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Dead Pheonix

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Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended

Author's Note: The non-con warning was deliberately left off, though the topic is up for debate. Marcy, my wonderful beta, and I decided after much deliberation that it didn't apply here. However, if duc-con squicks you... you know the drill.


Your hands are bound. This isn’t unusual for you: you love him for the way he is able to dominate you. You love the games he plays. Yet you are struggling anyway. This is not a game you’ve played before. You don’t like it, you want him to stop. You would rather go without release than play this way, in this game.

You’re naked, face down on his lap, your head rested against him. You take a moment to enjoy his smell- the crisp scent that is his. You have always been drawn to the smell, to him. It is wholesome, making you believe he is wholesome, that he could make you wholesome. He sits on the pillows, naked as well, murmuring words of love and trust in your hair.

“Do you trust me, pet? Do you love me?”

You nod you head, but there is a part of you that is angry at him right now, for doing this to you, for asking you to do this for him. The guilt of being angry with Master is only making the moment worse. You know you could stop it all with the words he gifted you, but nothing has hurt you so far, nothing has pushed you pass your limits. You've put your trust in him to know when and how far he can push- and you know that you are still safe and secure. You promised him you trusted him enough to try anything once. You want to keep that promise as he has kept his to protect you. If ever he were to break his, you wouldn’t hesitate. But he hasn’t and you do, so you will play along with his game. It’s a small price to pay for all he has given you.

The hands that now roam over your naked body have you tensed, though you’re sure they intend to do the opposite. They are smooth, refined hands that feel like ice on your bare skin, a stranger’s hands. You wish you could see who is behind you, who is running their hands over you, but you are unable to see. It’s part of the game. Your master has blinded you for the night. There is no blindfold: you could hate a blind fold. There is only a spell cast by you master. Could you hate your master?

The voice behind you speaks up, joining your master in praising your body- a body you have sculpted and maintained for Master. That this stranger should see it, touch it, caress it as a lover, appalls you. You want to flinch at every touch, but you are not allowed to show displeasure, instead you burrow your head deeper into Master’s lap to drown out the voices- wishing you could remove the people just as easily.

The stranger lifts you to your knees, your head still pillowed on your master’s lap. Your body is so tense you are shaking but no amount of soothing will fix that- not in this game. The stranger’s hands begin to stroke your flaccid penis. You haven’t been aroused, are too nervous and scared to be aroused, but he tries anyway to bring you to erection. You wonder why he bothers. You are here for his pleasure, for Master’s pleasure; your own is not the issue. You don’t want it to be an issue. The very idea of coming from this man’s touch disturbs you. The stranger speeds up when your cock fails to respond to his attempts. The pace becomes punishing. Dry skin rubs dry skin until you are raw and red. You want to cry out at every cruel stroke but you don’t and he continues.

“Harden, pet!” It is your master who has barked the order: it is your training that fulfils it. His voice is tinged with anger and disappointment. You, yourself are hurt and lost. It isn’t your body that has betrayed you, it is your master.

Your master slips from beneath you and for once you relish the loss of contact- until you feel his warm rough hands slip a cold metal ring around your cock, turning your forced arousal into yet another prison you are helpless to escape from.

From somewhere behind you, you hear the faint pop of a vial being uncorked. The sound ricochets through every tense nerve ending you possess. You know that sound; have heard it often enough that that you will recognize it 'til the day you die. Your master has retrieved the lubricant. You have an idea of what is coming next. Though you knew it was a possibility you have not considered how far your master is willing to take it. Will Master really allow another man to prepare and enter you? You would have never believed it before this night, he has been so protective and loving toward you, but now as a smooth oily hand circles your entrance, you begin to doubt how well you know your master, how well placed your trust has been.

A single digit pushes into you and, until that moment, you have never felt such a sense of total and complete violation; only your promise to your master steals the words from your mouth. You are not yet beyond your limits. Master would never allow you to fall beyond your limits. You can do this. Master has never led you wrong before.

The finger moves in and out, a parody of sex. This whole act is a parody of sex. Your master is cheapening everything you’ve ever done together. Another is added before you are completely ready and you cry out in discomfort. The fingers begin to squish in and out, scissoring, stretching. The sound is enough to make you want to gag but you forcibly refrain: you are not allowed to voice your disgust. Finally both fingers are removed.

You feel a split second of hope; maybe Master has stopped the whole thing before the other man could even finish preparing you. Maybe it is all over now- the whole horror show is finished. The hope is reaffirmed when you feel the hands of your master at your hips.

A scream is ripped from your throat when the stranger drives into you in one thrust, your master’s hand holding you steady and immovable, the hope shattering like dropped crystal. The pain is like nothing you have experienced before. You feel as though your body has been torn in two. Your cries, Master’s comforting mummers, and the stranger’s pants fill the room.

The game, the pain, is not over yet. The stranger begins pumping his hips into yours, tearing you further with every thrust. You close your eyes against the tears, a useless but comforting action, and try to ignore the abusing usage of your body.

“Move under him.” The order is not for you but the stranger.

“Yes, Severus,” and you feel yourself being shifted. You scream again when the stranger is below you, his angle now deeper, more punishing.

“Good boy, pet. You’re doing great Harry.” You hear the words but no longer believe them. If you are so good, why is he doing this to you? His hands force you flat against the stranger, your erection caught painfully between bodies. The stranger’s arms wrap around you, securing you tightly. You are terrified of whatever is going to happen next.

There are fingers around where you connect to the stranger and the motion causes you to tighten, pulling forth a gasp of pleasure from the one under you. Master’s voice is in your ear, “Relax, pet, let me in. I’ll never take you farther than I know you can go.” You want to believe that, you try to believe that, and yet you are crying and screaming as your Master’s finger pushes in. The pressure and the fullness are unbearable but your master doesn’t stop until your arse is filled with three fingers, sawing in and out beside the still erection of the stranger.

It is at the removal of the fingers, though, that you cry the hardest. You’ve finally figured out what comes next. You’ve known it on a subconscious level all along but as your master’s prick lines up with the stranger’s, you can do and say nothing as the abhorrent reality sinks in. Master, unlike the stranger, takes his time. You hate him for the attempt at courtesy and caring; the damage is already done.

“That’s it, pet, bear down on me. Such a good pet. That’s it. Keep bearing down, almost in.” His voice keeps you connected to your body when all you want is to drift away into your mind, yet he, himself, is deaf to your screams, your howls of pain as he further destroys your body, your trust, and your love. You bear down on both erections, allowing it to happen with as little resistance as possible. In your head you have a chant going, steady and strong.

‘This will all be over soon.’

You lie still as both bodies begin to move, as both cocks work in tandem to destroy you. You’ve screamed yourself hoarse and cried until there are no more tears. You’ve gone numb now to both the physical and emotional pain. You just can’t bring yourself to care anymore.

Someone ejaculates, stills, and then roughly pulls himself free. The stranger’s cum and your own blood dribble liberally down your thigh as your master continues pumping. You count the seconds, minutes, ticking by on a bedside clock until he shudders and collapses on top of you. Your own erection is ignored and you have never been more thankful. If you had found pleasure at all in this exchange you would have never been able to face yourself.

You hear whispered words and realize the spell that has kept your eyes blind and your hands bound has been lifted. The evening is over: the game has finally ended. It is when Draco Malfoy tries to capture your lips in a kiss that you finally look at Severus Snape and whisper “Dead Phoenix” before gingerly disentangling yourself and leaving the room and a man you used to trust enough to call Master.


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