Plus De La Meme Chose
Plus De La Meme Chose
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Title: Plus de la meme chose
Author: Electricandroid
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: You name it. It is probably here. Mainly Lucius/Harry,
Pettigrew/Harry, Voldemort/Harry
Word count: 1300
Warnings: Non con. Big time non-con. force
feeding foodsex, fat!harry,
sex with the pimp cane, incest, threesomes, bondage, rimming, blowjobs,
cross dressing, whips, oh and strawberries for src=\"Plus%20De%20La%20Meme%20Chose_files/image001.gif\" alt=\"[info]\" v:shapes=\"_x0000_i1025\">
AN:For the Ambrosia Challenge at src=\"Plus%20De%20La%20Meme%20Chose_files/image002.gif\" alt=\"[info]\" v:shapes=\"_x0000_i1026\">
Many thanks to src=\"Plus%20De%20La%20Meme%20Chose_files/image001.gif\" alt=\"[info]\" v:shapes=\"_x0000_i1027\">
for the once over. This is definite squickfic,
with a hard hard side of pure PWP. For
the strong of stomach only.
Plus de la même chose
Three bland-boarded walls, a tip tilted roof, piles of
hay, a steel trough and a set of tethers. A set of bars behind, half rusted. He
fixated on the strangest things, the pile of dirty rags in the corner, the half
liquid glints on the wall, when the striated sun strikes the trough. A cone of
vision, one hundred and eighty degrees, the limits of a world bonded by ropes
and strings, by pads and gags. A visual parody, a monument to all things lost
in an endless war.
There is nothing left for him there. Each and every day is the same. Potter
lies twisted in his prison, times regulated by the trudge of feet across the
courtyard, by the muffled giggles, or outright cackles of the members of
than the caged, captive, the boy-who-lived.
In the beginning, he had tried not to succumb. Half drowning in the influx of
slops, a blank wall his only alleviation, he had pray to Jesus, to Merlin, to
nameless gods to give him the strength to keep his head up, his mouth closed.
Naked and bound, an open wall to his arse, he would spare himself this final
indignity. Maybe he would be able to kill himself and end this ceaseless
humiliation. Could he drown himself? No, pulling at the restraints there was
barely enough play to get his head into the trough, let alone far enough to
hold himself under. Starvation then? It seemed
practicable until he heard the three toned tap of two feet and a cane.
else. Lucius held his head down until it was
eat or drown. Harry would never forget the slimy pressure of picked over potato
skins against his head, and Lucius’s hand sliding
down between his legs, equally nauseating. It was the only time he had been
allowed to climax under a hand other than Voldemort’s.
Potter always knew when they would arrive. Day after day the slops would pour
through, three or four times, and there would be nothing better to do than to
sit and gorge on the miasma of muck before him. But on the days that they would
come, on they days then came to make sport of him, to take their fetid pleasure
in his body, there was nothing.
Lucius had explained; the glint in his eyes the only
aspect betraying his glee. Apparently the ravenous hunger which he sucked cock
was more of an aphrodisiac than the finest Spanish fly. And to keep him
tip-tilted on the edge of insanity required more control if he was hungry.
Sated, Potter did not provide adequate entertainment, and turning him into a
glutton, into an object so reliant on the sensation of fullness created great
mirth amongst Voldemort and his ilk.
Over time, the scenes all melted into one another. One thing remained constant,
tied to this rack Potter could barely move, and the soft scratches tickling his
cock, his nipples; hay against tender burgeoning flesh were so torturous that
he would find himself crying in pain. And the trough would remain empty, no
distraction, no contentment. Then that three tipped
patter, or a scurrying sound. Worst of all, a bucket of water
and a corset. Harry did not enjoy him time with Lucius,
abhorred his time with Pettigrew, but the worst part of his time with
Voldemort would not let anyone else pleasure Harry.
As punishment it seemed they could use him as a vassal for their seed, but
should he come, they were to be punished.
Lucius loved this control. Harry always remembered
the first time he appeared and started shucking his clothes. He never would
have made Harry come, that was not his nature, but the delicate tracery of
hands, the soft twisting of peaked nipples and the breath barely ghosting over
his cock made Harry scream with pleasure denied. Lucius
enjoyed bringing Harry to the edge, holding him there with soft, slow thrust as
Harry squirmed and begged for more. To leave Harry distraught,
raised above the floor, squealing until his erection subsided.
Once in a while, Lucius would bring a plump, ripe,
strawberry, and balance it on the edge of his tongue while he fucked Potter
with his cane. Seeing potter plead, desperate, for release and for sustenance,
until the entire mess jumbled up into a play of senses and of sounds, a
constant high keening of great anguish. And for Lucius
to just drop the berry, pull out the cane, and grind it into the floor. Harry
would have thought he could hate no one more at those moments. He was wrong.
It was Pettigrew, that slimy, traitorous bastard of a rat who inspired even
greater loathing. Peter had never forgotten the life debt,
and his flaccid fumblings when he thought no one was
looking, trying to bring Potter off, trying to alleviate some of the pain that
the Death Eaters caused him, made Harry cringe. The problem was that it worked.
The skimming sense of pudgy Peter,
melding into his body, touching him, tasting him all over. In the dead
of night, Peter would lie between his thighs, rimming him when the hay was too
high for a blowjob. Those fetid hands fluttering over his
body, and those small, watery eyes, pleading with him, begging him for another
chance. No, Pettigrew did not forget his debt, no matter how often he
was chastised for it, and many a night the screams of the rat under
Voldemort’s sessions were different. He would be
primped and puffed, bathed and shaved and strapped into the finest silk
lingerie, and wheeled into the main hall. A meal, a full
meal, a proper meal, eight courses with the slave boys between his thighs,
servicing him as he would come again and again. Then Voldemort
taking over, strapping his hands to the back of the chair, his hands bonded to
the armrest, and the red glitter of those stone-cold
eyes as he would be fed from the hands of his master.
Harry could never catch them in the act, too intent upon his food, mewling for
more. Voldemort would feed him at a leisurely pace,
one step down from satiation, and Harry would be keening in pleasure, the head
between his thighs and the icing on his lips. He knew when Voldemort
sped up to open his eyes. Nine times of ten he was graced with a floorshow,
languid commands of their master. The time when Draco
was looking straight into Harry’s eyes as he came, and he could see the disgust
and the want. Lucius understood, but must have chosen
not to share with his son. The sex in which Harry could never partake was a
punishment, but to Draco, the thought of being
handfed by his masters seemed a privilege of which he was only a part. Other
potions, screaming on the floor whilst Snape whipped
him. Naricissa
Ron on all fours as Lucius Malfoy
made him plead for a fuck. And Harry, unable to stop, unable to do anything but
moan and mewl and eat and ride the tall ship of epicurean lust until he would
eventually black out with pleasure.
He would wake in his cage, the cold wind blowing on his naked form, hay
scratching at his sensitive skin.
Another week, another month, another year.
Plus de la même chose.