I used to think there were few things worse than being a spy, that there were few occupations so humiliating and hazardous. While I crawled in front of the Dark Lord and dissembled and gave carefully crafted half-truths, when I writhed under the Cruciatus and wondered when I'd be found out and killed – or tortured insane – I thought the lowest floor-scrubbing drudge had a better position than I.
But being a prostitute makes me long for my spying days.
The Ministry was merciful, of course. Technically I'm 'free' – no Dementors haunt my days and nights, and no chains keep me in a cold, bare cell. I still have my wand, my magic, my life and my sanity.
But the restrictions on me are endless and chafing. I cannot leave Knockturn Alley except on Mondays, when I may shop for necessities in Diagon Alley; then I must wear an armband while I do so, alerting those around me of my criminal status. I can theoretically brew potions, but that is dependent on getting the ingredients, tools, and space for the actual brewing. And the list of 'dangerous ingredients' I am not allowed access to, lest I attempt to poison someone (even myself), is so ridiculously long that I am convinced many of them made the list only by dint of being a choking hazard. The only thing I am actually allowed to brew is my own personal lubricant.
And tea; thank Merlin for tea.
While I still have my wand, it's wrapped with so many restrictions – I can cast cleaning charms, mending charms, mild healing charms, warming and cooling charms, Aguamenti and Lumos – but that's about the extent of it. Protego is, apparently, dangerous. Merlin forbid I defend myself against those seeking revenge against the Big Bad Death Eater!
As bad as the limitations on my wand are, finding work is even worse. The restrictions on gainful employment are ridiculous to the extreme; suffice to say, at the end of it I can either turn my toes up and sell my organs on the black market – or whore myself.
I wish I could choose the former. Every day I wish it, fervently – but then that damned survival instinct kicks in, and I find myself on my street corner, wearing a thin knee-length robe with nothing underneath it. The robe gives only a nod to modesty, but the benefits are worth it – easy access, I've learned, is key to getting it over with quickly.
For my own sanity, I do have some limits: I don't kiss. I don't fuck face-to-face. I won't moan or pretend having someone's cock up my arse is the pinnacle of delight. I won't crawl and grovel, I won't call anyone Master or Lord, and I won't do (or be done by) anything on four feet.
I'll do pretty much anything else.
After all, no one rents me for my looks. I'm too tall, too thin, too pale, too greasy. My body tells my history in a littering of scars, and many of my clients gleefully add to them, eager to carve their mark and claim their pound of flesh from the Death Eater spy.
For a handful of knuts and sickles, I let them; the chance to abuse a former Death Eater is what keeps them coming back, after all.
Footsteps alert me to a potential customer, and I contrive to have my robe fall open a little more to expose my white thigh.
"What's the price for a fuck?"
I glance at the pouch against the brick wall, mentally counting today's coins. Three more sickles will not only pay for a room tonight, but the cheapest meal on the menu at Rosmerta's. "Five sickles."
We haggle, before we settle on three. He's a obviously either a Hufflepuff or Gryffindor; a Slytherin or Ravenclaw would have realized I wanted three to start with.
I rattle off my list of rules, then ask where he wants to fuck me. Most people prefer to rent a room for a half-hour; there's a cheap inn on Knockturn just for that reason – for all the whores, I mean. Not just myself. But some people prefer public humiliation, and will fuck me there against the wall; the rules of public decency seldom apply to Knocturn Alley.
"I want to fuck you right here," the man grins - smug brainless bastard. "Death Eater scum don't get privacy. Everyone should see you getting what you deserve. Strip down, turn around and put your hands against the wall; I want everyone to see you getting fucked over, Snape!"
"Because there are so many people present in the Ally at this hour," I snark, "and every last one of them is, of course, avidly curious about your sexuality and the fact you must resort to a whore for your jollies."
The man's face darkens, and I immediately regret my tongue. Old habits die hard, and I always pay for each sarcastic comment dearly. But I cling to my sarcastic side all the same; sometimes it feels like it's all that's left of myself, after everyone else has had their piece of me. I brace for his vitriol as I shed my robe, exposing myself to him and the few passerby at this hour. I've gotten used to the occasional round of public nudity, though my particular corner of Knockturn isn't exactly main thoroughfare. And while I am not entirely comfortable in my own skin, I am at least resigned to the looks I've been given.
"Think you're clever, do you?" the man snarls, and it's all I can do not to roll my eyes. "Think you're better than the others since you talked your way out of Azkaban? Well, I think I have a better use for your tongue. Show me how good you are on your knees, whore – open your mouth and suck my cock. Get me nice and wet, because that's the only lubricant you're going to get. Fuck, it's all the lubricant a whore like you needs. You're probably loose enough for the Hogwarts Express, aren't you?"
I suppress a sigh and drop to my knees when he pushes me down, grunting a little as my knees impact with the rough cement. Like the rest of me, my knees have no padding.
I wish I could charge him first, then give him a horrible blow job - maybe employ a little more tooth than comfortable - accidental, of course. But I’m a Slytherin, and an ex-spy at that; no one will trust me with their coin until they’ve received what they’re paying for.
His cock, when he frees himself from his trousers, is uninspiring. More long than thick, it is ruddy and wrinkled with a heavy foreskin and a salty-bitter smell. With practiced familiarity - if not ease - I take his cock between my thin lips, covering my crooked teeth, and suck it gently. His cock fills and lengthens as I work my tongue against the underside, tracing the veins there. While he's still only half hard, I swallow as much as I can, licking and covering his shaft with saliva. While I can deep-throat out of sheer necessity, I avoid it whenever possible; it gives clients too much control over my ability to breathe.
He hardens quickly though, his fingers tangling in my hair and pulling sharply. His cock swells until it fills my mouth and pushes deeper, and he groans when I cautiously swallow around him. His hips thrust hard and his hands hold me in place until I am forced to swallow him deeply, taking him into my throat, nose mashed unpleasantly into the coarse hair at his groin. He smells of nervous sweat and salt, and my throat aches and burns when he fucks my face with quick, sharp thrusts until I gag. His bollocks slap against my chin, and when he lets me up to breathe I wrench my head away and glare at him, though most of the effect is lost when I must glare up at him.
He smirks at me, not at all intimidated, not when my lips are bruised and swollen, not when I'm kneeling naked in front of him.
"Not a bad mouth for a whore," he drawls, and he wipes the head of his cock against my cheek, smearing saliva and precome. "And as fitting as it is to see you on your knees - let's see what your arse can offer."
I stand, knees dimpled and stiff from the rough concrete, and pick a loose piece of gravel from my kneecap. A deep breath while I strengthen my Occlumency, and – there. I pull up my mask, the one that hides my emotions. Most of them aren't here for the sex, not when there are cheaper, prettier whores to be had. They're here to get under my skin, to bask in my humiliation, and I won't grant them that no matter how low I sink.
"Go on, then, hands against the wall, arse out – " the man brays, wrapping a hand around his waving prick and stroking it.
Again I barely resist the urge to roll my eyes as I silently obey, pressing palms against the rough brick of the alley wall and spreading my feet a comfortable distance. I arch my back just enough to ease the angle of entry, and look back over my shoulder to let him know I am ready - or as ready as I ever am. The position might be provocative or sexy, even, for anyone else, but I am aware of the pathetic image I make, pale and skinny and scarred, in a come-hither pose.
My clients seldom care if I am 'sexy' or not; this one is no different. His hands find my hips, and a moment later, the head of his blunt cock is nudging between my arse cheeks without further fanfair. I have enough time to brace myself and take a breath before he thrusts. Another snap of his hips, and his cock is buried inside me, his thighs flush to my backside. Lack of lubricant or not, his pathetic cock doesn't draw a sound from me. After almost a year of whoring myself I've lost count of the cocks, fingers, hands, and assorted objects I've been fucked with, and quite bluntly, I am no longer as tight as I used to be.
Nor am I particularly humiliated by how loose I have become; I grew inured to that insult months ago. Being fucked without proper lubricant is the greater annoyance; loose or not, spit isn't a proper lubricant. Being fucked essentially dry chafes, but at least it's just a waiting game now; I rock back to meet his thrusts and grind against him. And all too soon he begins cursing, fucking me without any type of finesse. His hands tug my hips back to meet each snap of his pelvis, and when he starts to speed up his thrusting, I ignore the way his hands bruise my hips and clench around him strongly. He climaxes a bare moment later – no records in stamina, thank Merlin. My stomach twinges with disgust as he thrusts raggedly a few more times, his prick twitching as he ejaculates, and then he sags against me with a grunt worthy of a troll.
I endure him panting hotly in my ear for a moment longer before straightening and more-or-less politely pushing his weight off me. Thankfully he takes the hint and steps away, his cock pulling free abruptly with a wet sound. Warm semen begins a slow seep between my cheeks, but I ignore it for now, picking up my discarded robe and slinging it over my shoulders to cover myself from stray gawkers - fucking's over, nothing more to see.
When I turn back around, with my robe still hanging open, I do not attempt to hide that his pitiful fucking did nothing to arouse me. It's my silent way to taunt and belittle their so-called skills, rubbing the lack of my response in their faces. It's in these small little rebellions that I still cling to the tattered remnants of my pride.
His eyes narrow, but he stuffs himself back into his trousers and buttons himself up without comment. He plunges his hand into his pocket and pulls out the three sickles, but instead of handing them to me, he tosses them on the ground with a mocking, careless gesture. One coin rolls towards the drainage grate, and I'm forced to dart out and snatch it before it's lost – Accio is one of the 'dangerous and restricted' spells, after all. It would be utterly dreadful, for example, if I were to Accio a fork to his face - for him, at least.
By the victorious look on the man's face, it amuses him greatly to see me scurry after a single dropped sickle. He lingers after I add the coins to my small collection, and when he shows no signs of leaving, I give in and attempt to clean myself up before the semen dries and makes an itchy, irritating mess. It amuses him even more when I pick up my wand, and it takes three attempts for the cleaning spell to remove all the semen. Did I mention the restrictions on my wand make my spell casting weak, nearly to the point of non-existent?
When he finally walks away and turns around the corner, I am three sickles richer – but I feel cheaper for it.
* * * * *
The first time he showed up it was a miserably cold and rainy day – the damp had got everywhere, and even the most stalwart shoppers were staying indoors. My corner have me no shelter from the elements, and my hair was glued to my face; my robe was damp and stuck to my skin, leaving even less to the imagination than usual. I looked like a drowned rat, and felt like one. The few coins I'd earned would barely amount to the cheapest hot meal at the Knocturn Pub, much less afford me a bed and a roof for the night, and I was in a bleak and bitter mood.
He'd stood and just looked at me for the longest time while I dared him with my darkest glare to comment on my bedraggled state.
He'd held out his hand, with a galleon – a whole galleon! – in it. He didn't ask my prices. "I've rented a room at the motel, and had dinner sent," he said, and searched though I did I couldn't find any mockery or amusement in his eyes. "I'd like to hire you for the remainder of the evening."
Not rent, not buy. Hire. It's amazing how humanizing the difference is, in a profession that objectifies people.
I swallowed and looked at the coin. Ugly as I am, I was never paid so much. What would he demand of me, for a whole galleon? What humiliations would he subject me to? "What services do you want?"
"Services?" Longbottom blinked, and raindrops fell from his eyelashes – ridiculously long, curling lashes for a wizard. "Oh. Sex, I suppose. Maybe a blowjob. Fingering. Touching. Nothing, ah, extreme."
None of those were so bad, I thought. And I'd have the warmth and relative privacy of the motel room. And he'd mentioned food, and a whole galleon would stretch a long way.
I resisted snatching up the golden coin and nodded stiffly, straightening my damp robe. "Fine. Lead the way." I'd let him grasp my arm and he'd side-along apparated me to the motel, instead of gleefully parading me there on foot.
Nor had he humiliated me once we'd arrived at his room. He hadn't hurt me. He had, in fact, given me the first truly pleasurable orgasm I'd had in this line of work. And then he'd told me the room was paid for the night, and I was welcome to stay til morning.
Without him; he rented the room for the night for me.
Today, at least, I've made enough galleons to cover a room; it was a 'good' day in terms of earnings. Which means that I am fucked raw, both physically and emotionally, and my body shows it. One of my clients was - enthusiastic, and my back is covered with bloody scratches. I ache all over; my thighs and hips are mottled with bruises. There's a purpling bitemark on the juncture of my neck and shoulder, teeth marks decorating one of my nipples, and a bruise on one cheekbone from being struck. Despite repeated use of cleaning charms throughout the day I still feel filthy and used.
So a large part of me wants to turn him away when he shows up; I can cover the cost of a room tonight, with a little left over to eat. Bad enough for the strangers, enemies, and once-allies to rent me; somehow it's worse because it's Longbottom. Because if anyone deserves their pound of flesh, it's this boy.
But he comes and stands in front of me and just looks, and when he opens his hand with the usual gold galleon there, I follow him to the motel without protest.
The room is always set up the same: covers turned back, a glass jar of oil and a smaller tube of lubricant on the nightstand. He keeps the lighting dim, but I've never got the sense it's to hide my body from him, nor to hide his body from me. It's easier to disrobe in front of a former student in the dim light, so I don't question it. The room is comfortably warm, at least, and it is almost a relief to shed my sodden robe, even if it leaves me exposed to his gaze.
He takes longer to undress than I do, encumbered with robe, shirt, trousers, pants, socks, and shoes, and I stand and wait for him, watching as he strips down. He is no longer the pudgy, round-faced youth I once taught. War and hard work have refined him; he is sturdily built now, with broad shoulders and muscular thighs. His jaw is square now, not round, and dark hair dusts a path between his nipples and paints a thicker trail south of his navel to his cock.
Even flaccid, his cock is impressive, and I make myself look away as he piles his clothing neatly on a chair.
His feet are quiet against the bare wood floor when he crosses to the bed. "Come lay down, on your back."
It never feels quite right to sprawl across the crisp clean sheets when I feel dirty and used, but I obey anyway, stretching out to allow him access to my body to use as he desires. He could do almost anything to me, for a galleon.
But he respects my rules without fail. He doesn't kiss me, doesn't fuck me face to face – but he does touch me, warm strong fingers smoothing over my skin. His hands explore me with exacting thoroughness, from neck to fingers, from hips to toes, before he focuses on my chest. He traces the hollow of my throat, the sharp ridge of my collarbone, and the contours of my ribs before his roughened digits move to my pectorals, rolling and plucking at my flat nipples until they harden into tight peaks. He is considerate of the bruises and scratches that still mark this side of me, especially of the still-tender bitemark adorning my left nipple, but neither does he treat me as someone fragile.
When he tires of touching he licks them, laving them with broad swipes, before drawing them into his mouth and suckling. I can feel his own cock filling and lengthening, feel his cock twitch with every soft sound I make, sounds I don't entirely stifle because I know he will not mock me for them.
Only when he's teased both nipples to an almost unbearable sensitivity does he relent. Instead he licks and sucks and nibbles his way down my hollow stomach. He doesn't comment when my stomach embarrassingly growls, nor does he comment on the bruises marking my hips and thighs. His tongue briefly delves into my navel, to make my belly quiver, and then his breath is hot and humid on my cock.
No one else touches me for the purpose of giving me pleasure. But Longbottom does that, and more; he runs his fingers over my hard cock, from root to tip, teases me with light touches until I bare my teeth at him in a snarl. He never makes me beg for him to move on, but he does tease at my patience. He wraps his warm calloused hand around my hardening cock and strokes me once, twice, with just the right amount of pressure. He rubs his thumb over the glans and smears precome and strokes me again, with a pleased sound of his own when I shift restlessly.
I spread my legs willingly - almost eagerly - when he settles himself between them, and a moment later his wet, mobile tongue is licking the head of my cock with no hesitation. He smiles when my breath whooshes out of me at the sensation; smiles, and licks again and again, until I can't hold back a whimper at his teasing. He is surprisingly talented with his mouth, exploring my prick with the same thoroughness his hands mapped my body.
Anyone else would humiliate me for my lack of control, but Longbottom doesn't seem to even notice it, intently focused on the clever things his tongue is doing all over my cock. Even my bollocks are thoroughly tongued and suckled, and he memorizes my glans and foreskin with the amount of time he lavishes on them. It's surreal and it's good, and I twist my hands into the sheets and fight to keep my hips still and not beg shamelessly. And when he finally tires of that, he takes me into his mouth. His mouth is hot, his lips tight around me and then hesucks, tongue wiggling and pressing in all the right places. He moves his hand up and down my shaft as his head bobs, and after so much attention, it's more than I can withstand. He makes only a choked sound when my hips buck, and his throat is a blissful constriction - and when I gasp a warning, he doesn't stop.
Instead, he moves his hand away and opens his throat to me, completely, and when I groan and buck again he takes it, all of it. My cock pushes into his throat until his nose is brushing my groin, and then he swallows, throat hot and wet and impossibly tight around me, and he hums in enjoyment. The vibrations undo me, and he pulls back enough that I explode into his mouth. He swallows my seed readily, with no expression of distaste, and lets me slip from his mouth only once I've sagged, limp and sated, against the bed. When he sits up his face is flushed and his lips are swollen, but he doesn't seem to be self-conscious about it.
Nor does he demand immediate reciprocation, despite his own rather prominent erection; in fact, he's never asked me to deep-throat him, nor for any kind of fellatio at all. He gives me several minutes to bask and get my breath back, and when I am completely flaccid he nudges my hip with his hands.
For a long moment I hesitate, suddenly embarrassed by the bruises and scratches littering my back and hips; and, underneath the recent marks, the older scars from a violent life. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, but every time I expect to see malicious glee at my tarnished state - or at least smug satisfaction.
I only see weary acceptance of who and what I am, so after another moment I roll over.
Once on my stomach I spread my legs again for easy access, and he reaches for the oil. The familiar scent of sandalwood and musk fills the air as he warms some of the oil in his hands - I don't dare ask how much the oil must have cost. His hands are firm but gentle as he smoothes it over my shoulders and down my back and over my hips with sure strokes. The oil stings, then prickles over my skin like a static shock - signs the oil has a healing spell infused into it.
He waits for the unpleasant tingling to fade, and then he massages and rubs it in. His hands are tireless as he kneads me, tirelessly searching out and relieving sore spots and knotted tense muscles. He patiently works me over from neck and shoulders to lower back and buttocks. He only stops when my skin has absorbed the oil and I'm completely relaxed into the mattress, scratches healed and bruises faded. Between my recent orgasm and the thorough massage, I feel utterly spoiled.
He casts a cleaning charm on his hands – I envy how easily he does so – then reaches for the lubricant, squeezing some out of the tube and coating his fingers in the clear, slippery substance. His fingers slip between my arse cheeks and gently circle my entrance, spreading lubricant, before one finger gently breaches me.
The first time he'd rented – no, hired me – I'd tried to tell him I didn't need to be stretched or prepared. I'd been fucked all day, I was already open and ready – I just wanted him to fuck me and get it over with.
He'd still insisted, and after so many weeks I don't argue anymore. For all his ineptitude in Potions (which is largely my fault, I know) his fingers are careful and skilled. He spreads oil gently around inside me with one finger before adding a second, and then he strokes and scissors and stretches and gently teases me, fingers playing on my prostate, until my cock starts hardening again – in one night! – and I have to shift a little, draw one knee up a bit, to ease the pressure on my cock. Somehow it feels more - more, having him spend so much time preparing and arousing me, when his own aching cock is neglected. He groans sometimes when I hump against the bed, or when I clench around his fingers strongly.
Longbottom adds a third finger and presses all three deeper, fucks me with them, until my fingers curl into the bedsheets and my hips rock of their own accord and my face flushes at my shameful eagerness. His fingers make wet, lewd sounds as he works them into me, and my breath hitches when they rub against my prostate..
He never comments on it, nor on the way I whimper at the sudden emptiness when he pulls his fingers away to slick his cock.
The bed creaks and shifts as he kneels up on the mattress. His hands gently tug me up onto my hands and knees, and then his blunt cock is nudging at my entrance. Even then, instead of taking me with one hard thrust - and he could, I wouldn't protest - he always asks.
When I verbalize my permission, he presses in slowly. I know his cock well enough that I can visualize it without looking; the smooth, dark-reddish skin, lightly veined; the wide mushroom head. The shaft flares then tapers just below the glans, impressively thick and quite respectably long. I am hyper aware of every centimetre as it fills me.
He stops when he's fully sheathed inside me and his hips are pressed to my arse, letting me adjust to him. All the other times I'm fucked during the week, every other time I'm breached, I feel - invaded, used. Longbottom's careful preparation and attention to my comfort, even in penetrating, makes it different. It actually feels good to be filled, to feel him pressed along my back, thick shaft stretching me and holding me wide open. His hands rub soothingly at the small of my back and my hips as I take deep, slow breaths and relax into the sensations.
When he feels me relax, he begins to move – slow teasing strokes that draw almost completely out, then sliding slowly back home. Each slow stroke he angles to brush against my prostate, and he keeps this up for a seemingly torturous forever until I rock back to meet his thrusts, needing it harder, faster.
His hands never stop moving – curling around my hips, brushing against my cock, smoothing down my thigh, tracing my ribs and side, rubbing encouraging circles on my back and shoulders. His hands coax along the fire under my skin, and he slowly builds in speed and force until I'm rocked forward with each thrust, all my senses narrowed down to his hands, his cock, his breath on my neck, the delicious friction, the tension coiling in my groin. I moan and gasp and shudder, I clench around him desperately, and he groans and gasps with me, cock twitching inside me.
I always shatter when he wraps his hand around my shaft and strokes me hard; between his cock battering my prostate and his hand on my cock, I never last long. When I cry out sharply and spurt warm fluid over his hand, he supports me until I stop trembling, hand working my cock with increasingly gentle strokes until he wrings the last of my orgasm from me.
Only after I've come twice – twice, in one night, with one client – does he carefully press me into the bed and let go of his self-control, hands bracing himself over me, fucking me senseless into the mattress.
Even then, I don't feel used. I am hyper-sensitive after orgasm, but I relish the feel of his cock, the force with which he fucks me when he lets go, the way he shudders and swears when I manage to squeeze around his prick. When his bruising thrusts lose their rhythm and he stiffens, when I hear him hiss my name, when I feel his cock pulse inside of me - I don’t feel used. I don't resent the way he slumps over me, panting in my ear, the way he repeats my name shakily, or the way he almost-embraces me as he struggles to catch his breath.
Even when he shifts his weight a moment later and his cock slips free, I just feel well-fucked in a satisfying way. My arse feels empty and loose and I know I'm gaping - I can feel his warm semen already beginning to seep out - but I don't feel sullied for it.
After a few moments of companiable rest he gets up and pulls his clothing on. He sets down the gold galleon on the nightstand next to the bed, pocketing the oil and lubricant. "The room's paid up for the night, feel free to stay." He pauses for a long moment at the door, but when I don't say anything he opens it and steps through.
And then he's gone.
It was several weeks before I realized what that pause meant – that he wants me to ask him to stay til morning. That maybe he's offering something more than money for sex. That thought keeps me awake many nights.
I should be horrified that a former student sees me this way; that a former student rents my body by the hour and fucks me. But his hands are gentle and the things he does to me - when he leaves I feel more like a human being and a bit less like a thing to be used, despite the coin he leaves behind.
Sometimes, when I'm waiting for my next client on my street corner, I wonder sometimes what he'd offer if I gave him a chance, if I gave any sign I was receptive. I wonder if I'd be a kept man - or something more, something much better. I wonder what it would be like to give up whoring myself, to only feel one person's hands, one person's cock.
I tell myself I can't give up my independence. Life has taught me that I can't trust anyone - I've been betrayed too many times. People are fickle; people are selfish and cruel, and my clients remind me of this on a daily basis. My meager existence is hellish at times and bearable at best, but I scrape by solely by my own efforts.
The real truth is, I'm afraid of what he offers. I'm afraid of wanting it too much. I'm afraid it makes me weak. I'm afraid that I'm just imagining it. Next week, I promise myself, curling on my side and wrapping my arms around the pillow. Next week, I'll tell him to stay.
I never do.