S is for Sacher-Masoch

Harry had received detention. What more, he had received detention with professor Snape. With a lump in his throat he opened the door to the classroom and realised he was the only one on detention this evening.
Snape was standing in wait for him, his arms folded. When he saw Harry approach, he stretched out his arm and pointed at a desk with one of his sudden, serpentlike movements, and Harry made to go and sit at it. Before he had the chance to sit down, however, Snape grabbed him by the hair and forced him forward over the desk. Harry assumed the humiliation and discomfort of the position was to be part of his punishment. The teacher left him standing thus while he paced about the room, questioning Harry in the art of potion making.
After some time, when Harry’s legs had begun to tremble from the strain of standing bent over the desk, Snape came and stood behind him, just out of sight. So far, Harry had answered all of his questions correctly, thanks to Hermione’s hints and sheer luck, but having the professor hover over him just out of sight made him nervous enough to forget something as vital as what a bezoar was good for.
“What is the difference between deadly nightshade and belladonna?” Snape demanded.
“Deadly nightshade is… deadlier, sir?” Harry guessed.
“Wrong.”
Harry felt something hard – Snape’s wand – lash down across his buttocks. He winced, more surprised than hurt. The stinging pain spread a tingly feeling through his entire body and to his stunned amazement he felt something stir in the front of his pants. Snape continued interrogating him as if nothing had occurred, but Harry was too flummoxed to remember anything at all from potions class. For each incorrect answer, Snape whipped his wand across Harry’s buttocks. Harry, now prepared, clenched his teeth, determined not to make another sound.
“Clearly, this isn’t enough to correct an ignorance as great as yours.” Snape decided after the third lashing, “Please remove your trousers, Mr Potter.”
Harry didn’t move.
“I said, remove your trousers.” Snape repeated with a gesture of his wand that made Harry’s pants fall to the floor.
Harry shut his eyes hard and prayed the teacher wouldn’t notice the bulge in front of his underwear. Professor Snape used his bare hand instead of magic to remove the remaining layer of cloth from Harry’s behind, and Harry feared the teacher must have felt the fabric tugging at the his straining sex. He braced himself in preparation for the wand whipping down across his naked buttocks.
Instead, he sensed rather than heard the professor tamper with many small buttons. Something warm and hard and larger than a wand touched Harry’s buttocks, and he could feel it pressing bluntly against the tight opening between them.
“Am I too large for you, Mr Potter?” Snape enquired in his most deadpan voice.
“N – no sir.” Harry panted.
He wished desperately to be filled up by the immensity of that which the professor pressed against him, and intensely imagined accommodating it. It worked like magic on his tense muscles, and the first inch of it slipped inside him. He gasped.
“You think you can take all of me, Potter?” Snape asked, still in the same deadpan voice.
“Yes, sir. Please, sir.” Harry whimpered.
“Very well.”
Snape grabbed him by the hair and forced his head up.
As he thrust the full length of himself into Harry he muttered under his breath: “Just like your father.”
Harry wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly, and for the time being he didn’t care. Snape had hit a spot he didn’t know he had in him and he saw stars bursting and cascading in front of his still closed eyes. Everything melted away: the desk he was leaning on, the classroom, the absurdity of the situation… All he could feel was a pleasure so strong it made him cry out.
When he came to, Snape was behind his desk correcting essays. Harry couldn’t tell whether the teacher had transported himself there via magic, or whether Harry had indeed been so far gone he hadn’t noticed him crossing the room. He seemed to mean for the student to collect himself and leave without as much as a look. But Harry had no intention of letting him get away with that. Snape might have had him completely in his power a moment ago, but now he recalled what he’d heard, or thought he’d heard, and he wanted answers. Demanded them! He strutted up to the teacher’s desk as determinedly as his trembling knees would let him, but as he stood before him he was lost for words.
“Yes?” Snape enquired coolly.
His dark glance hit Harry like a spell, but he braced himself against it and worked up the courage to ask: “What’s that you said about my father?”
“Do you really want to know?” Snape’s voice was full of contempt.
“Yes!” Harry almost screamed.
“Very well.” Snape calmly put down his quill and looked Harry in the eyes, “Your father frequently came creeping into Snivellus’” – he spat out the word – “bed, so full of guilt he let me have him any way I pleased.”
“He didn’t!” Harry gasped.
“Oh yes, he did.” The shadow of a triumphant smile lurked about the corner of Snape’s mouth, “Just like you come creeping now…”
“I didn’t -!” Harry interrupted, but Snape silenced him with a gesture.
“Your father couldn’t live with the undeserved fame, couldn’t stand being the golden boy, and neither can you. Plagued by doubts, you come to me for that essential drop of bitter wormwood to the brew.”
“I didn’t come to you!” Harry tried again, “It was you, who -!”
“I merely had to wait.” Snape retorted, his voice tinged with anger at Harry’s cowardice, “Don’t tell me you didn’t ache for it.”
Harry hung his head, unable to tell such a lie.
“Your father ached for it, too. He needed it – needed me – to keep up appearances.”
Snape fell silent for a while, letting his words sink in. Harry thought he understood now, understood the source of Snape’s bitter resentment, and he felt a pang of pity for the scorned professor.
“And then – my mother took him away from you.” he guessed boldly.
Snape rose to his feet in an instant, towering over Harry with his hands leaning on the desk: “Don’t you dare weaving sentimental fairytales about me and your blessed parents! For your information, Potter, our competing for the favour of your mother was nothing but a perfect cover.”
“D- did she know?” Harry ventured to ask.
Snape sat down again, calmed that Harry’s pity was transferred from himself to Lily.
“No. For all she knew, we were sworn enemies. And so we were. Only the part of our rivalry concerning her was a mere charade.”
“Oh.”
“That was a competition your father won, naturally, having much greater need for a beautiful, dutiful wife to perfect the illusion.” He paused to estimate the effect on his words on Harry, “I admit I sometimes feel sorry for your mother, Potter. In her darkest moments, the thought must have crossed her mind, that –“
“What?” Harry asked breathlessly.
“That she would have won a purer love, had she chosen me. Not that your father didn’t treat her well, he did, cherished her – as one cherishes a precious trophy.” Snape put cruel emphasis on the last few words.
“Don’t speak like that of my parents!” Harry blurted out.
“But it’s true.” Snape raised his eyebrows in mock regret, the ghost of a triumphant smile once again passing over his face.
Harry spun around and dashed blindly for the door, knowing full well it was.