He didn’t turn as she entered and closed the door.
“There are no detentions scheduled for this hour, Miss Thorne,” he stated, his voice flat. He pulled a heavy tome from the shelf.
“I’m not here for a detention, Professor.”
He finally turned, the book held loosely in one hand. His expression was inscrutable in the low light. “Then you are out of bounds. Fifty points from Ravenclaw, and you will return to your tower at once.”
It was a test. A blatant, transparent one. She didn’t move. She stood her ground, the cold from the flagstones seeping through her thin slippers. “Take them. I’m not leaving.”
A long, heavy silence stretched between them, broken only by the gentle blup-blup of the simmering potion. He placed the book on his desk with deliberate care. “Explain your presence.”
“You know why I’m here.”
“I require you to articulate it.” He took a step forward, emerging from the shadows. His eyes were black pools, capturing the faint light. “Use your words. You have so many of them, usually.”
She lifted her chin. “I want what happened before. I want… more.”
“‘More’ is imprecise. It is a child’s word.” He closed the distance between them until she could smell the ink on his fingers, the clean, sharp scent of his soap. “You will speak your depravity aloud, or you will leave.”
The challenge hung in the air. She felt her face flush, but she held his gaze. “I want you to fuck me again. I want you to use me. However you want.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “However I want?”
“Yes.”
In one swift movement, he grasped the collar of her nightdress, his fist twisting in the thin cotton. “This is in the way.” With a sharp tear, the fabric gave way, rending down the front to her waist. The cold air prickled against her bare skin. She gasped, not in protest, but in shock at the suddenness of it.
His eyes dropped to her breasts, swells of pale flesh cupped in simple white cotton. “And this,” he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. His free hand came up, not with tenderness, but with a possessiveness that stole her breath. He palmed one breast through the bra, his thumb scraping over the nipple already pebbled tight from the cold and his attention. Then the other. He squeezed, kneading the soft flesh, his fingers digging in just shy of pain.
“You came here, in the dead of night, dressed like a offering,” he murmured, leaning close, his breath hot on her lips. “You should be punished for such recklessness.”
“Then punish me.” The words were out before she could think.
A dark thrill flashed in his eyes. He released her torn gown, letting it hang open. Both hands came to her breasts, pushing them together, squeezing them tightly into a deep cleavage above the lace of her bra. He looked at his handiwork, a sculptor assessing raw material.
“Take it off,” he commanded, releasing her.
Her fingers, trembling only slightly, went to the clasp between her shoulder blades. She unfastened it, let the straps slide down her arms, and the bra fell away, pooling at her feet with the ruined nightdress. She stood before him, naked from the waist up, the dungeon air chilling her skin, yet she felt feverish.
He didn’t touch her at first. He just looked, his gaze a physical caress that felt more invasive than his hands. She saw his nostrils flare, saw the subtle, hungry tightening of his mouth.
Then he bent his head.
His mouth was hot and wet as it closed over her right nipple. He didn’t kiss it. He laved it with a broad, rough stroke of his tongue, then drew the tight peak deep into his mouth. He suckled, hard, pulling a shocked gasp from her lungs. His teeth grazed the sensitive bud, and she cried out, her hands flying to his head, her fingers tangling in his long, black hair. He didn’t stop. He worried the nipple with his teeth, a sharp, sweet sting, while his tongue worked relentlessly. He switched to the other, giving it the same relentless, almost brutal attention, biting and pulling until her knees felt weak and a hot, heavy pulse throbbed between her legs.
“Please,” she whimpered, her head falling back.
He straightened up, a thin strand of saliva connecting his lower lip to her glistening, abused nipple. His eyes were molten. “Please, what?”
“Touch me. Fuck me. Anything.”
He gave a low, humorless sound. With fluid movements, he undid his trousers, freeing his cock. It sprang out, thick and already fully erect, the head dark and straining. He fisted it, giving it a slow stroke, his eyes locked on her chest.
“On your knees.”
She dropped to the cold stone, the rough surface biting into her skin. He stepped closer, the heat of him radiating against her face. He guided his cock between her breasts, pushing the thick shaft into the soft, warm valley he’d created with his hands earlier.
“Hold them,” he ordered thickly.
She raised her hands, pressing her breasts together, enveloping his length in a tight, slick channel of her own flesh. The feeling was shockingly intimate, perverse. She could feel the powerful throb of his pulse in the vein along his shaft.
He began to move. Slowly at first, sliding his cock through the tight groove, the head nudging against the base of her throat with each forward thrust. The friction was exquisite, a sinuous, filthy slide. Pre-cum beaded at his tip, smearing a wet, glossy trail over her skin.
“Look at you,” he growled, his breathing growing ragged. “My clever little witch, reduced to a flesh toy. Is this what you wanted? To be used as a cocksleeve?”
She couldn’t answer. She could only watch, mesmerized, as his length, shiny with her heat and his moisture, pistoned between her breasts. The sound was lewd, a wet, rhythmic shuffle that filled the quiet dungeon. He picked up the pace, his hips snapping forward with more force. His grip tightened on her shoulder, holding her in place as he fucked her tits with single-minded intensity.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his head tilting back, the cords in his neck standing out. “That’s it. Squeeze them tighter.”
She obeyed, pressing with all her strength, the sensation making her own core clench around nothing. The visual was overwhelmingly erotic—his complete dominance, her utter submission, the raw, physical mechanics of his pleasure. The air was filled with the smell of sex and stone and the forgotten, simmering potion.
His thrusts became erratic, jerky. A strangled groan tore from his throat. “Open your mouth.”
She did, tilting her head up, sticking her tongue out just as he pulled his cock from between her breasts. With two final, rough strokes of his hand, he came. Thick, hot streaks of cum lashed across her tongue, her lips, her cheeks. Some landed in her hair. He kept pumping, emptying himself onto her face with guttural grunts, marking her with the undeniable proof of his possession.
She kept her mouth open, swallowing what had landed on her tongue, the taste salty and bitter and purely him.
He remained above her, his breathing a ragged symphony in the silent room. The taste of him was a brand on her tongue. She looked up, his seed cooling on her skin, and saw something fracture in his obsidian eyes—a flicker of slack surprise, the briefest collapse of his controlled mask. It was all the invitation she needed.
A surge of something wild and electric shot through her veins. It wasn’t defiance, but a deeper, more primal claim. Her hands, which had been gripping his thighs, flew up and shoved hard against his chest.
He wasn’t expecting it. He stumbled back, a sharp grunt of air leaving his lungs, and his hips hit the edge of the heavy oak worktable. For a second, he was off-balance, his usually impeccable posture broken. She was on her feet in a fluid motion, the torn nightdress falling completely away. She didn’t hesitate. She pushed him again, firmly, until he was sitting on the table, his trousers still pooled around his ankles, his cock, half-soft and glistening, lying against his thigh.
“Elara—” His voice was a warning, but it was laced with a confusion that rendered it weak.
“No,” she said, the word a hot whisper. She climbed onto the table, straddling his lap, her knees pressing into the rough wood on either side of his hips. Her nails dug into the black wool of his frock coat as she settled over him. She could feel the heat of him, the shocking softness of his skin against her inner thighs. “You’ve had your way. You’ve taken. Now I’m taking.”
She reached between them, her fingers wrapping around his cock. It jumped in her grip, thickening rapidly under her touch. She guided him, notching the broad head against her entrance. She was soaking wet, her own arousal mingling with the mess he’d left on her. She held his gaze, those dark wells now wide with a storm of conflict, and sank down.
The stretch was immediate, a breathtaking, filling burn. A choked moan escaped her, part pain, part profound relief. He was impossibly deep. She swallowed, taking him all, until she was seated fully in his lap, his pelvis digging into her. A shudder wracked his entire frame.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his hands coming up to grasp her hips, his fingers biting into her skin.
She began to move. Slowly at first, a tentative rise and fall, learning the angle, the delicious friction. His grip tightened, urging her on. Then she found her rhythm, lifting herself almost all the way off before driving back down, taking him back inside with a wet, solid slap of skin.
“Oh God,” she moaned, her head falling forward, her hair curtaining their faces. “God, your cock. I love it. I love how fucking deep it goes.”
Each word was a raw, gasped confession, punctuated by the relentless drum of her hips. She rode him with a frantic, hungry energy, chasing the coiled promise of her own release that his earlier torment had only sharpened. The table creaked beneath them. A vial rattled nearby and tipped over, rolling off the edge to shatter on the floor. Neither of them noticed.
“I thought about this,” she panted, slamming down onto him, her breasts bouncing. “Every fucking night since the last time. Just this. The feel of you splitting me open.”
His control shattered. A guttural sound ripped from his chest and his hands left her hips to fist in her hair, yanking her head back to force her to look at him. His expression was savage, stripped bare. “You stupid girl,” he snarled, but he was thrusting up to meet her now, his hips pistoning off the table. “You reckless, insatiable little fool.”
“Yes,” she sobbed, the pace becoming punishing, glorious. “Yes, fuck me. It’s so good. It’s so fucking good. I love it. I love your cock inside me. Don’t stop.”
The filthy litany spilled from her, each vulgar affirmation driving him harder. His rhythm grew desperate, his thrusts losing all finesse, becoming a brutal, driving need. The sound was obscene—the wet, rhythmic slap of their joining, their ragged breaths, her continuous, whimpering praise. She could feel the tight coil in her belly winding to a breaking point, a screaming pressure built from days of denial and minutes of frantic motion.
“Snape,” she cried out, her body bowing. “I’m—“
He crushed his mouth to hers, swallowing her scream as the detonation ripped through her. Her inner walls clenched around him in violent, pulsing waves, a milking, relentless pressure. It tore a final, broken groan from him, and he buried himself to the hilt, his own release flooding her hotly as she clenched and quivered around him.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their struggling breath and the distant pop of the cooling cauldron. She slumped against him, her forehead on his shoulder, his face buried in the crook of her neck. His grip in her hair softened to something almost like a caress.
The reality of their position—him sitting on a student’s worktable in the middle of the Potions classroom, her astride him, both of them sticky and spent—crashed down with the subtlety of a falling brick. He was the first to move, his hands dropping to her waist as if to lift her off. But he didn’t. He held her there, his breathing slowly, gradually, returning to something measured and controlled.