For Lucius Malfoy, satisfaction came before everything.
He enjoyed the warm squishy feeling of a job well done. Painless execution
– that’s what he strived for. For there to be nothing left behind, no
loose ends to tie up. Life was a series of encounters, each bounded by
a clear birth and death, and it wasn’t good to carry the baggage of one
into the next.


So he strode quickly down the halls of the Malfoy
Manor, his cloak swishing about him. He mustn’t be late: punctuality
mattered for so much in this world. Without it, there was no sense of
closure, no finality. Things just trailed off until they faded out of
this world.
The stone hallway clattered resonantly under his
feet. Its cold, hard echo provided him with reassurance and approval.
There was no need to be soft or yielding. Sometimes, rigidity was best.

Lucius reached the dungeon door, and pulled it open. Inside, his son Draco was
bound with spiked leather cords. Pulled tightly across his head,
wrists, and ankles, they securely fastened him to the ridged wooden
wall behind him. A thin trickle of blood ran down his face. He must
have been struggling.
Lucius spoke softly. “So you see Draco,
life isn’t always fair. Sometimes people are just meant to serve their
masters. Sometimes their lives don’t matter at all. My one regret is
that you never had a chance to truly realize this.”





Draco looked up at him, eyes filled with fear and loathing. The boy
needed to be taught a lesson. From within his cloak, Lucius withdrew a
cat-o-nine-tails. A quick flick of his wrist, and a lacy red pattern
appeared on Draco’s chest.

“You have…” WHACK “…no idea…” WHACK
“…how much pleasure this gives me.” He grabbed Draco’s jaw and wrenched
it upwards, causing the studded restraints to dig into his head. Draco
cried out. Lucius looked him in the eye.
“Pain is such a pleasant sensation,” Lucius remarked. “Particularly when I’m the one
inflicting it.” He brought his whip down hard on Draco’s neck, and it
bit down deep. Skin parted, leaving an ugly, pleading wound.

If you are unsettled by the adjective “pleading” used to describe a wound, you are on the right track. It’s foreshadowing.
The boy started to mumble. “Speak up!” Lucius commanded. “Spit it out, or shall I cut out your tongue?”
Only two words escaped Draco’s mouth. “Father. Why?”

Lucius spat, his saliva beading up on the dirt floor of the dungeon. “You
always were a thick one. You never did get it, did you?”

He paused for a short while before continuing. “You were not born to live
your own life. From the moment of your conception, you were mine. To do
with as I pleased. Your childhood, your adolescence, your very
existence was all to service me. I needed a son, and you were the
pitiful result.


“But then you started getting ideas of your own.
Hatched your own plots, made your own friends. Why, had I not stopped
you, you might even have taken over from me! This was unacceptable.”

Lucius eyed his son’s naked body, taking him in gradually before proceeding.
Definitely an intern.
“And so I must rectify that development. Our relationship is based on
ownership – I own you, and I may do as I please with you. As you will
not please me in life, you shall please me in death. I demand my
satisfaction!”

Slowly, torturously, Lucius tightened each of the
restraints holding Draco. “We mustn’t let you move about during the
procedure. That would be very bad indeed,” he said, a slight smile
gracing his face.
Then, abruptly, he removed a hand drill from
the pocket of his cloak. Draco drew back in horror – or rather, tried
to, as the restraints held him fast. His eyes widened and a faint bead
of sweat appeared on his bloodstained forehead as he gazed at the drill.

“It is time,” Lucius muttered.


He held the drill up to Draco’s forehead, and then pressed until it bit
into flesh. Draco let out a long scream, an agonizing wail of fear and
despair and pain and hatred. Still, Lucius pressed on.
Slowly,
deliberately, as if to prolong the agony, Lucius twisted the crank.
Blood spurted out of the wound, like a monster longing to escape its
confines. It splattered all over Lucius – good thing the robes and
cloak he was wearing were thoroughly worn, and could be easily disposed
of. The drill tore through skin, tore through flesh, tore through
blood, and gouged out a piece of the skull.

Tore through blood? I don’t believe that’s how liquids work.
“Father…” came
Draco’s pleading whimpers. His breath was coming in ragged, short gasps
– amazing how little resistance he had put up. He must truly be a wimp.
Whimpering while having his skull drilled open? What a pussy.
Lucius
continued turning the crank, and the drill dug deeper into Draco’s
skull. It gave a horrible squeaking noise as he turned it, the result
of friction between the bone and the metal. Lucius smelled an
unpleasant odor; Draco’s bowels must have let loose, soiling the ragged
underwear that Lucius had provided him.
Ah, the delightful cherry of scat has been added to this delicious sundae of torture porn. Tragically, this is more foreshadowing.
Draco’s body was
becoming even more lax; either the drill was sucking the life force
from him, or he’d simply given up the struggle and resigned himself to
the inevitable. Lucius’s hand trembled a bit, more from the excitement
of what was about to happen than the knowledge of what he was doing to
his own son.
Finally the tip broke through, passing through the
innermost layers of bone to puncture the grey matter underneath.
Draco’s body convulsed once more and then lay still. From here, it was
pure pleasure.

From here, it’s actually pure hell. You didn’t think Lucius was going to stop at a home lobotomy, did you?
Unwrapping the restraints, Lucius let the body
slump a bit, falling into a half-slouching, half-sitting position with
its back against the wall. He removed the soiled underwear, letting it
drop in dirty heap on the ground. Then, vividly aware of his own
arousal, he began removing his clothes. His erect cock sprung up as
soon as it was free of its restraints – Lucius could almost feel the
blood rushing to it. The pounding in his groin was almost palpable, a
need for relief that needed to be satiated as soon as possible.
He
grabbed Draco’s soiled underwear, and then smeared the still-wet feces
over his member. On previous occasions when he had tried this, he often
found it difficult to enter the brain proper without lubrication. While
grey matter was itself wet enough, the surrounding tissue often wasn’t.
He didn’t want any snags.


Trembling again with desire, he
positioned himself at the opening to Draco’s skull, and gave a thrust.
Fuck. The hole was too small. His shaft remained exposed to the empty
air, unable to penetrate the hard shelter that held the prize.
“Aw, fiddlesticks!” exclaimed Lucius in frustration at not being able to fuck his son’s skull.
Cursing
himself for the delay, Lucius rummaged through his clothes, looking for
a file. Ah, there it was. He practically ran the few steps back to the
body, and hastily filed at the edges of the hole. Chunks of flesh came
off; they too needed to be removed before he would have access.

Time to try again. Lucius was still rock-hard: he probably would be for the
rest of the night, long after the body also became similarly stiff.
This time, he entered easily. He paused a moment with just the tip of
his penis next to the brain. He changed his angle a bit, feeling the
moist folds of it against the head of his prick. Each motion felt like
the gentle swish of a butterfly’s wings.



Finally, he couldn’t
stand the waiting anymore. Locating the gap between the two
hemispheres, he positioned himself, and then thrust in.
The
sensation was incomparable. Soft velvety wetness, clinging all around
his penis. The brain was the ultimate cushion, the ultimate pillow,
something that could encircle him without putting any pressure on him.
Not even as a teenager, when he first violated Narcissa, had he ever
felt so much stimulation.

He struggled to hold back and make it
last longer. The grey matter around him seemed to tease him, jiggling
and shifting so as to keep the stimulation varied. He thrust again and
again into the deep recesses of Draco’s cranium. Every time, the brain
responded, encircling, enfolding, embracing his member.


A fly landed on top of Draco’s head. Lucius brushed it away, not wanting to share his prize with the maggots.
He
felt the familiar tightening within his balls, and knew that he would
reach the point of no return soon. He pulled back, letting the two
hemisphere come together again, as he prepared for a final few violent
thrusts.

And then he let loose with full forces. Once, twice,
three times he pumped deep into his son’s head. Squick squick squick,
the brain cells called back. He felt sperm build up within his
balls…and then his pelvis…and then he was shooting his load all over
what had once been Draco’s thinking machine. It came out in spurt after
spurt, leaving one head to coat the inside of another.


To fill the thinking apparatus of one slave with the potential for another:
that was closure. He had come full circle – the boy born of a night of
passion eighteen years ago had served as the receptacle for another
night of passion eighteen years later. One era finished; it would soon
be time for another. And another, and another. For children had one
advantage over toys or machines or wives: you could always make more.
If one failed to succeed, you could use it in an entirely different way
and then try again.