Contradiction

TITLE: Contradiction

AUTHOR: Kohl

EMAIL: kohl_dreamweaver@hotmail.com

RATING: NC-17

FANDOM: Harry Potter

SUMMARY: Written for the Roughside Slavefic Fest. (http://groups.yahoo.com/group/roughside/) Challenge #1: Snape uses Harry publicly; Snape may be genuinely pleased to be doing this or trying not to blow his cover. (Amanuensis)

DISCLAIMER: Not mine, for which they must thank their lucky stars. JK Rowling is God.

NOTES: Not my main challenge, but I wanted to get this done in case I didn't finish the other in time. Purposefully confusing, and probably only just deserving of the rating. Feedback of any kind much apreciated.

*****

Crack of whip. Answering streak across the redwhite back, blossoming slowly. Tendrils of colour twining across that pale, pale skin, curling around him lovingly.

Thicker tendrils binding him too, coarse ropes that he strains against, falls slack into, defiant, defeated. A new jerk at every blow, a new shaking in the spent limbs. He's long ago abandoned his resolve not to make a sound for their enjoyment; now he has gone right through to the other side, opening his mouth again and again in soundless screams.

Crack of whip. Smack of flesh. Jerk. Shudder. White noise. Repeat.

No taking his mind off what he is doing; they're feeding on his enjoyment of this as much as on the sight itself. Reach deep inside. Touch the thorny places, make them flower. Love this. Want it.

Crack of whip. Again. Again.

The shaking hasn't stopped this time. The rhythm is lost. The jerks and the shuddering and the voiceless cries are coming without pattern. He thrashes in the bonds like a puppet choked by its own strings.

Dry eyes red and teary, staring, wider and wider, black holes opening up inside them. Don't see the mocking faces. Suck them in. Crush them to a point. Lose yourself.

Knifeblade, flickering like a flame in the torchlight, teasing along the pre-drawn lines. No going to sleep, little boy. Not yet. We still have work to do.

Fascination. Blood is common stuff. It shouldn't be this beautiful. Curious finger, tasting, testing, tracing, swirling. Oh, the pretty patterns that could be drawn on parchment like this..... Restlessness in the crowd; time to move on.

Coolhot breach, smooth finger plunging roughly inside. Jeers from the crowd.

Goes in slick and cold, comes out sticky and warmed. Drink it all in, good boy. Again. Again. Yes, arch your back, just like that. Let them look at you. It has to be a good show, dearest. Another now, and another. Don't thrash so.

Eyes staring at their lids, screwed tight shut. Burning that should be quenched by tears, but there are none left. Burning everywhere. Stripes across his back, slow leak of warm blood. Burning inside. Pain that isn't quite pain.

Pleasure that isn't quite pleasure as the long thrust goes home. Tight, wet, hot. Hiss of breath stirring the feathered black hair. Teeth breaking open the white unmarred neck. Copper tang, salt and warmth. Not too much. Leave him something.

Hands tracing down, teasing, caressing. Mocking. Eyes fixed on him. Grip fixed on him. Vise on his cock, pumping, demanding. Nothing belongs to him anymore. He's being taken with him into the dark, spasming heat even as mind seems to break the last tie with body. More screaming. He thinks he actually made a sound that time. A breaking rush and sticky warmth on his thighs and stomach as he spirals forward into the red-sparked blackness.

**********

And when they're alone, away from it all, there's no apology from Snape. Just the tap of a wand and a silenced scream of pain as he transfers the marks from Harry's back to his own.