"The Story of N," R
Title: The Story of N (gentlewizards prefer blondes)
Author: kethlenda
Characters: Lucius/Narcissa, Tonks/OMC
Rating: Hard R
Warnings: non-con via Imperius, sex slavery, forced prostitution. Oh yeah, and Lucius is a right bastard in this one too.
Word Count: 1744
Summary: The Death Eaters have won, and a certain Auror has been awarded to the Malfoys as a spoil of war.
Author's notes: Written last summer for daily_deviant.
Lucius Malfoy escorts tonight's guest through a covert door and down a twisting staircase, carved of rough-hewn stone rather than the blue-veined marble that adorns most of the Manor. The man is led to a small room in a subcellar that smells of damp earth and old blood.
The room is sparsely furnished. There is a simple ebony table in the center of the room, at which two chairs are arranged opposite one another. In one corner of the room, a curtain of burgundy velvet hangs from a bar wedged between the walls, forming a triangle. A door faces the one by which the man has just entered, and a mirror next to the door shows the man his own hesitant face. The girl is in shadow; she waits next to a smaller, narrower table on which a decanter and two snifters gleam.
"I must say, Malfoy, I'm a bit surprised. I wouldn't have taken you for the sort of man who would so willingly share his prize with others."
Malfoy gestures to the table, and the two men are seated. The girl serves them their brandy. She is of average height and slender. She wears a corselette and knickers of black lace lined beneath with emerald satin; she totters a bit on four-inch heels, the sort held in place with a cuff at the ankle. Around her neck is a collar of black leather, from which depends the Malfoy seal engraved on a silver medallion.
"I assure you, my prize is kept safely under lock and key in my private chambers. This one was awarded to my wife, but surely you understand that the chastisement of a slave is below the dignity of a high-born lady."
Malfoy gestures in the direction of the floor beside the table. There is a cushion there, stitched from green satin to match the girl's attire. She loses her balance as she lowers herself toward the cushion and has to clutch the edge of the table to keep from falling. Malfoy slaps her hand away. She settles into a kneeling position, eyes downcast, her baby-fine brown hair a veil for her face.
"Graceless," remarks the visitor. "A high price to demand, for such a clumsy whore."
Malfoy gives the man a languid shrug. "I have done all I can, and there is nothing for it. In her lack of grace, she remains obstinate; even my rigorous training and the constant reapplication of the Imperius have failed to fully purge this imperfection from her. I assure you, however, that she possesses other gifts that will more than compensate you for her faults."
"Are you quite certain of that, Malfoy? The slut hides her face; what is she hiding?"
Malfoy thrusts the silver head of his cane under the girl's chin, lifting her face so that the veil of hair falls away from her features. She is passably pretty; her face is heart-shaped, her cheekbones high, her mouth small but full-lipped. There is a certain blankness about the dark eyes.
"There is something familiar about her," says the man, sliding his hand between Malfoy's cane and the girl's skin so that he can cup her chin and turn her to meet his assessing gaze.
"She was an Auror," Malfoy explains. "Very well-placed in the Ministry. You might have seen the business end of her wand in battle a time or two."
"Ah, I remember her now. Why, she's the very one who…"
Malfoy silences him with a gesture. "We shall not speak of unpleasant things tonight. We must endeavor to put the tragedies of the war behind us."
"Yes, yes, you are right," says the man. "Yet what a shame your sister-in-law was unable to join in the celebration of our victory."
"Indeed," says Malfoy. He takes a long drink of brandy. "Surely, then, you understand why this little baggage is in need of discipline."
"Of course." The guest mirrors Malfoy, taking a sip from his own glass. "Now, you said she had other charms despite her rather unfortunate deficits."
"Very well. Stand, Nymphadora."
The girl struggles to her feet.
"Now turn around, and take your ankles in your hands."
She obeys. As she stands, legs splayed and hands clutching her ankles, her legs wobble dangerously on the dubious support of the heels.
"Evanesco," says Malfoy. The black-and-green knickers disappear. "As you can see, she has the tightest little cunt a man could desire."
Malfoy is wearing supple black gloves of dragon hide. He parts the teetering girl's nether lips to reveal her opening to the guest. The man nods. Malfoy then places one hand on each of Nymphadora's buttocks and holds them apart to reveal her anus. "If you prefer the other entrance, you will find it quite adequate as well."
The girl lets out a whimper, listing dangerously on unsteady ankles. Malfoy lets out a sigh. "For Merlin's sake. By all means, at your ease."
"Thank you, Master," says Nymphadora, tears welling in her eyes as she returns to her kneeling cushion. It is the first time she has spoken since the man's arrival.
"She is like a colt, or a pup," says Malfoy, "never sure from one moment to the next where her arms and legs are. Exasperating, as I'm sure you can imagine."
"Indeed. Yet her face is pretty enough, and her body as well. She has but one flaw, to be sure."
"Do tell me what it is, and I shall do my best to remedy it."
"The truth is, Malfoy…I prefer blondes. It's a silly little thing, of course, but a man has his tastes…"
"Blonde, Nymphadora."
The girl scrunches up her face in concentration, and a moment later the brown hair turns to a cascade of gold.
"Splendid! I must confess, you have a talented little slut on your hands, Malfoy. Why, with her hair all yellow like that, she bears a shocking resemblance to your--"
Malfoy holds up a hand. "Do not say it, my friend, and I shall not need to kill you tomorrow on the dueling field."
The man is silent.
Malfoy smiles. "Do we have a deal, then?"
"Yes." The man presses several Galleons into Malfoy's hand. "By the way, I neglected to ask you before…does she have the strength for rough use? A girl like this certainly deserves it, and I wouldn't want to break her too quickly."
Malfoy's laugh is sharp and dry. "She was a werewolf's bitch, my friend."
The man takes Nymphadora by the hand and jerks her to her unsteady feet. He leads her to the inner chamber, the room Malfoy has thoughtfully provided for his pleasure, and shuts the door behind them.
The curtain rustles. "Have they gone inside?" asks a feminine voice.
"They have. Do come out, Narcissa; you do not want to miss this." He indicates the mirror on the wall.
Narcissa smiles and leans close to the glass, tracing the gilt serpents of the frame idly with one finger. "Very cunning, my love," she says, "this mirror."
"I thought you might like it. Tell me, what do you think of the fate of your little niece?"
Narcissa presses a finger to her lip, considering, watching as the man takes Nymphadora from behind, holding her head to the sheets by the long blonde rope of her hair. "Quite amusing, love. After a thousand nights, perhaps I shall consider her crime atoned."
"Will you set her free, then?"
"Yes. I shall send her to join darling Bella."
There is, in the manner of the more famous chronicle of the unfortunate O, a second ending to the story of Nymphadora. Whether this is what truly transpired that night, or whether this surprising turn of events befell Mr. Malfoy at a later date--perhaps toward the end of the promised thousand nights--no one can say for certain.
"Blonde, Nymphadora."
The girl scrunches up her face in concentration. She bites her lip and clenches her fist, but the hair remains brown.
"Your pardon, my friend," says Lucius. "Nymphadora is a Metamorphmagus and ordinarily could fulfill your request. Alas, it seems she is indisposed this evening. I shall be sure to punish her well for it tomorrow…"
The man shrugs. "It's no matter. She will suffice."
The man presses several Galleons into Malfoy's hand. "By the way, I neglected to ask you before…does she have the strength for rough use? A girl like this certainly deserves it, and I wouldn't want to break her too quickly."
Malfoy's laugh is sharp and dry. "She was a werewolf's bitch, my friend."
The man takes Nymphadora by the hand and jerks her to her unsteady feet. He leads her to the inner chamber, the room Malfoy has thoughtfully provided for his pleasure, and shuts the door behind them.
The curtain rustles. "Have they gone inside?" asks a feminine voice.
"They have. Do come out, Narcissa; you do not want to miss this." He indicates the mirror on the wall.
Narcissa smiles and leans close to the glass, tracing the gilt serpents of the frame idly with one finger. "Very cunning, my love," she says, "this mirror."
"I thought you might like it. Tell me, what do you think of the fate of your little niece?"
Narcissa presses a finger to her lip, considering, watching as the man takes Nymphadora from behind, holding her head to the sheets by the long brown rope of her hair. "Quite amusing, love. After a thousand nights, perhaps I shall consider her crime atoned."
"Will you--ah, splendid! It seems the girl has remembered how to perform her little trick." Malfoy gestures to the mirror, indicating the brown fall of hair that has just turned to shining gold, and meets his wife's eyes with a smile.
Narcissa matches the curl of his lips. Twenty years melt from her face as she smiles. Darkness blossoms at the roots of her hair and flows downward, turning the whole to a sort of mousy brown. "Thankfully," she says, "your Imperius Curse is likely to outlast my Polyjuice Potion by a few hours. Your friend shall have his pleasure."
"You!" Malfoy's face contorts with rage and horror. He appears to have taken up the twenty years Narcissa--Nymphadora--has so lately shed. He fumbles for his wand. "You will die for this."
"I think not," she says. The point of her wand is already pressed to his back. She laughs like fate.
Author: kethlenda
Characters: Lucius/Narcissa, Tonks/OMC
Rating: Hard R
Warnings: non-con via Imperius, sex slavery, forced prostitution. Oh yeah, and Lucius is a right bastard in this one too.
Word Count: 1744
Summary: The Death Eaters have won, and a certain Auror has been awarded to the Malfoys as a spoil of war.
Author's notes: Written last summer for daily_deviant.
Lucius Malfoy escorts tonight's guest through a covert door and down a twisting staircase, carved of rough-hewn stone rather than the blue-veined marble that adorns most of the Manor. The man is led to a small room in a subcellar that smells of damp earth and old blood.
The room is sparsely furnished. There is a simple ebony table in the center of the room, at which two chairs are arranged opposite one another. In one corner of the room, a curtain of burgundy velvet hangs from a bar wedged between the walls, forming a triangle. A door faces the one by which the man has just entered, and a mirror next to the door shows the man his own hesitant face. The girl is in shadow; she waits next to a smaller, narrower table on which a decanter and two snifters gleam.
"I must say, Malfoy, I'm a bit surprised. I wouldn't have taken you for the sort of man who would so willingly share his prize with others."
Malfoy gestures to the table, and the two men are seated. The girl serves them their brandy. She is of average height and slender. She wears a corselette and knickers of black lace lined beneath with emerald satin; she totters a bit on four-inch heels, the sort held in place with a cuff at the ankle. Around her neck is a collar of black leather, from which depends the Malfoy seal engraved on a silver medallion.
"I assure you, my prize is kept safely under lock and key in my private chambers. This one was awarded to my wife, but surely you understand that the chastisement of a slave is below the dignity of a high-born lady."
Malfoy gestures in the direction of the floor beside the table. There is a cushion there, stitched from green satin to match the girl's attire. She loses her balance as she lowers herself toward the cushion and has to clutch the edge of the table to keep from falling. Malfoy slaps her hand away. She settles into a kneeling position, eyes downcast, her baby-fine brown hair a veil for her face.
"Graceless," remarks the visitor. "A high price to demand, for such a clumsy whore."
Malfoy gives the man a languid shrug. "I have done all I can, and there is nothing for it. In her lack of grace, she remains obstinate; even my rigorous training and the constant reapplication of the Imperius have failed to fully purge this imperfection from her. I assure you, however, that she possesses other gifts that will more than compensate you for her faults."
"Are you quite certain of that, Malfoy? The slut hides her face; what is she hiding?"
Malfoy thrusts the silver head of his cane under the girl's chin, lifting her face so that the veil of hair falls away from her features. She is passably pretty; her face is heart-shaped, her cheekbones high, her mouth small but full-lipped. There is a certain blankness about the dark eyes.
"There is something familiar about her," says the man, sliding his hand between Malfoy's cane and the girl's skin so that he can cup her chin and turn her to meet his assessing gaze.
"She was an Auror," Malfoy explains. "Very well-placed in the Ministry. You might have seen the business end of her wand in battle a time or two."
"Ah, I remember her now. Why, she's the very one who…"
Malfoy silences him with a gesture. "We shall not speak of unpleasant things tonight. We must endeavor to put the tragedies of the war behind us."
"Yes, yes, you are right," says the man. "Yet what a shame your sister-in-law was unable to join in the celebration of our victory."
"Indeed," says Malfoy. He takes a long drink of brandy. "Surely, then, you understand why this little baggage is in need of discipline."
"Of course." The guest mirrors Malfoy, taking a sip from his own glass. "Now, you said she had other charms despite her rather unfortunate deficits."
"Very well. Stand, Nymphadora."
The girl struggles to her feet.
"Now turn around, and take your ankles in your hands."
She obeys. As she stands, legs splayed and hands clutching her ankles, her legs wobble dangerously on the dubious support of the heels.
"Evanesco," says Malfoy. The black-and-green knickers disappear. "As you can see, she has the tightest little cunt a man could desire."
Malfoy is wearing supple black gloves of dragon hide. He parts the teetering girl's nether lips to reveal her opening to the guest. The man nods. Malfoy then places one hand on each of Nymphadora's buttocks and holds them apart to reveal her anus. "If you prefer the other entrance, you will find it quite adequate as well."
The girl lets out a whimper, listing dangerously on unsteady ankles. Malfoy lets out a sigh. "For Merlin's sake. By all means, at your ease."
"Thank you, Master," says Nymphadora, tears welling in her eyes as she returns to her kneeling cushion. It is the first time she has spoken since the man's arrival.
"She is like a colt, or a pup," says Malfoy, "never sure from one moment to the next where her arms and legs are. Exasperating, as I'm sure you can imagine."
"Indeed. Yet her face is pretty enough, and her body as well. She has but one flaw, to be sure."
"Do tell me what it is, and I shall do my best to remedy it."
"The truth is, Malfoy…I prefer blondes. It's a silly little thing, of course, but a man has his tastes…"
"Blonde, Nymphadora."
The girl scrunches up her face in concentration, and a moment later the brown hair turns to a cascade of gold.
"Splendid! I must confess, you have a talented little slut on your hands, Malfoy. Why, with her hair all yellow like that, she bears a shocking resemblance to your--"
Malfoy holds up a hand. "Do not say it, my friend, and I shall not need to kill you tomorrow on the dueling field."
The man is silent.
Malfoy smiles. "Do we have a deal, then?"
"Yes." The man presses several Galleons into Malfoy's hand. "By the way, I neglected to ask you before…does she have the strength for rough use? A girl like this certainly deserves it, and I wouldn't want to break her too quickly."
Malfoy's laugh is sharp and dry. "She was a werewolf's bitch, my friend."
The man takes Nymphadora by the hand and jerks her to her unsteady feet. He leads her to the inner chamber, the room Malfoy has thoughtfully provided for his pleasure, and shuts the door behind them.
The curtain rustles. "Have they gone inside?" asks a feminine voice.
"They have. Do come out, Narcissa; you do not want to miss this." He indicates the mirror on the wall.
Narcissa smiles and leans close to the glass, tracing the gilt serpents of the frame idly with one finger. "Very cunning, my love," she says, "this mirror."
"I thought you might like it. Tell me, what do you think of the fate of your little niece?"
Narcissa presses a finger to her lip, considering, watching as the man takes Nymphadora from behind, holding her head to the sheets by the long blonde rope of her hair. "Quite amusing, love. After a thousand nights, perhaps I shall consider her crime atoned."
"Will you set her free, then?"
"Yes. I shall send her to join darling Bella."
There is, in the manner of the more famous chronicle of the unfortunate O, a second ending to the story of Nymphadora. Whether this is what truly transpired that night, or whether this surprising turn of events befell Mr. Malfoy at a later date--perhaps toward the end of the promised thousand nights--no one can say for certain.
"Blonde, Nymphadora."
The girl scrunches up her face in concentration. She bites her lip and clenches her fist, but the hair remains brown.
"Your pardon, my friend," says Lucius. "Nymphadora is a Metamorphmagus and ordinarily could fulfill your request. Alas, it seems she is indisposed this evening. I shall be sure to punish her well for it tomorrow…"
The man shrugs. "It's no matter. She will suffice."
The man presses several Galleons into Malfoy's hand. "By the way, I neglected to ask you before…does she have the strength for rough use? A girl like this certainly deserves it, and I wouldn't want to break her too quickly."
Malfoy's laugh is sharp and dry. "She was a werewolf's bitch, my friend."
The man takes Nymphadora by the hand and jerks her to her unsteady feet. He leads her to the inner chamber, the room Malfoy has thoughtfully provided for his pleasure, and shuts the door behind them.
The curtain rustles. "Have they gone inside?" asks a feminine voice.
"They have. Do come out, Narcissa; you do not want to miss this." He indicates the mirror on the wall.
Narcissa smiles and leans close to the glass, tracing the gilt serpents of the frame idly with one finger. "Very cunning, my love," she says, "this mirror."
"I thought you might like it. Tell me, what do you think of the fate of your little niece?"
Narcissa presses a finger to her lip, considering, watching as the man takes Nymphadora from behind, holding her head to the sheets by the long brown rope of her hair. "Quite amusing, love. After a thousand nights, perhaps I shall consider her crime atoned."
"Will you--ah, splendid! It seems the girl has remembered how to perform her little trick." Malfoy gestures to the mirror, indicating the brown fall of hair that has just turned to shining gold, and meets his wife's eyes with a smile.
Narcissa matches the curl of his lips. Twenty years melt from her face as she smiles. Darkness blossoms at the roots of her hair and flows downward, turning the whole to a sort of mousy brown. "Thankfully," she says, "your Imperius Curse is likely to outlast my Polyjuice Potion by a few hours. Your friend shall have his pleasure."
"You!" Malfoy's face contorts with rage and horror. He appears to have taken up the twenty years Narcissa--Nymphadora--has so lately shed. He fumbles for his wand. "You will die for this."
"I think not," she says. The point of her wand is already pressed to his back. She laughs like fate.