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The characters and the situations within these fanfiction stories are not my property. They are the property of J.K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, and others, and are used without permission; challenge to copyright is not intended and should not be construed. No profit is being made from the use of these characters and situations; these written-down imaginings are only presented in an internet forum for the interest of and consumption by the like-minded individuals who enjoy them and recognize them as unauthorized fanfiction only, and are not in any way meant to be confused with the originals NOR presented as authorized materials of these owners.
Their Worse Than Killing Lust
Summary: A delightful summer for father and son. Not so delightful for their guest. (Sequel to The Dragon and His Wrath)
Categories: Non-con, PWP, humor if you think like the author
Kinks/Warnings: Non-con. Two-on-one (as opposed to threesome). BDSM with various kinks. Hint of incest.
Notes: For the Pornish Pixies Fantasy Fest request made by loony_moony "Lucius/Harry/Draco - Two horny Malfoys, very unwilling Harry. If you wish - kink galore!"
Thanks to betas shaggirl and florahart.
The title is from Shakespeare, Titus Andronicus, II, iii: Lavinia: "O, save me from their worse than killing lust..."
It's the best summer he's ever had.
And he's spending it in the company of his father. Following set routines. How likely is that?
Of course, there's the other party in their company.
Draco divides the day up in a way he thinks of as mealtimes, though not all of them involve eating. It's just for convenience.
Breakfast is an actual mealtime. Washed and dressed, he joins his father at an intimate table in the morning room. They make light conversation, not because it is interesting, but because Lucius Malfoy thinks his son should practice the skill. A wife will appreciate the nicety, he tells Draco, and an appreciative wife makes for a pleasant household. Draco thinks of his mother, obligingly on holiday in Greece, and thinks he understands.
The third party at breakfast is, of course, Potter, not at the table but on his knees, clad in nothing but a laced leather singleglove and a leather collar. From time to time, Draco or his father will drop a morsel of food to the floor, for Potter to pick up with his mouth and eat. Draco loves that moment of unhappy hesitation just before Potter bends to comply--he's nothing like broken, but he knows how he'll be punished if he refuses. Besides, this is the most substantial meal he's allowed all day. It's not the Malfoys' intention to starve him, but neither do they want him sleepy with satiety. Most of what he gets, later in the day, is sugar-based, nothing all that nutritive; Draco is careful to provide variety in what he drops to the floor: a bite of bacon, a small wedge of cheese, fruit that doesn't make too much of a mess when it falls (berries are ideal). Potter eats, does not speak, and does not disguise his misery. It's a lovely start to the day.
Draco calls the next activity "elevenses," though it's usually a bit earlier. Potter's taken to the stables, still in the singleglove and collar, and gets a few more accoutrements. These include a bit gag and reins, the foot restraints that both hobble him and force him up onto his toes, so his heels cannot touch the ground as he walks, and, of course, the tail. Draco says that the anal plugs to which the tails attach come in three sizes: Not Nearly Big Enough, Still Not Big Enough, and That'll Teach You. No secret as to which he favors screwing into Potter's arse.
Before he is ready to be walked, Potter's cock is cuffed with a charmed ring, and then stroked, teased to full erection. The ring is enchanted to emit one tell-tale note, should his erection wilt. Naturally, that will mean punishment.
They tour the manor grounds almost in their entirety, Potter still clumsy in his hobbles, but improving daily. The flicker of a riding crop, or sometimes a whip, on his calves is all that it takes to get him moving faster. They stop to toy with his cock, or his nipples, and sometimes to kiss him around the bit which holds his mouth open, heedless of the drool slopping down his chin.
The tour usually ends in the gardens, and by then it's time for lunch, so they have a pleasant setting in which to have the house-elves serve them. Potter doesn't get to eat, though he's allowed a bucket of water, to have whatever he can suck up around the bit.
When they return to the stables, Potter is whipped. The singleglove comes off, his wrists are secured to a crossbeam overhead, and, with the smell of horse and hay all around, they take a whip to their green little ponyboy, and work him into a proper sweat. The whip does not spare his arse just because it is plugged, nor is his cock shown mercy if the whipping turns it soft. If that happens, the tip of his cock is anointed with a potion that makes its way up the thin pipe of his urethra and causes an unbearable itching in its membranes. Not a thing helps for that (save for time or the antidote) but it still gets Potter's hips going nicely.
When Potter's body from neck to heels is covered with red lash marks, and the smell of his sweat is almost stronger than the stable smell, the horsetail anal plug is removed, only to be replaced by a sound arsereaming by either Draco or his father, then followed by the other. Draco fucks Potter like he wants to crawl inside him, clutching at his hips, or his chest, slamming into him with all the anticipation the morning has brought. He's learned how satisfying self-denial can be--if practiced for a short time--and he knows, looking at Potter, how awful it can be when prolonged.
Orgasm leaves both Draco and his father pleasantly drowsy, and they release Potter, use the expedience of a scouring charm on him--though nothing that provides healing--and seek out bed. One bed in particular, circular, very large, able to accommodate the three of them without any constraint at all, even though they curl closely together about Potter (who has his wrists cuffed behind his back), fingering his cock (which has not come in all this time), his balls, (which, with his cock, are encircled in another charmed ring, one which relaxes and contracts in random patterns, its broad tongue end also pushing against his perineum), his nipples (which are too vulnerable not to invite biting), his lips (which are not gagged, but do not dare to speak, as Draco and his father drift off to sleep).
When they wake, if there is any evidence that Potter has climaxed while they slept, he'll pay. But there never is; Potter doesn't dare. Their activities (which Draco thinks of as "tea") are not so structured, now, but they follow the same theme: they resume their fondling, keeping Potter aroused with hands and mouths, or a number of the toys that are available in the room; Draco's fond of a scrotal sheath that has small metal teeth lining the inside, while his father's favorite is a charmed hummingbird made of glass, whose bill and tongue are more aggressive than any real one. They are likely to have Potter put his own mouth to use, and here, they are not satisfied with mere reluctant compliance. They expect Potter's oral skills to improve daily, from recognizing when his master wants the light teasing actions of his tongue, or a more aggressive sucking, or just a conglomerate of enthusiastic worship, feigned or not. They also remind him that it's not all about the cock, requiring Potter to chase trails of sweetened syrups with which they anoint their skins, or engage in a long careful session of ball-sucking, or--even better--show off the talents of his tongue with his rimming skills.
Potter still doesn't get to come.
Needing something of a break, but not wanting to afford Potter one, Draco and his father choose something more innocuous for amusement. Draco calls this "tiffin," since tea's done with. He and his father might play a game. Exploding Snap is a favorite; they play it on Potter's chest. It's a marvel he has any chest hair that hasn't been singed off.
Dinner follows. This is the only "meal" for which Potter is not present, but the knowledge of what's happening to him, out of their sight, makes it a more obvious absence, one to be dwelt upon and enjoyed. Potter is being prepared by the house-elves while Draco and his father enjoy their dinner, and elaborate restraints are only part of the preparation. Draco thinks of the impassively thorough hands of the house-elves, keeping Potter achingly aroused even as they lock him into the pillory, and also remembers the quantity of water the merciless little beasts will pump into his arse and make him retain for an hour. He shivers with pleasure, meets his father's eyes over the rim of his wineglass, and knows he's thinking of the same thing. They share a smile, and return to the first course.
When that hour, or more, is over, they proceed to what Draco thinks of as "pudding" (though there probably was a sweet with dinner that's already been consumed). Potter is in the dungeons, bent over, hands and head locked into the pillory, still moaning from his recent torture by water, insides as immaculate as an angel's.
Draco looks at his arse on display, whip marks from earlier faded, like old memories, and does not have to ask himself what he wants to do to Potter: he is already hardening, and his hand is reaching for the rack of paddles and whips. His father does not tell him no. Draco selects the paddle with the metal rivets, which marks Potter's arse with every blow. Potter yells aloud for each one, as well, mostly just wordless howls of pain, but sometimes there is a please in there, or a curse. Draco likes both of those.
He falls back at last, wiping sweat off his forehead, and then watches his father go to work with one of his favorite instruments: a horsehair whip, which does not yield any noises to please the ears--except, of course, for Potter's fussing-- designed to sting and bring the skin to a pretty orange-red glow, with patient use. Draco hasn't yet gained the expertise his father has, with that one. Too much delight with the thwack of a good paddle or flogger, to distract him.
Together they abuse Potter's arse until it is so much tenderized meat, looking as if it's already been to the grill and is ready to serve up. Potter is blubbering before it's done. Draco likes to force Potter to suck him when he's crying, snot running down his face and nose too clogged to breathe through.
They fuck him in his mouth, and in his pristine arse, and snap other devices around his genitals--things that pinch and things that prickle, and those that can be weighted and leashed. They want his arousal as well as his pain, and have many magical toys for that, but sometimes the hands-on method is more satisfying.
But he's still not allowed to come. Not that.
They could take him to bed at the end of the night. They both want to. But Draco's father anticipates that their toy will last longer if they allow him some respite. So, instead of further service upstairs, Potter remains in the dungeon. Not, however, in any comfortable fashion. A set of enchanted linen bandages mummify him from head to foot; Draco loves to watch Potter's face and its heightening dread as the wrappings encase him, always leaving the head for last, like a drowning victim trying to keep his mouth and nose above water. They are enchanted, and there's no danger, but Draco knows that's small comfort to the one being constricted.
Lastly, Potter is locked into a horizontal body cage--also charmed, to compress about its victim snugly. Sound carries, through the bandages and certainly unhindered by the cage, and Draco and his father will stand for long minutes to catch every whimper, every wheezing gasp as Potter tries to calm himself, breathe easily, not give in to panic or pleading. Even leaving the dungeon is to be savored, listening as one retreats, the sounds growing fainter.
It's a sublime end to the day. Draco shares a good-night kiss with his father--one far more intimate than those they shared not so long ago--and goes to his room, alone.
He does not imagine the routine could grow stale anytime soon, but his father has promised to craft a completely new schedule for Potter next week. One must make changes before their need is felt, his father says.
He's wise in so many ways. Draco's not about to argue.
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