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Get Back | Tomorrow Never Knows

Chapter Seven - Communion
Saturday – Sunday, 23 - 24 April, 1977

“My Lord, I trust you remember my friend Severus. Severus Snape.”

Lord Voldemort’s lips drew up in an appreciative smirk. As he had at their previous meeting, young Snape had made an obvious effort to impress, and he had succeeded. The makeover Malfoy had done on him was truly remarkable: in handsome silver-grey robes that set off his black eyes and creamy skin, his hair a glossy dark sheet halfway down his back, the boy bore no trace of the greasy, unkempt little ragamuffin Voldemort had so often seen in Hogsmeade, trailing Lucius and his friends like a sullen shadow.

The young wizard spoke, formally and precisely. “I am most honored to attend you again, my Lord.”

Despite his obvious trepidation, his voice was steady. It was also extremely sexy — far sexier than Voldemort had realized in the din of the Hog’s Head. Very deep, very cultured, somehow silky and throaty at the same time. He felt an unexpected surge of heat in his cock. Voldemort himself had a rather high voice — it was one of the few things about himself that he actively disliked — and he was attracted to men who could turn a single word into something thrilling and erotic.

“You honor me as well, young Severus.” He matched the formality, if not the gorgeous timbre. “As I expect you will continue to do.”

“Yes, my Lord. My heart is so pledged.”

“Very good.” Voldemort moved a step closer, studying him clinically, appraisingly, as if seeing him for the first time. Very nice, he thought; very nice. His first impressions in the pub had not been off. The boy’s face was not handsome — the nose was too long, too hooked, and out-of-proportion to the rest — but it was exotic and arresting. The intelligent forehead, strong jaw, and high, slanting cheekbones spoke of good blood, pure blood, and the black eyes smoldered beneath silky arched brows. And that hair: silky too, almost blue in its blackness, spilling lush and unfettered over the pale sheen of his robes. Whore’s hair, Voldemort thought, and he felt another surprising throb in his groin as he imagined plunging his hands into that hair even as he plunged into the boy’s warm and willing flesh.

Or maybe not-so-willing, but that was all right, too. Sometimes, it was even better than all right.

He reached out one hand and stroked the younger wizard’s cheek gently, and he could feel Severus unconsciously tense under that touch. He stroked again, even more gently, silently urging the boy to relax — then hooked his fingers into claws and ripped the fine new robes open from neck to knees.

Lucius had counseled him well: he wore nothing underneath.

Startled by the sudden violence, Severus gave a little gasp, staring wide-eyed and trembling at the older man. The trembling increased when Voldemort murmured again and Severus felt invisible ropes catch at his slender wrists, binding them tightly behind his back.

“Are you frightened, child?” Voldemort smiled, but it was not a comforting smile. He smiled as though the prospect of the boy’s fear pleased him immensely.

“I…I…” Snape stammered.

“Do not bother to deny it, Severus. It is self-evident, and quite as it should be.”

Despite the vague threat in his words, his touch was still gentle as he stroked the boy’s chest, calming him, taking in his exposed body with greedy red eyes. He decided he liked it, too. Clothed, the young wizard looked too lanky, too thin, but stripped bare he was revealed to be very lean but very hard, all smooth, lithe muscle. The skin was smooth also, most gloriously so, and Voldemort enjoyed touching it, running his hands lightly over shoulders and sides, hard nipples and flat, heaving stomach, fingers just grazing the thick dark hair curled below.

It was quickly apparent that Severus enjoyed it as well; with his robes hanging open, it was impossible for him to conceal his arousal. Even if one could ever conceal anything from the Dark Lord.

“You have a lovely cock, child,” Voldemort told him softly, smiling as the boy blushed. He ran a slow finger down the hardened shaft, pressing along the pulsing vein, and Severus gave a faint little cry, shivering all over. “So very big. So very hard. I like it very much.” Voldemort’s smile widened as his leisurely, feather-light touches wrested more shivers and a low, restless moan. “You blush at my touch, at my words, but you like it too, don’t you? You know how very nice it is, don’t you?”

Eyes half-closed, Severus swallowed and nodded.

“Tell me, then,” Voldemort crooned. He leaned in, his lips very close to the younger wizard’s ear, his warm breath provoking more of those delicious little tremors. “Tell me. Say ‘I like my cock.’”

“I —I —” His blush grew hotter as he stammered over the words.

“Say it, child.” Voldemort’s stroking finger made another slow pass down the throbbing prick, pausing at the glistening tip. He thumbed it in tiny circles, slowly spreading the lips of the slit, pressing in gently, and the younger wizard groaned, his hips arching in a single, convulsive thrust.

“I like my cock.” The words tumbled from him in a silky gasp.

“‘I like my big, beautiful cock.’”

“I…oh, gods, I…”

The thumb was rubbing a bit more firmly now, and speech was obviously becoming difficult for him. Voldemort’s smile widened once more. It was a cold, predatory smile, and had Severus Snape seen it, his ripe desire would have fled him in a heartbeat. But the soft touches had him bucking rhythmically, swaying slightly on his feet, his eyes shut tight to better savor the sensations, and he saw nothing of the chill in that smile.

“Say it, Severus,” Voldemort whispered, hissing the words. “I want to hear it, and I’m afraid I am losing patience with you.”

To accentuate the point, he gave the velvety flesh beneath his fingers a delicate pinch. It was very delicate, hardly more than a tweak, really, but, given where it was granted and the state the younger wizard was in, it certainly made an impact. Severus cried out, eyes flying open to stare at the Dark Lord with a mixture of dazed arousal and shock. “I like my b-big, beautiful cock.”

“Very good, child! Very good.” Voldemort spoke soothingly, resuming his caresses, matching his touch to his tone. The young wizard’s eyes slipped closed again as he was petted and pleasured, and Voldemort gazed at him affectionately. So tender he was, so responsive…he did so love the young ones. “But wrong, I’m afraid.” And he clamped his bony hand tight around the boy’s member and squeezed.


The teenager’s dark eyes flew open again. A wounded gasp escaped his lips, and his knees buckled; he would have fallen if not for Voldemort’s other hand, which went to his shoulder, ugly fingers digging in deep enough to bruise.

“My…my L-L-Lord,” he stammered, “what—?”

Voldemort’s grip tightened and twisted, and the words dissolved in a cry.

“You see, you said ‘my big, beautiful cock,’” Voldemort informed him. His tone was even, almost pleasant, as his fingers continued to squeeze and twist and hurt. He slid his hand up to the vulnerable testicles and exerted a merciless pressure, and Snape moaned, beads of sweat popping out along his hairline. “But this is not yours, Severus. No part of you is yours any longer. It is mine. Do you understand that, boy? All of you — every inch and fold of your body, every corner of your soul, every last, most desperate refuge of your mind — now belongs to me.”

He punctuated the sentence by digging his fingers deep into the boy’s sac, and Snape nearly passed out from the pain. There was a screaming snarl of agony in his belly that made him want to vomit, and the very roots of his prick were on fire. Tears slid down his face, unfelt; his throat worked soundlessly.

“Do you understand, boy?” Voldemort’s voice cracked like a whip. “Answer me!”

“Y-y-yes, my L-Lord…p-please…” He would have sobbed the words if he had had breath enough to do so. “P-please—”

And then, as quickly as it had started, the pain was gone. Not lessened, not fading, just — gone. He didn’t know how that could possibly be, but it was. One minute he was in utter torment, pain exploding through his genitals and digging into his groin like the tines of a fork; the next, nothing.

Oh, but not exactly nothing, was it? Oh, gods, no. In the pain’s place was the same ripe pleasure he had felt before, somehow even more sublime and intense after the pain, as Voldemort’s thumb resumed its maddening sweet circles on the head of his cock. Indeed, the transition between pleasure and pain and back again had been so swift, and so skillfully administered, that he had never lost his erection at all.

"Oh, thank you, my Lord, thank you—” And now he was sobbing, both with relief and with an almost mindless desire.

“Whose lovely hard cock is this, child, weeping and twitching and begging at my slightest touch?” Voldemort crooned.

“Yours, my Lord.”

“And these?” The hand moved up to his balls, stroking and squeezing — but gently now. Oh, so gently.

“Y-yours, my Lord.”

“And these?” The other hand moved along his chest to pluck and pinch at his nipples.

“Yours—oh, gods—yours, my Lord…” He was almost panting with desire.

The erotic inventory continued. The Dark Lord touched him everywhere — his lips, his throat, his navel, the insides of his thighs, his buttocks and the delicate circle of flesh in between. Each time the same question was asked, and each time the young wizard answered with the words his master demanded… though as his lust built higher and hotter, it became increasingly difficult to speak when all he really wanted to do was to melt against the older man and whimper like a lost child.

Voldemort was very close to him now, their bodies a scant inch from touching. The last step makes the journey, he thought, and he slid his hand beneath the torn robes, grabbed the boy’s ass, and pulled him forward into a greedy kiss.

Severus moaned into Voldemort’s mouth as the lips crushed his, biting and sucking, parting them for the hot swiping tongue. Jolts of almost vicious pleasure cascaded through him, as much from the feeling of being claimed and used as from the sensations themselves. Even at sixteen, Severus Snape was used to being aggressive in all situations, even sex — even with Black, who was so dominant he was practically a cartoon, Snape had been a far from passive partner. But this…this! This was total domination, a demanding, brutal use of his body with no regard to his feelings or pleasures or preferences…and oh, but it was wildly intoxicating. A feeling of utter submission suffused him completely, warming his already fevered flesh, melting what was left of his brain.

Voldemort broke the kiss long enough to draw a ragged breath and mutter against his lips: “And this, Severus? This hot, sweet, wet mouth, panting and gasping beneath mine? Who does this belong to, child? Who? Who?” In his own excitement, he almost snarled the words.

“Oh, gods, it is yours, my Lord, everything, everything is yours —” His eyes were unfocused, drunk with lust; his lips were swollen; a trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. His sensuous voice was low and fervent and earnest.

Voldemort smiled. He seized a fistful of that glorious silky hair and pulled the boy’s head back, capturing his mouth again, licking the ribbon of blood away and sharing the salty-sweet taste with its owner. His other hand, still kneading and squeezing the firm buttocks, now slipped between them, and he shoved one obscenely long finger into the puckered hole.

“Oh — ah — gods — oh my gods —!” Severus stiffened, bucking and writhing against him, his cries muffled in Voldemort’s mouth. The thrusting tongue, the finger rubbing and twisting deep inside him, the delicious friction of the older man’s rough woolen robes against his hard nipples and harder cock, all brought him to sudden, jerking orgasm. He moaned his climax through the hot sucking kisses, moaned the words over and over again like a mantra.

“It’s yours, my Lord, all yours, yours forever, forever, yours yours yours yours—”

His cock pulsed and spurted between them, his seed delightfully warm and sticky even through the Dark Lord’s robes, his hot velvety hole clenching tight around the Dark Lord’s finger, and it was all the Dark Lord could do to keep from returning the favor and squirting all over the sexy little bastard.

Finally, the spasms stopped. He felt the boy go limp in his arms, near senseless from his orgasm…and goodness, what was the poor child going to do when Voldemort decided to really pleasure him?

It was going to be most agreeable finding out.

He waited with unusual patience, cradling the young wizard until he felt the boy’s muscles stop quivering, felt his ragged breathing steady and deepen. He moved with unusual gentleness, pushing Severus away from him and forcing him to stand upright. A whispered word released the cords binding the youngster’s wrists; tender fingers plucked away a stray lock of long black hair caught at the corner of his mouth.

“Now, child. To the altar.” Voldemort gestured toward the marble-topped stone slab. “Climb upon it and lie back.”

Moving slowly, unthinkingly, Severus obeyed. His torn robes were still hanging uselessly from his shoulders, and they provided thin insulation beneath him, but he could still feel the cold of the marble quite clearly against his back and thighs and ass. He lay back and stared up at the ceiling, a trickle of fear worming its way through the gauzy afterglow of his orgasm. They called this “the altar”? Well, wasn’t that comforting. Like something out of a cheesy Muggle horror movie about ritual sacrifices of beautiful virgins.

Well, then, he thought nervously, nothing to worry about, Sev. The attentions of Black, Lucius and most of Lucius’s friends had almost convinced him that he was attractive in his own sharp, dark way, maybe even striking if one wanted to stretch the point, but he was certainly not beautiful. Nor was he a virgin…nor had he been even before the Dark Lord had raped him with a finger that felt approximately ten inches long. Even before Sirius Black, Bellatrix Black, and half the current population of Slytherin House (male and female), Lucius Malfoy had taken care of that little unwanted detail.

“Sickle for your thoughts, child,” whispered Voldemort right into his ear, and Severus jerked in surprise, his eyes flying open. He hadn’t even been aware that he’d closed them in the first place, any more than he’d been aware of Voldemort climbing on top of him. “What musings could possibly have such a pretty young thing so…preoccupied?”

“I…I was just—”

Voldemort’s mouth closed over his again, hard and hot, all teeth and tongue and sucking lips. It was an intense kiss, but a brief one, as the Dark Lord pulled away after only a few seconds. “What was that, Severus? I couldn’t quite” — a lazy swipe of his tongue along the trembling lower lip — “make it out.”

“I s-said, I was—”

The mouth descended again. Sucked. Bit. Licked. Chewed.

Pulled quite abruptly away again, leaving him breathless and blinking and bewildered, rather aroused and oddly afraid.

“I asked you a question, boy,” the Dark Lord intoned. His tone was threatening, but his red eyes glinted with amusement at the cat-and-mouse game he was playing. He loved cat-and-mouse…and never more so than with such a tender young mouse as this. “You do realize when I ask you a question, I expect an answer immediately?”

“Y-yes, my Lord, I know, but—”

The rest of his words were lost as the Dark Lord’s mouth claimed his yet again, and Severus moaned in delicious frustration.

Voldemort continued the sweet, mocking torment in such fashion for quite a while, asking questions he had no intention of letting the boy answer, shushing the slick mouth with kiss after kiss until Severus finally gave up and lay back, panting and grinding slightly against him. It was clearly a surrender, and Voldemort responded by pulling away and sitting back between the younger man’s spread legs. He stroked the shivering belly in slow firm circles and gazed at the boy fondly.

“Oh, you’re so sweet,” he murmured. “So stubborn and earnest and young and sweet.” His eyes flicked up and down, coming to a stop at the half-hard cock resting on one creamy thigh. “I think I should like to taste that sweetness…just once, just tonight, before it is gone forever.”

He leaned down to nuzzle the heavy warm flesh and murmured something against it, something unintelligible in Latin. Immediately, a knot of wonderful aching heat formed in Severus’s belly, melting like warm butter into his balls, swelling his cock and sending it straining, pushing toward the ceiling. It was a truly remarkable sensation, going from semi-erect and semi-interested to hard as iron in an instant, and Severus went light-headed at the abrupt redeployment of his rushing blood.

“Weep for me now, Severus,” Voldemort commanded quietly. “Give me your nectar, child, give me your sweetness.”

He placed the tip of his finger lightly on the head of Snape’s cock, stroking the quivering slit once, twice, and a shining drop of precome appeared, as if magically summoned by his touch. Severus moaned softly, a slight shiver rippling through his long frame.

“Ah, yes, that’s it,” Voldemort murmured, and he bent his head again, long pink tongue snaking out to lick the moisture away. Another bead immediately formed in its place, and Voldemort sucked in an admiring breath. It was actually quite pretty. That single, perfect drop glistening on the satiny red flesh, like a drop of dew on the soft petal of a rose…

He pushed the image away and frowned fiercely. Dew drops? Rose petals? This boy was affecting him much more than was comfortable if these simpering thoughts were any indication — and who gave a toss about such fluff anyway, when one had a gorgeous, hard young cock bouncing in one’s face, hot and leaking and begging to be licked?

And Severus was leaking, oh, quite steadily now, and the Dark Lord feasted eagerly on the peach-sweet juices as they flowed, his clever tongue tingling at the taste. He just loved the young ones! They were so ripe and flavorful. So succulent. So fresh.

Lovely noises began pouring from the boy’s mouth, helpless whimpers and low growls and short, whispered bursts of filthy words. His movements, too, were becoming quite frantic: hands clawing helplessly at the smooth marble, hips squirming in ecstatic little circles, ass grinding into the slab and then arching abruptly away from it, desperate to get away from the maddening tickle of that tongue, equally desperate for more.

Voldemort grabbed his hips and bore down, holding him still, at the same time making the leisurely strokes of his tongue firmer and more forceful. The boy groaned deep in his throat; the cock bobbed and twitched and jumped most amusingly at every lick, and the Dark Lord made an erotic game of chasing it, darting in with the strong slow swipes of his tongue, occasionally capturing the head between his lips and giving it a hard, fast suck before letting it pop free again. More unintelligible obscenities spilled from the teenager’s mouth, and his balls drew up against his cock, ready to fire. His climax was minutes, perhaps only seconds, away.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Voldemort warned. He stopped his teasing and gave the tight balls a playful little squeeze. “We mustn’t have any of that. Not yet, anyway.”

“Oh, but I — I can’t — can’t help — please—”

“Hush, child. You can, and you will. All good things come to those who wait.” He gave one last looping, exaggerated swirl of his tongue over the dripping head and under the ridge, and Severus shuddered violently beneath his hands. “Now, up, boy. Up on your elbows, and eyes here on this lovely cock. I want you to see what I’m going to do to you next.”

Wide-eyed, propped up, arms trembling a bit from the strain of his position, Severus did as he was bid. He watched as the long fingers encircled his jutting erection, the limber tongue extending with excruciating slowness toward the head of his cock once more, curling as it stroked across the exquisitely-sensitive slit. He jumped mightily at the little lick and braced himself eagerly for another.

The tongue curled again and stopped to probe the opening this time, the tip digging in slightly and sending ragged spikes of pleasure through him. He jumped again. Another little dive into his slit, and another, each one deeper than the last, until not even Voldemort’s strong grip on his hips could keep him from arching off the altar, offering himself wantonly to the intense sensations.

Then Voldemort’s tongue slid smoothly into the tiny opening and kept sliding, stretching his cock from the inside out, filling it down to the balls with inch after inch of glorious, squirming, hot, wet muscle.

Oh, gods—!

His body gave a mighty heave, trying to come completely off the slab, but Voldemort’s fingers dug into his flanks, hard, pinning him down once more, and all Severus could do was shudder and pant and watch as ordered, his eyes not wide now but huge with disbelief at what the Dark Lord was doing to him.

Voldemort’s tongue was inside his cock.

Voldemort’s tongue was fucking his cock…and by the feel of things, Voldemort’s tongue was about twelve inches long and made entirely of hot, rippling silk.

Or velvet. Or mink.

Oh, my gods, my gods, my gods—!

Snape’s head was spinning. He tried to think, tried to grasp the unreality of what the Dark Lord was doing, tried even (in some small part of his mind) to find it sick and grotesque…but the sensations cascading through his flesh were like nothing he had ever felt before. His cock felt so stretched and full and heavy and hot, and every time that long wet tongue made even the slightest movement inside him, everything below his waist seemed to contract and explode at the same time. Oh, gods, why had no one ever told him this before? Shown him this? If he had thought the outside of his prick was sensitive, oh, sweet Merlin—

He couldn’t take his eyes off his cock. His cock, impaled on the Dark Lord’s tongue.

But how? The rational part of his mind tried again to intervene. How did it fit? How did he —

Then Voldemort wrapped his lips around the head once again, sucking ferociously, and all efforts at coherent thought fled Severus’s brain. He came hard and kept coming, his muscles seizing and shuddering, his body insisting on orgasm even as the tongue buried in his prick thwarted release. Spasm after wrenching spasm rolled over him, so intense he nearly blacked out at each one. He was barely conscious when Voldemort stopped sucking and pulled his tongue free in a single smooth motion.

“Cream for me now, Severus,” he demanded, “shoot for me now, you little whore—”

And Severus did. Immediately, explosively, his body twisting and convulsing, his ass lifting and slamming repeatedly into the hard marble beneath him, jets of rich white fluid shooting out of him and into the Dark Lord’s waiting mouth…It was the most incredible orgasm of his entire life, and he never wanted it to end. For long moments, it seemed it never would: he seemed to spend hours clenching and thrusting and shuddering and shrieking before he collapsed with a bone-jarring thud, dazed and twitching, hollow-eyed and spent.

“Mmm,” Voldemort smiled. He licked his lips slowly. “Just as sweet as I imagined.” He leaned forward even as Severus fell back and pressed his lips to the slack, panting mouth. “Here, child. Open your mouth; taste your sweetness on me.”

Mouths clashed and tongues dueled. It felt ritualistic, and Severus had an odd flash from his childhood: the church where his family, faithfully passing as Muggles for centuries, had attended services. He closed his eyes and saw the silent towering stone walls and the rainbow puddles cast by beautiful stained-glass windows, and he heard the soft, dry voice of Father Callas as clearly as if the man stood beside him right now: Take, drink ye all of this, in remembrance of me.

In remembrance of me, Severus Snape thought as he lay pinned beneath Voldemort, head spinning, chest heaving, rivers of sweat running down his arms and belly and thighs, while the Dark Lord raped his mouth with his own come and gave him his blasphemous Communion. Oh, gods help me.

Another violent shudder ripped through him. Voldemort felt the movement and released his mouth, sitting back, petting him tenderly — but there was nothing tender in the older man’s smile. It was a smug, razor-edged smirk, as if Voldemort knew exactly the thoughts that had provoked that shudder…and was well-pleased by them.

Red eyes still locked on Snape’s black ones, Voldemort muttered something, another Latin phrase Severus didn’t recognize, and dark shapes melted from the corners of the room, seemingly out of the walls, appearing silently all around the edges of the altar. Several of the hooded figures reached forward from the shadows, and Severus felt rough hands grasp his wrists and ankles and yank, pinning him flat, spreading him wide. Panic seized him then, unexpected but undeniable, and he clawed and kicked and thrashed and flailed, trying to free himself from their grips.

A cool hand on his chest stopped his struggles abruptly.

“I’m going to fuck you now, Severus,” Voldemort whispered, and the feral edge that suddenly bloomed on his smile made Snape’s tired prick twitch with anticipation even as his belly knotted with fear. “I’m going to fuck you to your core, to places you never even knew you had. I’m going to fuck you with my tongue, with my fingers, with my cock…and with my Mark.”

He rose sinuously to his knees and began to disrobe, eyes never leaving those of the young man beneath him. His body was pale as a pearl, lean and gorgeous, but it was the look of savage hunger on his face that made Severus almost weak with longing. That look confirmed that Voldemort didn’t want to just fuck him; he wanted to own him, to possess him in every single possible way, and Severus had been looking for that kind of acceptance his entire life. Hell, by now he had been fucked more times than he could count, but he couldn’t remember the last time he had been truly and completely wanted. Maybe ages.

Maybe never.

He could almost hear Black’s voice, raised in outraged protest: You lying little shit! I looked at you like that! I wanted—

No. He was not going to spoil this moment with thoughts of Sirius Black.

Murmuring slightly under his breath, Voldemort lowered himself atop the trembling teenager and kissed him, gently this time, with no trace of greed or force. Severus felt rather disappointed; already, he found himself craving his Lord’s cruel power, his total domination. But the hands restraining him gave an exciting edge of danger to the proceedings, and the kiss was quite skillful, slowly building in intensity until it became as ravenous and ruthless as he could have wished. Indeed, it was so intense that even when the Dark Lord finally pulled away, Snape would have sworn he could still feel the bruising lips and searching tongue working against his own.

Voldemort’s mouth moved down, latching onto his throat, onto the smooth pulsing flesh directly over the jugular. A sharp bite brought a yelp of surprised pain and fear; a hard sucking pressure raised a throbbing welt that made him writhe and curse; a cool swipe of that amazing tongue soothed the bruised flesh and provoked a languid hiss. And once again, even after the mouth had moved on, Severus could still feel the same sensations, in exactly the same place, at exactly the same intensity, being played out again and again and again. Bite. Suck. Lick.


The Dark Lord moved on. He took hold of a nipple, sucking and nibbling almost daintily, slowly teasing the sensitive nub to hardness. Like that first kiss, the contact would have ordinarily been too gentle for Snape’s liking, but now, combined with the hot biting kisses on his mouth and his neck — kisses unseen but most definitely felt — the soft flares of pleasure in his nipple were magnified one hundredfold. After only a minute or two, Voldemort moved on to the other nipple, but it hardly mattered; the nibbling and licking and soft sucking sensations somehow continued in both.

It’s a spell, Snape thought hazily, he’s using a spell to make me feel like this—

He thought he had heard the word “resonate” in the slurry Latin/English gibberish Voldemort was chanting — and was that it? Was Voldemort using a spell to make everything he did to Severus echo through his body, outward and onward, spreading inexorably and endlessly like ripples on a pond?

“Stop analyzing everything, my little Slytherin,” came Voldemort’s soft whisper. “Just feel. Stop thinking and feel.” His lips brushed belly as he spoke, the tongue darting in to explore the boy’s navel, and Severus shivered. Whether the source of the shiver was the intense pleasure Voldemort was building in his body or the fact that the Dark Lord had so clearly read his thoughts, Snape couldn’t have said.

A moment later, he couldn’t have cared less.

The tongue trailed down from his belly to his groin, weaving leisurely through the crisp black curls, skirting his rising prick and moving past it, leaving lingering echoes of sensation in its path. The tongue moved over his balls and then behind them, stroking along his cleft, licking firmly over and all around his fluttering asshole before sliding smoothly in.

Severus cried out and began to thrash again, although his efforts now had nothing to do with trying to get away.

"More,” he begged, as if the invisible attentions to his mouth and neck and nipples and belly and balls weren’t enough, as if the tongue feeding his clutching hole could possibly give him any more pleasure. “More, oh, gods, more, more!”

Smiling to himself, Voldemort gave him more. He lazily fucked the greedy flesh, slowly, magically extending his tongue just as he had when he had pleasured the boy’s prick, worrying and burrowing around in the delicious musky heat until his victim was almost sobbing with ecstasy. He was indeed enhancing this initiation with charms and spells, but this particular brand of magic, this inspired use of his artful tongue, was all his own. Well — except for the part where he made it almost a foot long, but that was just a minor improvement, after all. Besides, everybody knew it wasn’t the size of the wand, so to speak, but what one did with it that counted.

And if the reactions of the horny little brat convulsing under him right now were any indication, it counted for plenty.

Easily, he slithered another inch of tongue into the grasping asshole — slithering into the Slytherin, oh, yes, he quite liked that — and allowed himself another smug smile as the hungry flesh closed convulsively around him. He lapped wet heat over the boy’s prostate and Severus went absolutely wild, twisting violently against the gripping hands and screaming his pleasure. “Oh, gods, yes, my Lord, fuck me, my Lord, lick me, suck me, fuck me—”

“Oh, my. You are getting quite emotional about all this, aren’t you, young Severus?”

A hissing laugh, directly above him. Severus opened his eyes and saw the Dark Lord’s face smiling down at him. He blinked blearily. How the hell was Voldemort up there, talking to him, when his mouth was — well, was so obviously occupied elsewhere? Even as he tried to ponder it, his body bucked helplessly once more, the tongue he would have sworn on his life was still inside him bathing his prostate again.

And again. And again.

How the hell—?

“Stop analyzing,” Voldemort repeated, rather snappishly this time. “Let it go, boy.” He wasn’t truly angry, but he was irritated; until now, he never would have believed it possible to meet a Slytherin who was too suspicious. But even for a Dark Lord, the Greatest Sorcerer Who Ever Lived, it was galling to have all of his best sexual tricks picked apart and scrutinized by a wet-behind-the-ears pup like this. Especially when those tricks were otherwise turning the pup into a flesh-colored puddle in his hands.

Well, then. Perhaps it was time to give the pup something else to think about.

He shifted himself up and slid his hands under the flexing buttocks, lifting them, spreading them, and the Death Eaters holding Snape took their cue and silently followed suit, folding his legs up and pulling them farther apart. Voldemort positioned himself carefully, the head of his cock just barely brushing the boy’s entrance, his first slight thrust just barely breaching him. Severus, still squirming with pleasure at what felt like a dozen wet, warm Voldemort mouths exciting him in a dozen different places at once, didn’t seem to notice it, any of it, at all.

But you’ll notice this, won’t you, my brainy little whore? Voldemort thought, and he pistoned his hips forward hard and fast, burying himself completely in the younger man’s tight heat.

Severus let out a strangled cry. It was an animalistic sound, full of mixed fear and pain that went straight to Voldemort’s prick and made him withdraw and thrust again, even harder, giving the boy no time to adjust to the tearing pressure inside him. Oh, it was so beautiful, young flesh always was, so clutching and creamy-soft, so hungry and hot, so tender and so naively expectant of a tenderness he was incapable of giving in return.

“Ah — no — oh, oh, gods — please, no—”

Severus tried to beg, forcing the words out through shivering, moaning gasps of pain. Dear gods, he had never been entered so violently, never; not even Black, Black at his angriest, had ever ripped into him like this. Even the myriad gorgeous sensations Voldemort had created in every other part of his body could not distract him from this clawing fire at his core; he sensed them dimly, still there, still working to arouse him, but they were faint, lost, buried in the explosiveness of this pain.

“Your pain is my pleasure,” Voldemort intoned, and Severus felt himself immersed in those red, red eyes. “And my pleasure is yours.”

“No— no—”

“Your pain is my pleasure, Severus.”

“— oh, gods, gods, please—”

Your pain is my pleasure, Severus.

Not spoken. Thought. He heard the words not with his ears, but with his mind. The Dark Lord was sending to him, and despite the hard thrusts and the maddened light in those terrible eyes, the voice in his head was almost kind. Calm. Steady. Soothing, even.

But relentless.

Your pain is my pleasure, Severus. And my pleasure is yours.

Severus struggled. He resisted the invasion of his mind as frantically as he fought against the rape of his body, trying to retreat to his mental safe room, trying to hide. But the Dark Lord’s will was overwhelming; it plucked and pulled and hammered at his defenses until he felt himself dropping them, one by one, laying his mind as naked and open as the rest of him.

Read me, child. Feel what I feel. Reach.

Severus Reached.

His eyes went wide with astonishment, and a whimpering little gasp escaped his lips. He could feel it, all of it: every glorious sensation coursing through the other man, mixing with his own pain until he couldn’t tell the difference and didn’t care. His nerves danced, his flesh quivered and crawled, every inch of his body alive in a way it had never been before.

My pleasure is yours.

And it was.

It still hurt — dear gods, it hurt like fire! But it was also delicious, brutal and pounding and so, so good. Without any conscious effort on his part, his body began moving in time with the body above him, thrusting up to meet every savage invasion, his hole gripping the angry raping cock like a silken vise.

Voldemort felt the change immediately, felt his victim responding to his viciousness with helpless desire, and he increased the violence of his movements. He gazed into the younger wizard’s eyes and saw raw terror vying with raw lust, and his own desire swelled into something like love. This was innocence and youth dying in his arms, bleeding out of the straining body beneath him, bleeding out all around and through his foraging cock, and oh! it was so sweet he could have cried.

“Oh, oh, yes, oh, fuck, yes, please, yes, so good, so fucking good, please please please—”

Severus’s words dissolved into throat-tearing sounds of purest ecstasy, moans and hoarse shouts spilling from him in a husky flood. The hands clutching his sweaty arms and legs bit into his flesh as they tried vainly to control his thrashings; long black hair flew wildly as he tossed his head from side to side, as if in denial of the climax that felt like it was about to tear him apart. He was so close that flares of red and green and gold were exploding behind his eyelids.

So close.

On the brink.

Teetering…right there…just a little more…

Voldemort muttered yet again, and Severus felt everything stop all at once, everything from the aching, ripping fullness pounding deep inside him to the phantom lips and tongues moving over and within every inch of his body. He couldn’t come, but the sensation of imminent orgasm remained, and he screamed in rage and frustration as he was held, hovering, on the tight-wire between need and release.

The Dark Lord, still buried deep in his body, leaned forward and placed his hand on the boy’s left arm. He muttered a single word — “Morsmordres” — and Severus screamed again as his world dissolved in pain.

No. Not pain. Agony, ripping into his arm, coursing through his body, and there was no pleasure possible in this pain, none at all: it was brutal and all-consuming, the pain of snapping bone and rending sinews, the slice of a knife, the burn of an acid. It was madness made of his flesh.

Voldemort smiled. Tendrils of smoke rose from the twitching skin beneath his hand.

Severus heard sobs and vaguely recognized them as his own. He could smell his flesh cooking, and that smell, sweet and thick and choking, made his stomach roil. Blackness threatened to take him from all sides, and he scrabbled for it, seeking the mercy of unconsciousness, but terror had him in an icy hand and wouldn’t let go.

Look now, child, at all you have suffered.

The pain ebbed, and, as it did, memories began to cascade through his head. Images long-forgotten came to him again, old hurts and hates reawakened as the Mark ate its poisonous way into him. The day his grandmother died. The day they took his mum away. The night his father caught him reading about the Cruciatus Curse and used it on him as punishment. His first flying lesson — Potter had hexed his broom, and he had fallen off and fractured three ribs. Potter hanging him upside down, cawing, “Who wants to see me take off his pants?” Lily calling him “Snivellus.” Pettigrew whining, “His blood was so pretty.” Potter’s finger inside him. The dog’s come sliding out of him while he lay retching at Black’s feet. Black’s face, hating and hated.

You despise them, don’t you? Those who have abused you, abandoned you, shunned and hurt and humiliated you all your young life. You would like to see them punished, wouldn’t you? We can hurt them, Severus. We can make them bleed. Together we can make them crawl and cringe and pray for mercy. Just as you’ve prayed, so often, for a mercy that never came.

New images flashed through his mind. Potter, fifty feet in the air and about to score, plummeting from his broom and landing in a shattered, oozing heap. Pettigrew stuffing himself with poisoned chocolates until he puked up his own insides. Black on all fours, chained and naked, a dog — a horrid mutant of a dog, with a monstrous, misshapen prick and great white scythes for fangs — fucking him bloody even as it tore his throat to shreds.

His father. Eyes vacant and staring. Face frozen in terror. Dead.

Terrible images. Unspeakable desires. Part of Severus recoiled from them, guilt-stricken, repelled, horrified. To his credit, it was the larger part…but it was no match for the part of him that embraced them with a savage, sweeping joy. Imagine Potter’s head smashed open like a rotten gourd. Imagine Black screaming, or the old man getting a taste of the Cruciatus for himself. As the Mark’s magic flowed through him, feeding itself on a rage sixteen years in the making, it changed him, and that small part of him took over completely. Horror? Guilt? What did he have to feel guilty for? They had earned his wrath, no matter how violent; they had earned the bloodiest revenge he could devise. Revenge was his right against these people, his enemies, his life-long tormentors. Revenge was why he was here.

Then say it, child.

Still, he hesitated, some vestige of rationality, of conscience, of his essential humanity, trying feebly to assert itself through this spiraling madness.

Say it, child. Impatience colored the thought now. Impatience, and irritation, and — Severus struggled to focus, to concentrate — surprise? Was that surprise in the Dark Lord’s mind, surprise at being balked in this, in anything, even for an instant? Severus rather thought it was, and a flare of fierce gladness rushed up from somewhere deep within him, unbidden and unconcealed, shocking them both.

Voldemort’s eyes flashed. He dove deeper into the boy’s mind, clawing for more memories and releasing them at random, ripping open old wounds, poisoning him with his own sad history. He squeezed the slender arm burning under his hand, and the chaotic stream of hate and conscience and rage and resistance in the boy’s mind stopped abruptly, lost in a fresh surge of agony. Voldemort saw this surge clearly in his own head, a swirl of red and black nothingness, and he felt it as the boy jerked beneath him like a condemned man hitting the end of the rope.

Y-yes. The boy’s thought was clear enough, his meaning and intent, but it was a weak, pathetic whisper of a thought — hardly the ardent vow Voldemort wanted and expected. Yes, I — I accept.

Aloud, child. So that your brothers and sisters might hear you. Aloud…and with a bit more feeling, if you would.

“Oh, please,” the boy begged. He was sobbing, his body convulsing; his mind teetered alarmingly, and for one cold moment it occurred to Voldemort that he might actually lose him if this went on much longer, that there was a limit to what the human body and mind could stand. “I said it, I did, oh, my Lord, please, this pain, gods Jesus, please, this pain—

“Then end the pain, you stupid boy! Say it!”

He withdrew almost completely from the writhing body and thrust back as hard as he could. He felt the flesh tear; liquid warmth trickled around his cock, and he knew it was the boy’s blood.

Severus shrieked.

“YES!” The word bounced off the high ceiling and echoed back, a crazed cacophony of screams. “Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!”

Yes, the Dark Lord thought. At last. He took his hand off the boy’s arm; the red-black madness of the boy’s thoughts turned a cool and creamy blue as the pain vanished. Pleasure rushed in to take its place, and Severus gave a soft cry, jerked once more, and climaxed.

Then he passed out.

Voldemort, finally free to loose the tight rein he’d held on himself throughout the initiation, began pounding into him again, thrusting hard and fast until his own orgasm overtook him and he shot deep inside the warm, limp body. It was a surprisingly powerful orgasm, even for an initiation, and he had to withdraw from the boy quickly and sit back, lest he collapse like a tired old man on top of him.

That would be a lapse. That would be a sign of weakness. All-powerful Dark Lords could not afford such displays.

Not yet trusting his voice — for surely panting like a spent mongrel on a hot day was another sign of weakness — he motioned brusquely to his minions. As one, they let go of Snape’s arms and legs and melted back into the shadows. He looked the boy over, his face set and contemplative. There were dark rings of bruises on Severus’s wrists and ankles, scratches and more bruises up and down his body, and blood on his mouth — he had bitten deep into his bottom lip during the taking of his Mark. More blood ran in a thin rivulet down the cleft of his ass, staining the white marble beneath him.

Voldemort’s expression remained thoughtful as he passed his ugly hands over the boy’s body, healing his small wounds and pains. Severus did not stir. It was a point in his favor, as far as Voldemort was concerned. He rather liked that passing-out bit at the end — it gave the delicious sensation, however fleeting, that one was fucking a corpse.

With a liquid grace worthy of his favorite pet, Voldemort slid from the altar and pulled on his robes. He drew his wand and pointed it at the unconscious teenager. “Rouse yourself, child,” he intoned. “It is time to test our bond.”

Severus stirred, fluttered his eyes, made a small sound. He lifted himself groggily up on his elbows, looking all around the room before he focused on the regal figure standing at the foot of the altar. “My Lord?”

Voldemort nodded. “Indeed.”

He pointed his wand at the boy’s left arm. The Mark, a pink scrawl barely visible on the white, white skin, flared a bloody red-black. A startled little “Oh!” was yanked from the boy’s throat as he hardened yet again, long before his abused, exhausted flesh was ready. He began to buck, helplessly fucking air, his eyes huge and staring and frightened.

“Yes, I know,” Voldemort chuckled. “Lucius told me. You despise being stimulated so soon after. But part of your bond to me is obedience, Severus. Instant, unquestioning submission to my will. And you will endure this terrible pleasure if I will it, child. No matter if it drives you to the very edge of sanity.”

He twitched his wand slightly, and Severus cried out again, his lovely voice cracked and husky from screaming.

Lust, warm and pulsing, filled the room. It came from all sides, as the gathered Death Eaters watched their newest initiate writhe and gibber and moan. Lucius Malfoy, standing in the shadows with his fellows, could not take his eyes off Severus; he was more beautiful than Lucius had ever seen him. And when Voldemort twitched the wand again and Severus’s orgasm seized him, Lucius thought that if Sirius Black were here to see Severus right now, like this, the stupid Gryffindor’s heart would have stopped dead in his chest even as his cock swelled with desire.

Severus was still leaning back on his forearms, his knees bent and spread, his ruined robes a silver puddle beneath him. Every muscle in his body stood out in trembling relief as he arched into his climax, back bent in a graceful bow, his smooth skin gleaming with sweat. His head was thrown back, that remarkable fall of blue-black hair trailing down, his mouth open, his black eyes half-closed in ecstasy. The long dark lashes — and why had Lucius never noticed them before? he wondered; they were beautiful — made sooty half-circles against his flushed cheeks.

Then another spasm hit him and he arched still higher, the firm muscled globes of his ass bunching and clenching, and it took every ounce of Lucius Malfoy’s self-control not to jump up on the table and bury himself deep in the offered flesh.

That, and knowing what Voldemort would do to him if he dared so much as nibble at the Dark Lord’s newest treat.

Lucius let out a small moan of his own and clutched at the edge of the table for support. When his hand brushed his painfully erect cock instead, he decided that that would do even better. He plunged his hand into his robes and began to stroke himself, trying to time his rhythm to the thrustings of Snape’s slender hips, imagining it was the sweet suction of the younger wizard’s body pleasuring him instead.

Many of the other Death Eaters were busy under their own robes as well. It seemed a general, unspoken consensus among them that Snape, their newest and youngest initiate, was putting on a wonderful show, perhaps the best any of them had ever seen. Of course, none of them actually remembered any of the other initiations they had witnessed — the Dark Lord routinely Obliviated them after each one — but they didn’t have to remember to know that this one was exquisite.

Only one person in the room appeared unmoved by the raw sexual display: the man responsible for it. Voldemort’s expression was one of almost clinical interest as he watched the young Death Eater convulsing on the table. He could have been sitting on a bus reading the business section of a Muggle newspaper for all the emotion he displayed.

He was…troubled.

It was not that he was displeased with his newest acquisition: Severus Snape would indeed be a valuable addition to the Dark Order. Not only was he the most brilliant Potions prospect Hogwarts had produced in a hundred years, and powerfully magical — Voldemort could feel the power in him, radiating from him, as hot as the lusty sex-heat itself — it also appeared that he was quite the little fuck-toy. So hungry he was, so slutty and wild…and, soon-to-be-ruler-of-the-world or not, Lord Voldemort was not entirely above such concerns. It wasn’t essential that one always enjoy one’s work, of course — but it was certainly a benefit.

Voldemort smiled inwardly. He took in the panting mouth, long smooth body, tight ass, and the big wet cock thrusting mindlessly in the air, and he thought: What’s not to like?

And, yet…?

And yet.

Snape had resisted him. Only for a moment, true, but even a moment was too long — long enough, certainly, to send an uneasy prickle along Voldemort’s spine, to plant a flicker of doubt in the very back of his mind. The giving of the Mark was a ceremony of immense power, Voldemort’s will made flesh by the darkest magic he could devise, and no one had ever managed to defy him in its throes, ever. No one had ever even tried.

Until now.

It troubled him. It troubled him even more that he didn’t know what had fueled it. Perhaps this one actually had a conscience? A few of them did, at first, whether they liked it or not, though usually that type had had lives far sunnier and easier than Severus Snape’s. Or perhaps it was just sheer cussedness, just plain old-fashioned teenage rebelliousness — a not-uncommon reaction, given the ages of some of his followers. He did indeed love the young ones, but that love was very much a double-edged sword; too often, along with the firm bodies and wide eyes and sweet, trembling fear came that tiresome adolescent need to be defiant at all costs.

Or — and he had to consider it; he was a man who stayed alive by considering everything — perhaps Severus was not truly committed to him.

On its face, it seemed absurd. The boy was the most perfect clay for the Dark Lord’s particular brand of shaping that Voldemort had ever encountered. Emotionally ravaged. Physically abused. Strong enough to want something more, something better, yet not so strong as to believe he could ever get it on his own. And he was so damned smart, so logical and coldly precise in his thinking. He did not seem the type to allow something as useless and self-defeating as conventional morality get in his way just as the means to his end were within his grasp at last.

Absently, Voldemort sent another orgasm through him. The spasms looked actually painful now, and he felt a childish sort of satisfaction. If he could know for certain that Severus was not his, completely and irrevocably, he could kill him here and now. Would kill him now — perhaps, even, with this very spell. He had heard of some Muggle doing that, the Marquis of something or other, bringing his victims to climax after climax until their hearts simply gave out, like rusty old pumps. Not as clean as Avada Kedavra, perhaps, but infinitely more entertaining.

But he didn’t know for certain. Even with his Leglimency skills, even with the boy’s mind laid wide open and senseless before him, he could not be completely sure. And without that certainty, he could not kill the boy. He didn’t want to kill the boy, really. He was quite tasty; more importantly, he was clever and curious and immensely talented. Human life per se meant nothing to Lord Voldemort — Muggles, for instance, were parasites, with no more reason to take up space and air than the fleas on a dog — but the taking of a talented life was wasteful and tragic.

So…no. He would not kill young Snape. Not now. Not yet. But he would watch him. Every thought the boy had, every move he made, every command he did (or did not) leap gladly to obey, would be examined and judged and measured down to the last detail. And if he saw even a trace of that troubling resistance, even the barest hint that Severus Snape believed he still belonged to Severus Snape, he would make Severus Snape very sorry indeed. He would make Severus Snape dead. He would hate to do that, but he would do it anyway.

Wresting one final violent orgasm from the boy, Voldemort at last lowered his wand. Severus collapsed onto the unforgiving marble like a marionette whose strings have been cut, face slack, eyes glazed. For a second or two, the Dark Lord was alarmed — had he killed the brat after all? — before he realized that Severus was simply passed out.


What a lovely little thing he was, really.

The Death Eaters stirred, shifting with eager, rustling restlessness, moving closer to the altar. They knew what came next, what always came next. Flesh has its own memory, and all of them, Obliviated or not, knew that much.

Pushing away his doubts, Voldemort bent over the pale form on the altar and gently kissed his lips. There was mild magic in even that soft touch, and Severus stirred. As Voldemort drew away to search his face, Severus’s eyes fluttered open, lost and confused at first, then sharpening on the Dark Lord’s face.

“You are mine now, child,” Voldemort whispered, and though it was not a question — and though the boy did not know it — Severus Snape’s very life rested on the answer.

“Yes, my Lord,” he whispered back. “I am yours.”

Yes. Simple. Without hesitation. And he meant it: Voldemort searched his mind for deceit, for doubt, for some carefully-concealed nugget of defiance, and found nothing but love, a devotion so pure and uncalculated — and so foreign to the boy — that it seemed to frighten him a little. A devotion that, in his own pleasure at the boy’s response, Voldemort was able to return.

With a benign smile and a tender caress to Severus’s cheek, Lord Voldemort straightened and raised his arms dramatically skyward. “It is time, my children, to give your brother a proper welcome.” He lowered his arms and paused, wanting Severus’s eyes again, wanting to see them change at his next words. Normally at this point, he would simply back away and let the others have at the new initiate, without all the drama, and certainly without any hint of what was to come. It was easier for them that way. Less frightening.

But not this time. This time, he would give Severus a moment or two of terrified apprehension before the rite began. He did love the boy right now, and was very pleased with him…but that did not mean his earlier behavior could go completely unpunished.

“You may do with him as you please.”

Like a swarm of hungry beetles, the circle closed. The last the Dark Lord saw of him, before the mass of robes and hands and feverish, jostling bodies obscured Severus completely from view, were indeed the boy’s eyes, full of crumbling hurt and dismay. So naive, so vulnerable…Voldemort gave a dark chuckle as he slipped from the room and locked the door behind him.

Sweet Salazar, but he just loved the young ones.

Chapter 8