Title: Lesson Learned
Categories: queer, gay male, fan fiction
Possible triggers: teacher/student, leather
This scene involves Harry Potter bootworshipping Snape. You should also know I never write in the past tense, so there’s probably tense disagreements. Oh well. Don’t like it? I don’t give a rat’s ass, so go away.
By clicking below, you agree that you are of legal age and won’t sue anyone for anything, won’t get offended, yadda yadda. And I obviously do not own these characters.
Crap, thought Harry in the instant his cauldron overturned, tumbling over his uselessly outstretched hands and spilling its entire contents on the lower portion of Snape’s body, mostly the “very tall thestral-hide boots” portion.
“You will remain after class to serve your first detention,” Snape spat out in an icy, unhesitating voice. “You are fortunate that this is the last period of the day, and you will be merely missing supper, not your next class. Although if your attention to other subjects resembles your attention here at all, I hardly think it would make a difference if you were present or no. Indeed, your peers would very likely appreciate the absence of your distracting presence.”
Harry’s eyes flared, but he bit his tongue and shoved a firm elbow into Ron’s ribcage to nip his friend’s protestations in the bud. Snape hadn’t even-
“And of course, there’s the matter of points. Shall we say fifteen?”
Damn it. Harry nodded mutely, gulping audibly in a doomed effort to quash his anger.
Class ended in a matter of minutes, and while the other students filed out—the Gryffindors with expressions of greatest empathy etched across their mugs—Harry sat mutely at his table, staring at the puddle of potion creeping across the pitched floor into the drain, breathing slowly in attempts to fill himself with unrufflable calm before facing Snape on-on-one.
“You may approach my desk, Mr. Potter.” Harry looked up to see Snape seated sedately in his desk chair, fingers steepled and eyebrow raised as if to add …any decade now would be lovely.
Harry nodded silently and approached, hanging back awkwardly once he got within a couple feet of his professor, unsure what to do.
“Closer, Mr. Potter. You were careless enough to make this mess; to make the punishment truly fit the crime I think you should be forced to clean it up. Yes, I said forced. You may turn around.”
Harry turned uneasily, back to Snape. What would Moody say, if he were still here to see Harry voluntarily put himself in such a vulnerable position, especially with such an unknown quantity as Snape? It took the better portion of his self-control, but he managed to keep his eyes down, to not crane his neck and gawk at Snape over his shoulder. Something told him Snape would not appreciate that sort of attention.
He gasped and instinctively jerked his arms forward when the long fingers closed around his wrists, but they had an iron grip for phalanges so slender, and his hands were guided securely to his back where Snape fastened them with hemp cord, palm to elbow, forearms overlapping.
“You may turn back around, Mr. Potter. And kneel, if you please.”
“You want me to what?”
“I believe you heard me just fine, Mr. Potter. Headmistress Umbridge has had the glorious foresight to grant faculty the authority to enforce our punishments however we see fit. And you, boy, will be cleaning my boots. No magic.”
“But I can’t clean with no magic without using my hands, sir! That’s absurd!”
“I think you’ll find yourself quite capable when you put your mind to it, Mr. Potter. And if not, well, this detention will stretch on until you do. Now, kneel.”
Grudgingly, Harry lowered himself ungracefully to the professor’s feet, face burning as he felt the dark eyes judging his stumbling. He turned his eyes upward to meet his professor’s, trying now to glare. “Now what?”
“Now you clean my boots before I take anymore points from Gryffindor for your insolence.”
“But-” and suddenly the answer hit Harry like a Bludger. No wand, no hands… just his… mouth. He choked back his question as the unhappy revelation spread across his visage.
“Yes…” Snape drawled softly. “You understand now, don’t you? I imagine you’ll be more careful in the future, perhaps refrain from wrestling the incomparable Mr. Weasley when you should be focused on more studious pursuits, mm?” And with that, he opened his legs slightly, drawing back his thick robes to expose his boots to knee. Harry could see the dark leather disappearing under the equally dark fabric, but refused to think about that. Surely the potion didn’t spill that far up. Surely he wouldn’t be forced to… to…
And he forced his mind into silence as he bent forward, toes of the boots looming ever closer. He smelled the strong odor of the potion now, vinegary enough to sting his nostrils and water his eyes, and under that the earthy, oily scent of leather.
“It’s not poisonous. Granted, of course, you managed to brew it correctly.”
He screwed his eyelids tight, as if not seeing his humiliation would make it any less, and extended his tongue, inching closer to the boot. And then, in his blindness, ran his forehead into the boot and licked the cold stone floor. Snape barked a single note of harsh laughter as he flushed, opened his eyes, and made his first real lick.
It tasted better than it smelled, a little sweet, mostly tangy, but cold now, and slimy. Nevertheless, the constant licking quickly moistened Harry’s dry lips and throat; the toe cap and vamp of both feet were shiny with saliva in a matter of minutes. Proud of himself despite his better judgement, Harry rocked back on his heels and looked up at his professor, who met his shy smile with a questioning eye. He seemed unsurprised at the speed with which Harry took to his new task.
Harry gazed up for another few seconds before Snape shifted, extending his legs to allow easier access to the heels, and Harry shook his head clear before bending back over his task. Silent and focused, he moved methodically up the legs, cleaning the instep of each before ascending any higher. Although it had been initially so unpleasant to debase himself in this way, the sourness wore off as time went on, and Harry found himself reveling in the taste and smell of the boots, fulfilled by the simple act of taking something once so messy and making it neat and orderly.
It was tricky to lick up the tongue and around the eyelets, but he managed. Once he finished both calves, he buried his nose in the now-clean crease behind Snape’s left knee, delighting in the sensation of burying his face in the leather, in the leg.
Snape cleared his throat once, twice, and murmured, “You’re not out of boot, yet, boy,” in a hoarse whisper. Harry remembered about the above-the-shin portions of Snape, dimly recalled his disgust earlier but couldn’t for the life of him think why he had felt that way. He jerked his head up, looked into Snape’s face for a long moment before working up the courage to meet the man’s eyes. As he swallowed, he felt something in him dissolve, abruptly noticed the erection aching between his legs. He glanced down at the robes covering Snape’s lap, back up at his face, grinned momentarily, and then took the bottom-most button between his teeth and shook it loose.
A broken groan spilled out above him, but Harry couldn’t be distracted from his task. It took six buttons to reach the top of the boots, at which point scant inches of painfully pale thigh shone below what amounted to a Muggle miniskirt.
When his mouth watered this time, Harry had no doubts as to why.
Harry had been right, earlier, before this eager-to-please fog settled so thickly into the grooves of his brain, when he had thought the upper portions of Snape’s boots must be clean. But he licked them with no less devotion than had they been coated in molasses. Snape had to slouch down in the towering straight-backed chair so Harry could reach the undersides, twisting his back in his eagerness, arms tugging against the ropes as he valiantly attempted to hump his own ankles.
He was so dedicated that he reached the topline all too quickly and dawdled along the last inch of gleaming black leather, tongue slipping slyly off the boot to trace skin for heart-pounding moments. Snape’s hands began to flutter towards his hair but drew back at the last second to land unsteadily on knees.
Harry looked up then, slowly, taking in each centimeter of his teacher, from thigh to face. The musky smell coming from Snape’s lap was that of his own hasty late-night orgasms, though stronger and—Harry thought—sweeter. Robes hid a lot, he knew from awkward experience in first and second year (and third and fourth), but couldn’t entirely mask the erection rising so close to his face. As he made eye contact at last, he managed to choke out, “Is that… er… is that because of me, sir?”
Snape didn’t speak, just bit his thin top lip and nodded, hissing as his entranced eyes tracked the progress of Harry’s mouth… up his lap… to his robe… unfastening first one button, then another and another… until his nose bumped into and nuzzled his throbbing hardon… teeth still working buttons…
Harry whimpered a little when the robes finally fell free of Snape’s cock, mewling in the back of his throat when it bounced free, right into his nose. He inhaled deeply and smiled, rubbing his closed lips softly against the underside. “May I-”
“Merlin’sbeardyes,” Snape moaned brokenly, bucking a little despite himself. Harry opened his lips just enough for his tongue to peek out and licked Snape’s shaft hungrily, up and down, until they shone with saliva, just like the boots. At the top, he lapped the frenulum eagerly until Snape growled with need and laced his fingers through Harry’s perennially rumpled hair, nudging more and more cock into Harry’s hungry mouth. He shivered when the boy moaned at his small use of force, and tightened his grip, pulling two handfuls of shaggy black strands in two different directions.
Harry, lost in concentration, didn’t notice how much time passed but he did take note when Snape stiffened, hips pummeling upwards, and began to pant harsh, shallow breaths. Rather than pull back, he hunkered down, sucked the entire thing into his mouth, hollowed his cheeks, bathed everything he could reach with serpentine tongue. Snape shortly rewarded his diligence with thick jets of cum which landed hot on his tongue and slid smoothly down his throat with a satisfied grin. Harry then set to the task of cleaning Snape’s half-erect cock with the same focus he had shown for the boots before he finally looked up to whisper, “D-did I do okay, sir?”
Snape coughed in disbelief, realized Harry was serious and burst out, “Bloody hell, boy!” and pulled him to his feet as he himself stood, swept him into a thorough kiss-and-grope as Harry melted against his long frame.