Midnight & the Morning Star

Midnight and the Morning Star

Lucius Malfoy pauses, watching his hand slide down the
dark-skinned thigh. So smooth. So vulnerable. He always chooses the ones who are
a complete contrast to his own pale colouring. The aesthetic in him demands
beauty in all things, and his elegant, slender-fingered hand seems to glow upon
the equally slender, dusky flesh of the pretty boy spread-eagled on the bed.

Midnight and the morning star.

Barely out of his teens, the boy looks much younger,
regarding Lucius with just the right mix of anticipation and fear. The boy’s black
gaze cannot meet the quicksilver desire and instead flickers over him; over a
strong, lean body only lightly scarred, over regal features and a flowing mane,
and always back to the silver handle and leather coils of the whip.

Chocolate and cream.

The boy can’t see much from his position and isn’t likely
to move – the restraints are solid steel and the chains secure. Lucius does not
play games; his control is real, his dominance absolute and his power
unquestionable. He knows what he wants and he will take it. He steps back,
admiring the play of flickering torch-light over metal and skin, before
uncoiling and raising the whip.

Slate and alabaster.

The sharp crack and audible gasp are almost instantaneous.
The boy knows better than to try and repress any screams, but the blow is so
painful that he can’t draw the breath needed to voice the utter anguish. Lucius
steps forward and trails his long fingers – an artist’s hands, his mother said –
over the angry welt that has appeared on the boy’s back. The boy hisses in pain
and lust sparks in winter eyes.

Marble and onyx.

Again the whip sings and this time the boy is screaming,
high and trilling, sweet music to Lucius who does not pause but strikes again,
cock rising with the boy’s desperate cries. Lucius is a master of his art, each
blow perfectly calculated to cause the maximum amount of pain, but without ever
breaking the skin. The boy’s back becomes a brutal pattern of scarlet stripes,
wounds never quite touching, never quite bleeding. Over and over, the boy’s
whole body jerks, chains clanking as frantic muscles clench with the need to
flee.

Ivory and ebony.

Now, over the sobs and pleas, harsh breathing can be heard.
Lucius pants heavily, not from exertion but from arousal, cock aching, swollen
head glistening with precome. He drops the whip and approaches the bed; the
boy’s whimpering becoming indistinct as the tears fall. The boy’s legs are
already spread and Lucius, caring for nothing but his own need, thrusts inside
as hard as he can, forcing himself into the unwilling flesh. boy boy has had the
sense to prepare himself but still, it is an invasion and he cries out in pain.
Another man might still at such misery but the sound only excites Lucius further
and he withdraws to plunge into the hilt again, revelling in the hot, tight
passage and the screaming of the boy beneath him.

Shadows and moonlight.

The boy is fucked hard and fast, Lucius tugging on his hair
cruelly and running his fingernails along the marks of the whip, extracting as
much agony as he can, his own ecstasy building until he climaxes, silent even in
the throes of his passion. Spent, he withdraws, the boy still sobbing as Lucius
calmly cleans and dresses himself.

The ghost and the darkness.

He pauses, looking at his work. The boy has quieted but his
breath is raw and ragged, his head tilted so he can watch Lucius leave. The
light illuminates the traces of tears. Across the boy’s back, the dark skin is
laced with crimson, and the boy’s entrance is still coated with creamy seed.

Lucius smiles, for the aesthetic in him appreciates the
beauty.

Rose petals, white and red, strewn upon scorched earth.

Again, a sharp crack and the boy flinches, but it is only
the sound of Lucius Apparating away, back to his wife and son and semblance of
decency. Some of the tension in the boy is relieved, but it will be a little
time before anyone dares enter the room and release him. His eyes are fixed on
the way the light caresses the fat gold coins scattered next to the discarded
whip. Payment, for good service.

The tears are falling again.