Author's Note: Written for TycheSong's bdsm smut challenge, this has driven me just a bit crazy, trying to get it all out of my head in time. At the end of the third chapter, I shall post her prompts – I hope that she and you all enjoy!
Warning: This fic is smutty, as in MA. It contains bondage, spanking, pegging, oral, toys, etc. If this is not for you, stop reading now - I shan't judge! As always, I do not own Harry Potter or the characters, and am making no money from writing this.
Chapter 1: Waiting
Severus glowered at the ridiculously-named 'Clone-A-Willy' kit that sat open (and partially blasted in a fit of temper) on the bedside table, which was, of course, in plain sight from his armchair in front of the flickering fire. He'd done as the witch had asked when she'd decided to claim her birthday present this year, and nearly everything was in order. Hell, he'd sat in bed with rapidly – and unpleasantly – cooling putty surrounding his erection for the second time this year trying his damnedest to keep himself hard long enough for the damn thing to set.
And she was late.
He flicked his paper back up, hiding the bedroom and its contents from his gaze. His foot, encased in its customary dragonhide boot, tapped impatiently as he turned the page. He'd rose early this morning, foisted his detentions off on Filch despite needing the student's grubby little hands disjointing beetles before next week's lesson, and had skipped lunch in order to grade the last of the homework before tonight. Ink still spattered his left hand from the last essay, a particularly terrible one written by a Gryffindor third-year who couldn't seem to spell 'potion' properly despite nearly monthly assignments of lines to drill it through their thick skull.
Ironic, he thought bitterly, that it's a bloody Gryffindor I'm waiting for.
Giving up the pretense, Severus discarded his paper and left his seat to pace, pushing his lank hair back with one pale, long-fingered hand. His robes flared with his turn and knocked into the sofa's side table, knocking one of his wife's insipid nick-knacks to the floor. With a muffled oath he bent to retrieve the little cut-glass cat from the rug, inspecting it for fracture. Good – it was in one piece. He'd bought it for her last year for their first anniversary and she'd be devastated to have it come to harm no matter how easily it could be repaired. With nearly all of their agreed-upon preparations (and a few additions of his own slipped in for good measure), it was the wait, the anticipation, that was killing him.
A log popped in the fire and his eyes darted there – hope soared, then sank. Damn her, for choosing this as her gift. His nerves were nigh shredded by now. If only she'd chosen something simpler! Merlin's knobbly knees, he'd actually been hoping she'd choose to drag him to some hideously tedious family dinner or even ask him to socialise. Or perhaps she would have chosen to spend an outrageous amount on some of the tomes she'd been eying, but no. She'd chosen this.
A few months ago, Severus had thrown his back out – perfectly normal when one was wrangling two tussling Hufflepuffs and had subsequently been knocked arse over teakettle into a stack of cauldrons, not a sign of advancing age, not that forty-eight was old – and he'd suffered the indignity of the first phallus creation in order to partake of pleasuring his wife without earning himself a scolding from Poppy over it. He paused in his pacing, robes swirling around his ankles. Absently, he trailed a hand down the buttons on the frock coat covering his thin chest, feeling a definite twitch in his cock as he remembered the night this had all come about...