A/N: So here's my latest fic. Thanks to those of you who have read and reviewed my other stories. As with the others, this one is for mature readers, strictly 18+ readers only. Warnings: sex, drugs, violence. Let me know if you enjoy it, DSx

I am greatly indebted to the wonderful Marriage1988 for the original premise, summary, title and many of the lines in this first chapter. I loved the idea and only hope that I can do her vision justice.

He found her tits hypnotic. The way they moved—like Newton's cradle, knocking together. Cha-cha—cha-cha. Without the metallic chink of course. Just the perfect rhythm as she bounced vigorously on his cock. She was quite single-minded this one. And rather proficient. The course she took down his cock, from tip to base, was absolutely vertical, thumping down so heavily on each descent that he felt like he was being fucked by a pile driver. She was also doing so much of the work that he barely needed to thrust at all. And so it was in relaxed repose, all except his well-pummeled cock, that he flicked a spark into the rough end of a cigarette and sucked in a languid lungful of tobacco—whisky-laced for the absolute wanker he'd become. And he fucking loved it.

The heady shot of nicotine gave the tequila already displacing most of his thoughts an extra nudge and he found himself appraising her impressive attempts to impale herself with a level of detachment—bred of yet further over-indulgence. But was there such a thing as too much fucking? Not so far. Not when it had suddenly become so easy.

The hero title had started off as an uneasy encumbrance but he'd quickly realised that it was a ticket into the knickers of just about any woman he fancied. And many he didn't. The blonde gearing up to come around his cock had been trying to get him drunk—plying him with shots, the last few from her mouth as she locked onto him like a lipsticked lamprey.

She was too young for him really. And probably too pretty if truth be told. But looks didn't seem to factor heavily in any of these exchanges. Apparently he was mysterious. He certainly revealed nothing of himself. Nothing that hadn't already been splashed like a serve of greasy cod across the papers anyway. And these days even the papers had given up reporting on his flings—a different woman hanging off his arm every night was no longer considered news. The fact that he'd fucked Rita Skeeter in the arse was further insurance against unfavourable press—she didn't want to risk that he wouldn't fuck her there again.

The next lungful was exhaled through gritted teeth as he felt her young pussy grip him like a desperate fist. This was his favourite part of all—watching them come apart. Sometimes he came. Sometimes he didn't. But that power over pleasure was something that couldn't be surpassed. And if the person was very special, he would be the one in the driver's seat—controlling every element until they were begging for release. And that always made him come.

"Sir!" she panted, much higher pitched than before. "Uuuhhh." Her head lolled toward him. "I need to . . . I . . . I'm going to come!"

He sucked on the cigarette and nodded that she should continue.

"I love your cock, sir!" she gasped as she faltered in her rhythm before exploding, shrieking out her release as she convulsed around his slippery pole. Disappearing the ash from his cigarette with a flick of his index finger, he gave a satisfied snort. He'd picked her as a screamer right from the start—the way she carried herself, tits out, a good set of lungs—he'd never been wrong yet.

He placed a steady hand on her quivering thigh. Her pussy felt good hitching and shuddering around him. But not quite good enough. She was a pleasant little thing, pert tits rising and falling as she tried to catch her breath—but the truth was he'd had better. He wondered about the brunette he'd seen her with at the bar downstairs. Perhaps there was an opportunity to take this to the next level, to give his very selective cock something to get a little more excited about.

"I used to smoke," she smiled with red-smeared lips, swollen from her desperate cock sucking earlier. "Had to give it up though. My boyfriend didn't like it."

Snape took a long, deep drag, before pulling her down to him so that his mouth was upon hers. He exhaled slowly, filling the open cavern of her mouth. She inhaled, holding it in for as long as she could before letting it dissipate in a thin cloud as he leaned back with a smirk. It turned her on even more—if that was humanly possible. Just another part of the former potions master which she found darkly erotic.

"Will you be missed?" His baritone had been roughened to a sexy growl by the tobacco. "I noticed you had a friend with you earlier—brunette—what happened to her?"

"Oh, she's probably still down there, waiting for me." The woman wondered why he was asking. But she could almost guess—he hadn't developed the reputation as a devout pleasure-seeker or, among her circle of friends, a sexy man-slut, for nothing.

"Why not ask her to join us?" Snape slid his hand in silky seduction up her inner thigh. "If you don't mind, that is."

He'd realised early that a blend of subtle incitement and commanding authority worked just as well in the bedroom as it had the classroom—only with sex as the outcome. Although he'd admittedly been propositioned several times at Hogwarts on the occasions he'd returned for advanced potions classes with the final years. It seemed that the combination of his status as a Professor and war hero was potent fantasy fodder for a few of the young witches—and even some of the older ones. He preferred to keep his work and pleasure separate if it was at all possible—but sometimes it wasn't.

"Why should I mind?" The blonde licked her lips. "I'm willing to . . . share."

Snape flicked the cigarette butt into the air, watching it disappear mid-flight like an exploded firework. Women were such manipulable creatures. Even the so-called strong, independent types . . . they were so easy to tempt. So very easy to entice.

"That's it, love." His breathy baritone slid out of an open throat, emulating the brunette who was looking to please him by allowing him to slide increasingly deeper into hers. Long lashes fluttering closed against his pale cheeks, he allowed the transcendental quality of it all—drugs, sex, freedom, life—to envelop him. He fucking deserved this. After years of pain and sacrifice, this woman moaning for his seed and the other one he'd plundered with his tongue until she'd passed out were a fitting reward.

The world could judge him how it liked, but he figured he'd given enough. He'd always been a sensualist, an epicurean with tastes that ran well beyond the exotic. Now he was determined to sup on all that had been denied him. He'd gorge himself on anything and everything, until his body was running thick with the debauched juices of Dionysian gratification.

And with that thought he came, pulling from her throat so he could watch his creamy release surging against her tongue. "Drink all of me," he whispered, tunneling his fingers into her hair. "That's a good girl. Take every . . . last . . . drop."

Hermione woke, wrenched from a particularly intense dream by a harsh, parrot-like screech. Propped on her elbows, blood thrumming in her ears, she listened. Otherworldly noises in the dead of night weren't uncommon—she lived across the street from one of London's seediest pubs after all. But the piercing quality of this one she found particularly unpleasant.

The screech came again, followed by high-pitched laughter. With a loud huff, Hermione allowed her head to thump back into her pillow. Another drunken bimbo—no doubt staggering home after downing a trampy skinful. She blinked around her bedroom with its claustrophobic walls and flashing red light — a constant intrusion from the vacancy sign on the motel next door. It was times like this that she longed for the pitch darkness and heavy silence of Hogwarts. Even the snores of multiple room-mates were preferable to the cacophony of jungle sounds that were now drifting up from the street. That was definitely a monkey. And that growl—a tiger? What in Merlin's name were they doing?

Flinging her quilt back, Hermione kicked her legs out of her sheets, vaulted off her bed and stormed over to the window. There was never any particular value in extracting herself from her warm bed to glare from afar at some stranger, more often than not staggering along with their heels in one hand, yelling into the wrong end of their phone—it only made her more annoyed. But she just had to discover the source of this particularly excruciating disturbance.

Shoving aside the curtain, she peered down into the street below her flat. Three shadowy figures were romping about in front of the motel. One tall and two short—clearly a male and two females. The male did something that made one of the two squeal, and the second looked like she was trying to hump his leg.

"Get a room," Hermione muttered into the glass.

More inane giggling burst from the cavorting trio and the male appeared to say something but his voice was so low that she couldn't make out more than a deep hum. Hermione sighed impatiently, wishing they would just go inside so she could make at attempt to return to sleep. She had an important report on Augurey migration to deliver in the morning and she was determined that her point about unsustainable practices was clear. She seemed to be the only one in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures who seemed to understand the long-term consequences of changes in the delicate balance of the magical creature ecosystem.

Hermione felt herself tensing, suddenly indignant that the irresponsible behavior of a bunch of selfish idiots should potentially compromise something so important. It was bad enough that people should have so little self-respect that they saw it appropriate to get legless on a weeknight, but to interfere with—

She found her eyes drawn to the tall figure who was moving with a smooth grace that contrasted starkly with the jerky staggering and drunken swaying of his companions. He was clearly far more in control of himself than they were—either he could hold his liquor or he was taking advantage. Either way she was instantly suspicious.

But as she scrutinised his deft movements, Hermione was struck by a strange sense of familiarity. There was something about the curve of his back, the rigid line of his shoulders that made her crane forward until her nose bumped against the cold pane.

As she squinted through the foggy glass, the girl on the man's arm turned, casting him into the milky glow of a street lamp. Hermione gasped. The firm ridge of his prominent nose was her first point of focus, followed by his dark locks—unusually glossy in the murky glow. It was so surreal that all she could do was mouth the word—'Snape?'

But it was his beetle black eyes, glittering eerily as they reflected the red motel sign on their way up to capture hers that suddenly drew a muted shriek from her lips as she ducked to the floor like a naughty first-year caught out of bed.

She was instantly furious. How dare he! How dare he wake her. How dare he make her feel like a guilty student again. How dare he engage in his sleazy, debaucherous antics here—at her home. She'd seen enough of it in the papers—she didn't need it to be happening right under her bedroom window.

And where was his self-respect? She couldn't fathom how any intelligent man—and that's what he was, she couldn't deny it—how a once brilliant man could spend his evening entertaining a couple of squawking bimbos.

Clearly his hero status had gone straight to his head. He may have been caustic and arrogant as her Professor but he'd also been brave—fiercely protecting them on more than one occasion. And here he was now, nothing more than a slave to hedonism, indiscriminately fucking around.

She suddenly had an intense desire to march downstairs and shake him. To grab him by the front of his frock coat in front of those two dim-wits and ask him what in Merlin's name he was doing. But then she wondered why. Why should she care what happened to him? She had clearly meant almost nothing to him at Hogwarts, so why should he mean anything to her? It was his life. He was free to do with it as he wished. She did, after all, appreciate that freedom was a luxury that was in short supply when he lived as a double agent.

Still, that understanding did little to curb her irritation as she squatted uncomfortably on the cold floor. Finally she decided that it was patently unfair that she could be made to feel so uncomfortable in her own home. And so she stood. They were gone, having finally decided to stagger into the motel—no doubt already indulging in some sort of sordid threesome. She shook her head with annoyance.

But then she noticed something, movement—three forms swaying together as they disappeared around the corner of the next block. They'd moved on. They weren't next door. And as she stared after them, it started to rain. The steady patter of drops quickly burnished bronze the rooftops around her. She crossed her arms, hoping with a smidgen of petty revenge that they got wet—saturated actually.

As she returned to her bed, huffing and tutting until she had run out of huffs and tuts, she realised with more than a little uneasiness that she was disappointed that he'd gone—that he wasn't next door. She sighed as she plumped up her pillow. She was just tired—probably delirious. And it was all his fault. Pulling her quilt up to her nose, she screwed her eyes shut against the flashing light. She was determined not to waste another thought on him. He didn't deserve it.