Raising the Stakes
Severus sneers at the letter and crumples it in a fist, frustration burning through him.
It is a perfectly normal letter from his lover, full of day to day news and gossip about Neville's trip to South Africa, the plants he's finding and the things he's learning, but it's the rest - the note at the end - that frustrates him.
And Sev, I had this idea. I want you to masturbate every day while I'm gone. Finger yourself, use toys, whatever you want that feels good, feel free to experiment. I want you to tease yourself to the brink of orgasm - when your toes are curling from it, you're that close - and then stop. Don't let yourself come. I want you to be aching and desperate for me to come home, ready to jump me the minute I walk through the door, begging to be fucked blind, the way you like it. Wild and rough and animalistic -
Bet you're hard just from reading that, aren't you? But it'll only happen if you don't come until I get home. Tell me all about it, will you? In detail.
Miss you,
Nev
And damn Neville, because he is hard. His cock is hard and aching at the image the letter has put into his head - and he knows he'll do it. And he knows that Neville knows he'll do it, which is just as frustrating as the thought of denying himself orgasm for more than two months.
Experiment indeed, he thinks sourly as he carries the crumpled letter into his office and locks the door. Well, two can play this game! He snarls as he lays out fresh parchment and a quill, then settles into his chair to write a return letter - unbuttoning his trousers to free his erection as he does so.
My perverse and twisted lover,
I do think it is only fair that you agree to the same. That, as I sit here trailing the feathery tip of my quill over my aching prick, that you are imagining it and won't let yourself orgasm either, no matter how badly you wank and wish you were fucking me instead. Tell you about it, you say? Hmm, well, I have this dildo that's just the size and shape of your cock - should be, since it's a clone of your erection. And you can imagine the sounds I make as I ride it, the way I clench and squeeze around it, the way I arch as I take it deep, my fingers moving desperately over my own cock -
He isn't lying, quite; the dildo in question is from one of those muggle "clone-a-willy" kits in a disturbing glow-in-the-dark material, but it doesn't matter how it looks as much as it feels, and while not comparable to the feel of his lover in person, it is quite satisfying on its own. And he's not going to explain why he keeps it in a spell-locked drawer in his desk in his office, along with a bottle of lubricant.
Severus amuses himself imagining how his lover will ache reading it as he fastens the dildo to the seat of his chair and lifts his robes. His trousers he lowers just enough to bare his backside; his waistcoat covers his arse but is split in back from waist down, so it won't impede anything. Still - his face is flushed with anticipation as he lowers himself down on the thick shaft, the conjured lubricant easing the friction but not the delicious burn from stretching himself open. It slides into him, inch by inch, and his cock aches and drools precome as he takes it in.
When he bottoms out, settling his weight fully on the chair, he has to take a deep breath to steady himself. And it doesn't help, either, when he roughly pinches his nipples through his robes. Or that he strokes his cock roughly for a moment while rolling his hips experimentally, using his thumb to smear precome over the glans. And when it's too much, he squeezes his balls painfully and shudders until the need to orgasm eases.
So he's not exactly riding it, the way his letter says, but he's supposed to be grading the students' work, not perving over his lover's letter. It's risky enough to be playing with masturbating and toys in his office, even if the door is locked.
Should I tell you how good it feels inside me? Stretching me, filling me? That I am perverse enough to sit here in my office grading papers, while my cock is hard and aching, and a replica of your prick is impaling my arse? And while my door IS locked - thank you very much - I have not used a silencing spell, and I can only hope there is no juvenile miscreant with their ear glued to the door to hear the sounds I am making when I shift to write a sentence, and the dildo rubs just so.
Is your cock aching? Are you cursing me yet? Have you had to squeeze your bollocks to stave off orgasm yet? Let's raise the stakes, lover. Here is my challenge: THREE times a day, Neville. Push yourself to the edge of desperation three times every day until you see me. Experiment. Find new ways to tease and torment yourself - you can demonstrate them for me when you come home.
His breath quickens as he pens his challenge, and he clenches around the dildo, taunting himself. More leisurely he strokes himself as he considers how to end his letter, bringing himself to the edge more slowly; with his other hand he flicks open several buttons on his robe and waistcoat, so he can slide a hand under his shirt and tease his nipples to taut little sensitive nubs, biting his lip.
Viciously, he pinches his nipple, trying to pretend it is Neville's fingers - or better, his teeth, savaging him and making him moan. Then inspiration strikes and he hastily leans forward to pick up his quill again (and if his hips jerk and buck at the way the dildo shifts as he moves, and his cock bobs wildly with approval, no one is there to see it).
In fact, let us extend the game. Not two months, or three, but six: six months of denying ourselves orgasm, three times a day. I'm sure my funds, added to yours, will allow you to travel a few months longer. Absence makes the heart grow fond, after all. Is your heart feeling 'fond' right now, as you wank? Sitting here, impaled on a replica of your prick, my own cock making a mess of the underside of my desk, I find I am doing just fine.
Do enjoy your extended vacation.Yours,
S. Snape
He smiles, later, when he takes the letter up to the owlery to send, his body still hot and aching with denied orgasm, his arse pleasantly sore - he had ridden the dildo, after all - quite enthusiastically, in fact; he'd send another owl to his lover tomorrow, with the details of how good that felt.
With any luck at all, Neville will be home within a week, which means he will be bent over and fucked blind within a week - hard and rough and animalistic, the way Neville knows he likes it.
He hums a victorious tune as he stalks back to his rooms, ignoring the erection still straining his trousers.