Danger and Delicacy in Deviant Discipline

The fault was not his own, really. Draco Malfoy was simply a boy made into a man before his time.

While all his mates were off racing their brooms, playing exploding snap, or pulling the pretty girls' pigtails, he'd been holed up with his mad aunt – learning Unforgivables and torturing undesirables. Not to mention the burden of having a father in prison. Young Draco had taken on the responsibilities of the house for a time, and grown accustomed to the more metaphorical prison of managing things.

It shouldn't have come as a surprise when all was said and done that the Malfoy heir might…act out a bit. With the war won, trials tried, and sentences sentenced, he had a respite. His father was home again and reinstated as 'man of the house' (insofar as that statement could apply), and Draco was suddenly…free.

It started as an innocent night of celebration with the blokes. He'd met with Blaise, Gregory and Marcus for a quiet evening of reveling in the fact they weren't rotting in Azkaban. With a fine Firewhiskey vintage shrunken in his jacket, he'd apparated to Goyle's family home in Shropshire.

The night had digressed swiftly into a swirl of events so incomprehensible they still made his head spin: drinking the Firewhiskey, seeking more Firewhiskey, a late night broom-ride to Diagon Alley, kicked out of Borgin & Burke's, vomit in a gutter, finding more Firewhiskey, a fight at the pub, a botched healing charm, botched groping with some witch named Lucy who demanded money, punching Lucy's pimp and somehow splinching upon apparation back to Blaise's homestead only to discover that was not their original destination.

The Zabinis had been terribly perturbed by the apparent disturbance – even moreso after Draco informed Mrs. Zabini she had 'tits supreme' – and floo-called the Goyles and the Malfoys.

Draco's parents were…less than impressed with his behavior. Also, they had to replace Gregory's broom and pay reparations to some witch named Lucy.

But with sighs and lips pursed tighter than McGonagall's, the elder Malfoys had attempted to let the matter fall by the wayside. And they would have succeeded, had Draco not kept pulling the matter off the wayside and directly into their laps.

He simply couldn't seem to stay home or out of trouble. And if he was home, he was asleep or hung over. Or both. Either way, it was easier to avoid the disapproving gazes of his kin. So he slunk about the corridors like a skink, darting in and out of shadows, shielding his eyes from the occasional sun ray as though he were a vampire.

It was on one such slinking expedition to the kitchen for victuals that he overheard his mother and father talking in the parlor.

"…why you can't exercise a little more control over him, Lucius."

"Me? Witch, you are his mother. Didn't you…mother him? Isn't that what you were supposed to be doing whilst I was out working for our fortune?"

"You sorry son of a… I'll have you know I did more than my fair share of parenting for the both of us! He needed a masculine influence, and you were out working for our fortune. Now we have a degenerate for a son!"

"Masculine influence… Codswallop! I spent plenty of time – and money – spoiling him!"

"Oh, yes! You certainly spoiled him! Absolutely rotten, I'd say."

"Well, what do you propose then, Mrs. Malfoy? I assume you have an ingenious solution?"

"I ask that you speak to him, Mr. Malfoy. That you act like a fucking father for once, and set him straight."

Their voices lowered to threatening growls. "Might I remind you he is a grown wizard now? And of age? He is perfectly in his right to tell me to bugger off. And he does! With alarming frequency!"

"He lives under your roof, husband. I suggest…that you suggest…he begins to act like the heir to this family's name…or he leaves this family's residence."

A moment of silence. "That's harsh, Narcissa."

"He is ungoverned. And he needs to be checked harshly for his own good and for the sake of our name. Merlin knows it's tarnished enough."

"A fact you shall never let me hear the end of." Lucius sighed deeply. "I cannot threaten my son with exile. I won't. You make it sound as if it's easy…or natural. But it isn't. And I doubt you could do it, either."

Narcissa gave her own sigh of frustration. "Very well. Will you give me license to…approach him? To take the situation into my own hands?"

Lucius scoffed. "When have you ever required my permissions, wife? You are his mother. Do as you see fit. And if that doesn't work…"


"If your solution doesn't work, I shall…level the harsher ultimatum."

"Thank you, Lucius."

"Why must it always be a fight between us, Narcissa?"

"Because you rarely recognize the sense in what I say."

Draco heard her skirts swishing toward him and retreated into the alcove beneath the stairs. She swished past determinedly, not noticing him peering from the shadows. He grimaced, wondering at the witch's plan for his discipline. Best to avoid her at all costs, he reasoned. She could be damnably vicious. Sometimes, he nearly pitied his father…

But avoidance was not possible. The witch appeared in his doorway that evening as he dressed. "Good evening, son."

"Mother!" He took her in with minor alarm. She stood prim and straight in his doorway, stiff in a black corset and trim skirt. Her hair was tightly secured in a severe snood, and snug leather gloves hugged her arms to the elbows. "I was just…"

"Going out for the evening?"

He swallowed. "Yes."

"Would you please come to my private rooms before you go?"

The strange request unnerved him. "I – I really haven't time, mum. I promised Blaise I would –"

"Promises to fair weather friends are like five galleon whores, Draco – easily forgotten, and easily re-acquired." He colored at the analogy. "However, mothers' requests are practically sacrosanct in their rarity. Wouldn't you say?"


"I like to think I am conservative in my demands on my son's valuable time."


"Is it so much to request your presence for a brief audience before this evening's adventure begins? So much even for the witch whose womb was your chrysalis?"

"Merlin's fuckhole, mum…" He ran a hand through his shaggy blonde locks. He knew he needed a haircut. "I'll be there in a moment."

"Thank you, son." She gave him a formal nod and backed into the shadows.

"Scary witch," he murmured softly. He finished buttoning his oxford and secured his tie with a sleek onyx tac. He flung his jacket over his shoulder and headed down the corridor with a heavy sigh. On the way to his mother's wing, he passed a cracked open door and slowed. Looking over his shoulder, he saw eyes watching him from said crack.


Lucius did not emerge from the study, but did speak. "Son. Going out?"

Draco nodded, slightly confused by his father's odd behavior. "I am. Mother has requested to see me for a moment. I'm…going to her now."

Lucius' blue eyes flashed. "Ah. I see. Well, then… I wish you luck, son." The door clicked shut loudly, echoing in the empty corridor.

"But –" Draco blinked, a little worried, and carried on. Outside the massive door to his mother's chambers, he felt irrationally nervous. He knocked.

"Come." Her voice was muffled, but strong and clear. He pushed in, and felt wards tingle up his back, effectively locking them both in.

"Mother?" His voice quavered a little.

"Draco." She stood at her vanity. The lights were low, flames barely licking the edges of the sconces. "Let me take your jacket."

He didn't argue, felt strangely hyper-aware of her physicality when she approached him. The corset wasped her waist and cajoled her generally constrained cleavage into blossoming forth beatifically. He was ashamed to appreciate them. His mouth felt dry. "Is everything all right, mother?"

"No, Draco. It is not." She hung his jacket inside her own wardrobe and returned to her vanity. Her leather-clad fingers trailed lightly across the wooden surface and he noticed the implements gathered there for the first time.

Peculiar things…a sort of leather lash, a thin, rounded paddle, a devious riding crop. Heat crept into his stomach. "Mother? What is all of this?"

"None of your concern." Her tone sharpened just slightly. "Sit, please." His legs felt boneless as he dropped onto the vanity's cushioned seat. She turned militaristically to face him. "It is debasing for a mother to have to tell her son he has embarrassed her. But unfortunately, that is what I must do today. Your continued rebellious and foolhardy behaviors make me want to hide my head in the sands, Draco. Do you understand?"

He scowled. "Mum, I've been better –"

A sharp, echoing whack silenced him and he started. She'd taken the crop to the vanity. "A simple yes or no will suffice." Her clipped delivery was just shy of a bark.


She moved to stand behind him. "I suspected you did. So the question arises, if you understand the far-reaching and dreadfully damaging consequences of your actions, why do you insist upon persevering in being a complete and utter mudbloodish rogue and inexcusable guttersnipe?"

His eyes suddenly stung. "I'm just –"

But she cut him off swiftly, pressed the crop's thin, firm rod to his shoulder. "Yes, yes. I know the excuses. Your father has expunged them like so much vomit of late. 'He grew up too fast, missed out on childhood, fought a war, lived in darkness, made hard choices, had hard choices thrust upon him.' Well, guess what, Draco: We all did those things. We all suffered together. What gives you the right to be special?"

She circled him. "Yes, you became a man before your time, and in a hopeless state. But is this the man you intend to be? Drinking yourself to a stupor, fighting like a blinded badger and casting our money into the diseased laps of filthy whores who make you a slave to disgust?" Her lips brushed his ear, and she whispered, "You make me sick. And regretful that I birthed such a waste of pure blood."

His nostrils flared. Lip quivered. She knew how to cut – perhaps better than her deranged sister's dagger ever had. "I'm sorry," he said.

"I know." She straightened. Sighed. "My mother and all the mother witches before her…they had a saying. 'Spare the staff, spoil the spawn.' And they lived strictly by that rule. I was raised properly for it." She drew her wand from her sleeve. Draco watched her every move with blurred eyes. "But I was remiss in raising my own son, it seems; letting your father's milquetoast mentoring sour you like left-out cream. I believe it's time I demonstrated the awesome parental power…of the Noble and Ancient House of Black."

She flicked her wand and the seat beneath him jolted, rising another foot and dislodging him gracelessly.

He looked at her with wide, cautious eyes. "Draco. I'd like you to drop your trousers, please. And bend over this bench."

He shook his head in disbelief, backed into the vanity. "Hell no, mum. You're crazy! I'm a grown wizard!"

She scoffed. "Hardly! What grown wizard languishes under his parents' roof and conducts himself like a common convict? You're acting like a child, and that is how I intend to treat you. Now." She gestured. "Undress. And bend."

He raised his chin. "No. And I'll tell father."

A whispered spell, a wand wave, and she had him powerless across the padded seat. He spat as his hands stretched against his will to grip the bench's elaborately carved feet. Her hands made brisk, rough work of his trousers as she derided him further. "You'll tell your father? You ungrateful little serpent. Tell him all you like." He attempted to buck her off when she leaned bodily over his back to whisper: "He shall tell you he agreed to allowing me this discipline. He may also tell you that you shall come to like it." Her sharp teeth nipped an earlobe. "He certainly does."

Then her body was gone – with all comfort – and Draco felt the first shocking strike of her crop on his left arse cheek.

He gasped at the stilling, stinging, surprising…pleasure. His eyes teared in humiliation, pain and relieving weakness. His abandoned yelp furthered the ignominy of his situation. "Fuck, mother! Please!"

Another strike and he seized. "Please what, my little dragon?" A gloved hand rubbed the welts she'd made and he whimpered.

"Please, stop." He was mortified to feel an erection pressing into the velvet covering beneath him – mortified she might find out that this hurt, this punishment, this humbling cheeks-and-legs-spread position was making him want his mistress mother in a most unbecoming way…

He saw one of her hands approach his face with a kerchief. She wiped the thick snot from his lip and nose. "Not yet."

She stepped away again and the crop fell harder – this time on his right cheek. He didn't bother controlling the sobs. She was his mother, after all. His disciplinarian. His hard and loving angel in black leather. He was damned lucky to have her.

Another swack and he gritted his teeth, groaned when her hand fell to massaging the new welts. She'd been nothing but right: he loved this. And hated the loving. It was a twisted and defeating dichotomy. His balls pulsed, and when her gloved fingers brushed them in passing, he shuddered, nearly came, wondered (as his eyes rolled into his head) what the punishment would be for ruining her fine furnishings…

She was composed and crisp. "Do you think you can be a proper man, now? A good wizard? A true heir?"

"I- I –"

A swift swack fell across both cheeks. His cock ached. "I'll do my best!"

Another swack. "Your best thus far has barely resulted in you being a spoiled coil of offal in a trim black suit!" A swack. "Are you telling me you shall abide by my rules?"


Her massage began. He moaned, tried to raise his buttocks further, wanted that leather on his balls, his hardness, wanted the witch over him, beneath him… He just wanted the witch. "No more drunken revelry. No more carousing with whores or any beneath your station. No more belligerent bar brawls. No more mid-morning calls for me to rescue my splinched son from the courtyards of our few friends."

The massage grew softer, closer to his need with each word. "No more," he gasped. "No more, I promise!"

The leather left, then connected in the way of the crop. She was spanking him properly now, and speaking with every fierce slap. "A promise to your mother is worth more than a thousand promises to your foul friends. Are you aware of that?"

"YES! PLEASE!" If possible, her hand stung more than the bloody crop had.

"Then promise me again!"

Words tumbled from his mouth like polished pebbles down a creek bed. "I PROMISE! MOTHER! I'M GOING TO COME!"

And it stopped.

He practically howled. "No! Don't stop!"

Her wand was out and suddenly he was freed. He staggered forward, nearly tipping the bench, but his mother's firm arms caught him. She pulled him to his feet and forward, into her embrace. They collapsed onto the edge of her massive bed.

"Hush, Draco. Hush." She stroked his sticky, sweaty head. He shook all over. "It's alright. It's over."

He nuzzled her neck. "Mum," he murmured like a baby. "Forgive me. Forgive me!"

"I forgive you, son." His hands were distracting her, groping along her back, fingers struggling at corset strings. "Draco?"

One hand wrenched her head back until he could claim her lips with his own. She tensed against him, but didn't fight. "Draco. You must think. Your mind is a bit muddled right now – ohhh, yes – and you must keep your wits. Draco?"

Suddenly, her breath came quicker and easier. Her son had unlaced her corset, after all. "Oh, Draco don't!" The corset was cast away carelessly and his wicked mouth was on her breasts. "Gods, I'm your mother!"

"I know." His hands were tearing at her skirt. "Mother me, witch." His fingers, clumsy or still in shock, bruised her thighs as she wiggled and struggled against him. "Give me what I need!"

He was her son. She was his mother. He needed her. These were the only things she understood and she parted her thighs like a priestess at Beltane. His tie tac shocked a cool trickle to the heated valley between her assaulted breasts. "Draco!" She panted as he shoved gracelessly inside her. "Oh!" She was unprepared for the size of him, the substantialness of her son's body as he fucked her breathless.

"Fucking hell, you're perfect, mother…you feel so perfect…this is right…"

He was babbling, she knew, incensed and retarded by pleasure and the endorphins her punishment had induced. And intrinsically, she couldn't have disagreed more – this was definitely wrong; but physically, she couldn't help finding some small accord with his sentiment. He felt better than her husband – more abandoned, more passionate, desperate, rougher, gentler, wondrous, curious… She gave up cataloging the descriptions when his hips shifted upward, placing his groin flush against her own and shaping the perfect angle.

"Draco," she whimpered, helpless to his onslaught. "Oh, my baby…" Her fingers frisked his back through the sticky oxford he still wore until she could caress his tender buttocks. They tensed as he thrust, and he grunted warningly as she squeezed them. "I'm so sorry I was harsh!"

"I loved it!" He spat through clenched teeth, pulled back to watch her face. "I love this. I need it." He thrust faster. "I need you, witch. This way. Forever." His arm clutched thoughtlessly around her head and he continued ranting against her ear, body bent to maintain a sublime connection. "And now I need you to come. Can you do that, mother?"

She cried out as he thrust harder, felt the impending liquid pleasure filling her abdomen to the rim, threatening to spill over. Just a little more…

"Come for me, mum." He licked the shell of her ear and she clenched. "Yes, like that…keep going…come for your son…I'll be your good boy…"

Her terrified and surprised eyes unfocused with the force of their indulgence and she quivered while her body surrendered in tiny eruptions around his cock. Her throat made those sounds one makes when death comes hurtling at one's face. Draco swallowed the sounds or pushed them back down her throat with his own animalistic snorts as he emptied his deviance inside her.

They sweat and breathed together. Her hands relaxed on his arse, and his arm released her head. She caressed his hair, and he kissed her forehead. Her bunched up skirt rustled as they shifted onto their sides facing each other.



She sighed. "Don't call me mother right now."


"Not really better."

He looked…giddy. Grinning rather madly. "That was remarkable."

"That was…ridiculously foolish."

"And remarkable."

She propped on one elbow, her expression one of disbelief. "That was incest."

"Remarkable incest."

"You're in shock."

"I'm in love."

"I'm your mother."

"Yes, you are." He propped, too. "This is your fault."

"How is this my fault?" She was incredulous.

His mad grin softened just a little. He stroked her face. "You're a wonderful disciplinarian, Narcissa."

"Oh, gods above," she groaned, falling into the pillows.

He scrambled atop her despite her squeals. "Let's take all of our clothes off and do this properly."

"Properly?" His mouth muffled hers. "Draco! This is not proper behavior!"

Her skirt ripped loudly. "Spank me later, mum…"

AN: I thank the Lords of Acid for my soundtrack for this piece. It goes out to the Dragon - who is very naughty indeed and may one day yet taste the sting of my crop.