January 10, 2018
Dear Professor Snape,
I know I said this was a bad idea, but if I stop being paranoid about this letter getting found and fully express what's going on in my head instead of being so vague, it might actually work like Potter told me it would. So let's try this again.
When I mentioned in my last letter that I was engaging in explicit activities, I didn't really clarify. And maybe to finally write everything down, will help lift a weight I've been carrying off my chest. Somehow, mid-year last year, Harry Potter became my sex toy.
That's right. He's not my 'lover' or my 'secret boyfriend' or even my 'casual piece on the side'; he is what I like to call my 'pet'. I treat him like a dog. I discipline him, train him, praise him when he is good and remain superior at all times. I am his Master.
I have the guy in a collar on his knees in front of me half the time. And you have no idea how sexy that is. Harry Potter, Hero of the Wizarding World, Savior and Defeater of the Dark Lord, submits his body to me to do as I please, and begs to taste my come.
…When did I get so depraved? I know my father was a strict and harsh man, but I honestly don't think he is the reason I've turned out this way. I don't think there was a trigger in my childhood… There's just something about having complete and utter control over someone else that does it for me, it sets my skin on fire like nothing else. To know that someone trusts you to put their very life in your hands and bend to your every whim, knowing that you can and will give them what they crave, what they are unable to give themselves…. The trust is so empowering, and humbling. He humbles me, Sir.
Maybe I should start from the beginning. It was in a quiet street in Muggle London, if you would believe it. He must have been walking the long way home from work. I was used to seeing him here and there, but this time he looked different, withdrawn and, well, what can I say, old habits die hard. A snarky taunt escaped my tongue before I could stop myself. Honestly I don't know how it happened. I was being a jerk and he was getting his hackles up, but then moments later I was shoving him into a side alley with my wand digging into his throat; so close I could smell the last coffee still lingering on his breath. We had shamefully relapsed back to our schoolboy selves and my temper was throbbing in my ears to same beat of the hitch in Potter's small gasps. And I could see something in his eyes, it was like staring into a mirror. Potter had that same unfulfilled look that I remembered in my own every day of my failed marriage. The tension crackled between us like electricity…and it wasn't all that was between us… I can't help but cringe as I write this to you, but I could feel Potter's erection straining beneath his thin summer pants as I glared at him, and he shot a filthy look right back at me but it was laced with a silent plea to do something, anything… he wanted me to hurt him.
If I'm screwed up, Harry Potter is fucked six ways to Sunday, mark my words. He trembled and submitted there and then when I crashed my mouth against his, bruising his lips, tasting blood as I forced myself upon him.
I just checked the time… it's late; and this has become about a foot of parchment longer than I intended and nowhere near where I meant to end up. I apologize for even putting your name to this, well, sordid confession I guess we could call it? But you are the only (dead or alive) person I feel comfortable enough to pretend I'm talking about this to. Maybe I just need to find the right therapist…hahah.
I'm kind of glad you aren't alive ever to discover this filthy little scandal, even though I do miss you, Professor.
-D.M
