The Pet

There is no safe word, and no worry for his safety. He is expected to keep himself safe, to hide when he hears the front door's alarm chime. He is trained softly and gently, but punished soundly when he disobeys. Still, it is never anything he cannot take, and he wonders sometimes if occlumency is being used on him. He doesn't mind, if it's for this purpose. He doesn't mind the silence, because everything else says enough. He doesn't mind the secrecy, because he fears people anyway. Sometimes he misses singing, and now he knows that occlumency is being used, because he is shown that the closet inside the bedchamber is soundproof, and when he hides within it he sings sometimes, softly. His voice is still soprano and alto, and soon becomes supple again as he practises. He wishes that he would be allowed to sing for his rescuer, and suddenly it is offered quietly as his master shuts the door to the enormous closet behind his own beautiful form, and the slave's voice catches in his throat.

"You want to sing for me." The words are the first he remembers hearing, and the tone is just as delicious--he is slick and hot immediately, his breath catching. He'd forgotten how much words did it for him. Before he could answer, his saviour smiles and tilts his head up using the familiar riding crop.

"You like words." It isn't a question, and he wants to answer yes yes yes oh fuck yes, please talk to me please, but his body isn't letting him and his kitty is swollen with arousal and everything tingles at the sheer attention, the pleasure his master took in his reactions.

The leather crop's scent fills the air before him and he feels the control that has been ripped away. He is no more allowed to move his head, though he has the urge to nod. "Yes master," he answers softly.

The crop is taken away, and the dark robes whirl as the figure turns to stand in profile, looking thoughtful as he taps the crop to his lips.

"Sing, boy."

The name nearly brings him to climax, as it always does. Boy, boy, boy... he repeats in his mind, over and over, rapturous. Struggling, he manages to regain composure and begins to sing a soft melody in French. Inwardly he supposed it said something profound that he shared a song so close to his heart.

When it ends, the blackavised man turns back to face him, something that is perhaps a tiny hint of a smile on his lips. "Very sweet," he says in his soft, silken voice. "Boy, boy, boy..." he repeats his pet's mental chant, stepping closer with every word. Seeing the recognition in the youth's eyes he smiles, revelling in the slight humiliation of flushed cheeks and downcast eyes before relenting his attack; this one was delicate, like he had been. "Good boy."

"Thank you, sir," says his pet, eyes still unused to the absence of wire and lens to help them see, blinking and flickering as though afraid attack would come from all directions.

Snape smiled; So he had read the thoughts about the vision correction clearly: they were mixed, and settled to remain so. The thoughts about Snape, however, were clear and loyal in ways he'd never imagined. This creature was loyal, and yet not blindly, disgustingly so. He knew many things that he should not have known, and yet did not have manipulative ideas. How? Why? ...It didn't matter; he was here now, this lost thing that Snape had saved without much thought, and now the potions master had a pet, an assistant who was competent and blessedly quiet--for the youth did not talk except for soft curses (which Snape had thrashed him for) and now the quiet affirmations of obedience. The voice that had been hidden was smooth and beautiful, but shattered the masquerade of boy with its feminine timbre.

Never mind; Snape was quite happy to have so laconic a companion, for quietude did not mean stupidity with this one. He caught quickly on, and though he was not fast in some things, he was steady and precise in his work.

Now, however...the submissive muggle seemed content to be as quiet as Snape wished, but clearly had wanted to be spoken to more often. This, Snape could do. The need for silence was over for now, and he caressed the pale neck with the crop.

"Do not move until I return."

The boy shifted slightly in reaction to being in this position for a while, and Snape left the small, empty room. Closet it was meant to be, but nothing was in it. He'd mused over turning it into the boy's room, but liked the warmth of the creature against his body at night more; the dizzying level of need was gratifying, though Snape was not so cruel as to toy with it--the boy had been through enough, and was obedient as well as thoughtful and sweet. However much he denied it verbally, the wizard was fond of the sweetness. Who wouldn't like to be surprised with a shoulder massage, or with ingredients perfectly prepared come morning? The tiny things the boy rarely asked were provided well enough; even the baths that were so dangerous. The boy was delicate, it seemed, and would faint when submerged in a hot bath. So the baths were made cool and the tub never filled; though Snape wouldn't admit it, he left a spying crystal in the room to make sure the boy wouldn't go unconscious again--the first time was more than enough.

* * *

It was out of curiosity that Snape prised open the thoughts on hair; the boy never used soap, only asking for oils and eggs and various other things to make the goo that he then saturated his long curls with. What the potions master found was a wealth of information that had been hidden away, mixed with a healthy desire to take care of Snape's own hair, and for Snape to grow it longer, until the ends brushed at his hips. The desire skipped over the border between fetish and simple desire gleefully, the trichophilia seeming unashamed of itself. Hair should always be long, and should always be how nature gave it. This was the thought that permeated the knowledge, that fuelled the desire for it. A smile curled Snape's lips as he closed the metaphoric box and gently put it back in its place. The boy thought of his thoughts has concrete, and therefore his mind was very easy to rifle through, structured like an attic lined with shelves and boxes. Most everything was organised, though the unifying connexions were nebulous (how did an attic share space with a tavern share space with a cauldron?). Snape respected the sections that were devoted to characters and stories, but plundered as he wished from the remaining parts.

He hadn't noticed the boy had awakened until the moans came, along with squirms and slender hands fisting tightly in the sheets. His smirk widening into a decidedly evil grin, Snape pushed harder with the occlumency; he was rewarded with a breathless cry as the boy writhed in the bed. So that was why he didn't talk--he liked being raped like this, his thoughts forced bare for anyone--for you, came a thought, strong and stubborn. For you, for you, only for you...my master, I am yours...I trust you. The last thought was so bursting with emotion that Snape reeled and stepped back, breaking the spell. Trust was precious to this creature, that much was clear. Slipping his wand back into his robes, the wizard rested one knee on the bed, sitting with the other outstretched toward the floor. A long, white hand lay itself against the boy's tightly-bound chest--the creature winced at the pain it brought.

"Poor boy," Snape commented softly, his fingers ghosting over the area, "Would you like them to go away?"

Uncertainty shadowed the eyes, and the lower lip was bitten, though only on one side. This brought another mystery to Snape's attention, and he touched one side of the boy's mouth. A wince and a squeak as the face turned away. Something was wrong, on that side.

"What is it?" Snape finally held the head in place, feeling at the bones beneath the skin. They felt broken, tampered with. "Who did this to you?" he demanded in a hiss.

"Surgeon," came the whisper. "Fixed it..." He was trembling under the thumb that kept brushing over that spot below his lips. He gasped again as Snape ripped into his memories, furious this time. When the boy came to reality again, he wasn't sure what had happened; his saviour was unreadable, and left him. The sound of glass bottles met his ears, and he went very still. Snape returned, holding a small phial.

"Sit up."

He did, and found his head held in a spidery grip. He opened his mouth, and felt something on his tongue that tasted of nothing, and yet did not taste like water at all. It was oily and cool and that was it. He heard a soft intake of breath, and wondered what happened. The hand at the base of his skull tightened, forcing him to look up even more.

"This is what muggles call fixing?"

The boy didn't understand, and looked ever so confused. Hadn't they? It was so much better now; he could yawn and eat most anything, bite into peaches without agony...

"I will show you what fixing is, boy." And again the whirl of black robes as he stalked away, the rattling of bottles. Coming back, he held a larger bottle in his hand, this one of cut crystal. Inside sloshed a concoction that was thick as heavy cream and black as ink. "Open."

Obedient and trusting, the boy obeyed; Snape seized him again, however--this potion was not as agreeable on the tongue as the glasskin serum. As he poured it on the quivering tongue, he felt the first shudder. The boy didn't pull away, however, and showed a remarkable control of form as the bitter, sour, spicy potion was administered. The dose was a mouthful, but it was a big mouthful. Snape murmured the incantation that would direct it to the proper set of bones as he poured, his hand now more to steady the boy than to force the mouth open.

Thickly, the boy swallowed after Snape pulled away, and his skin stayed transparent, treating Snape to a view of his metal-encrusted skull. The blue eyes were round, instead of the completely warped shape they had been before, and Snape looked into them as he waited for the black potion to take effect. It was a controlled substance, considered a Dark Art by the ministry, but Snape knew that hospitals used the potion anyway, though not often. Softening bone, and furthermore softening it in the right place, was nigh on impossible.

"Don't speak, don't move. Yes, your eyes are closed. The first was to make your skin transparent, and the second is to let me fix you. If you move, you will most likely put yourself in agony."

Still but for breathing, the boy tried not to swallow and did a fairly good job. Getting out his wand, Snape began to shape the bone. He couldn't remove the plates or the swarm of screws without causing the boy undue agony, and so buried them. Though the movement must have been causing the child agony, he didn't utter a peep. When Snape finished, he decided that such control deserved a reward. Once again he could admire the boy's skin, as both potions had worn off entirely.

"Good boy. That butchering was hardly your fault, and yet you behaved admirably." He allowed the boy to see a smile. "I think you deserve a treat. Strip."

Surprised but willing, the boy undressed as the wizard put the empty bottles on a counter, taking another down. This third potion was simple and common--a lubricant. When Snape turned back he saw that the bindings were still tightly around the boy's chest and frowned.

"I said strip, boy."

Shame coloured the pale skin, and the head hung miserably as the hands slowly moved to take the bindings off. Soon his hands were pushed away, replaced by Snape's own as he began to unwrap the tightly-wound cloth. The breasts revealed were generous and pale, striped with angry red from the cloth.

"Do you want them to go away?" Snape repeated in a quiet voice. Again the answer was an unsure silence.

"I was made this way," came the whisper again. Snape let that be his answer for now, and pushed his head toward the pillows. The boy took a position on his own, pillowing his head onto his folded arms and pushing his hips into the air, legs spread wide as he could.

"You've done this before?"

"No," came the voiceless reply. "Smut."

The answer took him by surprise, and Snape laughed softly, enjoying the shiver it caused. "Naughty boy," he commented, coating a finger with oil; female the body was, but the boy wanted to be a boy, and so Snape would treat him like one. The little cry of shock at the intrusion was expected, but Snape enjoyed it anyway.

"Relax." The order was gentle, because he knew it was not something easy to follow. "Relax." The muscles in the narrow back were relaxing as he continued, and he stroked the boy's hip in appreciation. "Good boy."

The moans were not moans at all, but more like panting with tiny, forced squeaks mixed in. Snape removed his fingers and the boy nearly quivered in anticipation as he felt Snape shifting position.

"Stay relaxed," Snape warned. "Stay..."

The boy whimpered. This was much bigger than two fingers.

Bracing the soft hips, Snape murmured, "Call for me, boy."

The cry was hesitant at first. "...master?" He gasped as the word was rewarded. "Mastermastermaster!"

His voice rose in volume for the first time, deeper than Snape had expected, an androgynous range of female pitch. The wizard felt inner muscles tense when he pulled out. More thoughtfulness from his pet, Snape thought with a satisfied growl, speeding his pace. It was terribly unfortunate that the body had no prostrate, but regardless of this the boy seemed to enjoy it, crying out 'master' before words were lost and be began dry-sobbing and murmuring 'yes' in beautiful, overwhelmed hisses. Soon the pet cried out for his master as he felt the heat rushing inside him. Pleasure seemed derived from Snape's pleasure, not his own. Snape lowered the hips gently to the side after all was done and let the boy relax.

"I love you master," came the voice again, soft but not a whisper, and a hand reached weakly for him.

"You're lying to me." Snape referred to how the boy had feigned climax. "You haven't reached yours yet."

"I do love you..." the boy insisted, writhing in pleasure as precise fingers explored him.

Actually, Snape thought, the boy didn't make him retch at all. A corner of his mouth twitched up at this, and he focused on the flushed sex he was touching, allowing himself to be curious.

Getting an idea from the boy's perverted fantasies, he used magic to make one come true. The reaction was immediate and strong--the boy writhed and gasped, bucking. Snape focused his attentions on the tiny button of flesh that caused his pet to shudder so, and his fingers were relentless.

"Relax, boy. Sit still!" the orders were cold and sharp, and the boy shivered once, then stilled, slowly relaxing. Snape didn't continue until the creature lay as though asleep, though his eyes were watching intently. Then, and only then, he stroked again with the same intensity, stopping whenever he saw--or felt--the muscles tense. For half an hour he tortured the boy like this, denying the pleas of mercy.

"Now you may--if you stay relaxed."

Whimpering and striving not to move, the boy cried out in a voice that broke and then was pulsing to oblivion, tears on his face as the wizard removed his hand only to push at the toys in time with the pulses, forcing it to prolong, to drain his strength.

"Good boy," Snape purred. "Good, good boy.... No stopping until I say so." And again he ignored the pleas of mercy until he was satisfied the boy was helpless. Only then did he remove the toys, only then did he close the long legs and gently put a pillow behind the curly head. Half-lidded blue eyes looked up at him, and the pet smiled in quiet happiness.

"I love you master," he said again, before succumbing entirely to sleep.