Perfectly Put Together
"Oh, Draco!" Narcissa sighed, collapsing onto the chaise. She was quite simply knackered.
The Malfoy heir barely glanced up from his book, feigning apathy, but unable to resist a double-take. Her hair was loose in its bun, tendrils flying free about her pale face and neck. Her high cheeks were pink from chill and no doubt excitement. Rosy lips curved in a tired and satisfied smile. Her prim and stiff brocade skirt suit was slightly rumpled. Mum or not...fucking gorgeous.
He folded his book over his crossed knee and surveyed the numerous bags surrounding her, many of which were shrunken and stuffed inside larger shrunken bags. Russian nesting dolls of excess. His eyes widened. "I hope you found the blouse you sought to replace."
She licked her lips. Stretched like a cat in the sun. "Among other things." A sudden brightness lit her face. "I got you something!" She pulled her wand swiftly.
"Wait!" Draco's face belied true panic for a moment and he held a hand out to stop her. "Let's...let's wait until you get those up to your wardrobe before you enlarge them, shall we?" A vision of the peaceful drawing room brimming with clothes, shoes, tiny hats and matching purses gave him heart palpitations.
"Oh." She settled back in the cushions. "Alright, then."
He watched her pretty feet work at the patent leather heels. Gulped. She seemed to have forgotten about the thin, elegant strap buckled across each ankle. With a growl of frustration, she gave up.
It wasn't a difficult decision. In fact, there was barely any thought to his actions. "Here." He stood, and with calculated steps, navigated parcels to the chaise and sat. She looked at him curiously, drawn up somewhat to allow him room to sit. He gestured. "Give me your feet," he murmured.
She stared for a moment - the gaze a measured one. Finally, almost reluctantly, she stretched her legs so that he could reach. He took hold of her left foot first, tugged it by the heel of her shoe and turned it. He seemed to study it for a moment, then easily freed the buckle - smooth and wandless. She smiled as he repeated the maneuver on her other foot. "Thank you, son."
"Mm-hm." But he wasn't done. He held firmly to her right ankle when she attempted to withdraw it. Slowly, he stroked over that ankle, grasped her slender calf, and removed the offending shoe.
Narcissa watched his every move, noted for the first time how mature his hands were; how long the fingers, how elegant the motion of muscle under skin, the ripples of thick, bluish-purple veins. The finger pads possessed the roughness all male fingers seemed to possess, no matter the ease of their lives. Thusly, they scuffed ever so delicately on her stockings' silk.
It wasn't until the other shoe dropped that she looked back to his face. It was relaxed - more relaxed, in fact, than she could remember seeing it in some time. His nostrils flared and for a brief, irrational moment, she wondered if her feet smelled. But he didn't seem at all dissuaded. His eyes, darkened, didn't meet hers when he spoke quietly.
"No breaks today?"
"What?" For some reason, she whispered as well, hesitant to interrupt the strange peace blossoming between them.
"You walked all day." He said. "Swollen a bit. And you've a little rip here." His finger prodded a tear just beneath her toes and she jumped at the tickle - the hot stab of something that arced up her leg, through her thigh and tightened her long dormant core. Frightening!
"Ah!" She jolted. Her foot slipped his grip. Their eyes met, both pairs wide and somewhat shocked.
"Sorry." Draco blinked. "I was going to..."
Her foot hovered, trembled. She was inexplicably tense. "Going to what?"
But he didn't answer. Not with words anyway. He reached for her foot again, hesitantly as one would approach an injured rabbit. She let him take it, breath shallow as he lowered it to his lap.
His eyes lowered. Shoulders curved. He bowed like a penitent before the golden idol and those hands crafted by some magical master folded around her foot - the petals of a morning glory closing. They sighed together. Then his fingers began to move.
First, his thumbs wrested just beneath her arch, the tender swell above her heel. For a second, they hovered - still not quite tickling. She held her breath until they moved up; a bold if gentle sweep that swathed the ball of her foot. "Mmm." The little moan would not be controlled, would not be silenced.
Draco's jaw tightened. He focused on her toes, how they curled and released. Her stockings were slick and sleek beneath his fingers. He allowed his fingers to flutter and stroke the top of her foot, following the delicate flare of the tarsals and metatarsals under silk skin. When he did dare glance up, her eyes were closed and her head rolling on a lax neck.
Curious, he increased his thumbs' pressure - one kneading the ball of her foot and the other her heel. She hissed and pressed even harder into his caress. Draco had to shift her foot to the left. He was suddenly sporting an embarrassingly rambunctious erection and her toes threatened to graze it. Gods, please graze it, he thought.
The fingers atop her foot ghosted upward, over and around her ankle, circled the protruding bones. "Oh," she murmured. Her fists balled against the brocade sofa. "That feels..."
His lip threatened to burst between his teeth. "Good?" He rasped.
"Yes!" She gasped.
"Hell, mum." His fingers tightened.
"Hm?" Her eyes cracked blearily at him.
"Nothing," he choked. His fingers and thumbs shifted, took to her toes, tweaking each one - tugging it.
"Draco!" She arched and he balked. Her neglected foot, earlier patient to await its turn, had traveled haltingly from his knee toward his lap. He didn't notice it until its toes nudged the bulge in his trousers.
"Ugh!" He lurched at the scalding contact, one hand flying to intercept the devil appendage before it unmanned him entirely. My mother, he thought. She's my mother. But the moment he found himself needing this reminder ironically worked toward making him forget; a Titian painting unfolding - deep red embroidered brocade, a silver sateen skirt, linen sleeves rolled exposing a faded serpent and skull in ink, and the charred black of his trousers between milk-pale legs.
A simple massage. A high drama threatening to destroy them with temptation.
He couldn't be lured. Even when her eyes opened wide to take him in. Even as her parted red lips panted sin. Even though his own groin ached to meet hers. I mustn't.
She's my mother. He didn't answer. Instead, dropped a kiss to the tip of the tiniest toe and placed the foot between his hip and the settee's back. Firmly. As if to say "stay." Slowly, his hands took up her other foot - the one that had become danger.
She sighed as he plied it similarly to her first. Stunning dark eyes fluttered closed and she relaxed again. But this time, her lassitude was short-lived. He mutated the massage early, added twists, turns and prurient manipulations of long-numb musculature.
Narcissa clenched her eyes closed. One arm curved back behind her head, gripping the arm of their seat. The other occasionally scrambled at the chaise's steadying back as if seeking a purchase on sanity itself. She didn't see the hardening of his jaw, the spreading pool of his pupils eclipsing iris, the torture that thinned his pouty lips.
And perhaps that was for the best. She's my mother. Her toes prodded his stomach on one of his more aggressive pulls. He groaned. Would she even realize? Desperation and pure pureblood-fueled depravity dropped her heel an unnoticeable inch until it stroked the over-sensitized underside of his ample erection.
"Oh, fuck," he whispered. His own eyes drifted closed. Fingers worked faster, rougher, applying still more of that precious contact. It was magic. Intrinsic. His head fell back a hair and his bollocks pulsated.
Pulling down slightly on the top of her foot created a cup made from his palms and her graceful arch. It fit his cock like a dream-shoe, hidden from her knowledge by his skilled thumbs thrumming her tissue.
But on a particularly sensitive prod, she mewled, whimpered. Her body rolled upward as if on puppet strings. The foot he worshiped pushed too far forward for his mind pushed too far toward pleasure.
The hot, sudden pressure was a defeating force. He couldn't prevent the spill, the surge of "Ohsweetgodshelpmeyes!"
The Titian morphed. The colors muted save for the ones exploding fireworks behind his eyelids. He huffed. His breath was wet on the brocade where he'd buried his burning face. Shame kissed his exposed earlobe.
"Draco?" Her voice was so tiny. Uncertain. Worried.
She's my mother. Not once looking at her, he moved her somewhat sticky foot from his crotch. Pressed it to its mate. He slid from the chaise with as much dignity as he could muster. He turned away before the dark evidence of his sickness soaked further through his trousers.
"Draco," she repeated softly. "Please." Her hand stroked his forearm and he waved it away. Wordlessly, he left the parlor.
Narcissa watched him go. She could still feel the softness of his skin beneath her fingertips, the ghostly energy he'd left behind on her feet and toes. And a far more disturbing and prevalent pool of forbidden wet in her knickers. He's my son.
She shivered, stroked her own arms against the chill implication of what had just occurred. The parlor was quiet for a room so full of restless thought. She looked about at the numerous bagged and boxed trophies won on her exhausting shopping trip and sighed.
It all seemed rather empty now. The joy in a swirly new tea-length frock muted by the oppressive reign of denial and contrition.
She pulled her knees up and rested her chin there. Picked sullenly at the torn stocking her son had further unraveled. What do I have to be contrite about? She wondered. I'm not the one who soiled my knickers and left my companion molested and wanting.
And in that thought lay two quandaries, really. The first? Her son had basically used her feet as a masturbatory aid. And although the foot rub itself had been...pure transporting rapture, the fact remained it was her son giving it. The second quandary coiled like a snake inside the first, awaiting an analytic mind to lift the lid and peer inside. Upon which time - the adder would strike deadly. It involved the whole 'wanting' bit.
It isn't right to be left wanting by one's son. She scowled. It isn't right to want one's son in the first place. At least, not like this. What the devil is wrong with me? She pulled at her hair, released it from its snood and arranged the curls over one shoulder.
Baby adders - dangerous little memories - undulated and tangled at the recesses of her mind. How as a girl she'd so eagerly clambered onto her father's lap, rocking just so on the firm something there that created the delicious tickle in her tummy that had turned into... Well.
Recollections of her wedding night. Lucius' pale blonde head held in his hands as he'd sobbed over the edge of their awkward marriage bed. "Mother, mother, mother..." She'd been embarrassed for her husband on more than one count that evening.
But now things made perfect sense. He's my son. She looked to the doorway. And his parents damned him good and proper.
She took a deep breath and stood. Blood flowed renewed into her tired and recently pampered feet. Only one thing to do, I suppose. The packages would wait. The mother's mind was made.
Every step spoke pragmatism and determination as she mounted each step to the second floor of the manor. She had a very good idea of where her son might be hiding, and if she was right, it could be both convenient and corrupt.
She dropped her jacket on the landing. Her smile was wicked as she unbuttoned her blouse, shedding it in the entrance of his rooms. The inner chamber door was closed but not warded and her skirt fell as she pushed through.
Yes, there was the sound of water running, pelting tile sharply. It veiled the sounds of garters snapping open.
Even if he'd been facing her, the steam would have obscured his vision. She used it like a smokescreen, briskly shedding her brassiere and knickers. The stockings - already torn - were cast aside without providence. The naked witch circled the glass enclosure, sliding open its door with a muted hiss.
Draco's shower. One of few modern mugglish contrivances to be found in the manor, it still managed to convey luxury in design. Six shower heads capable of various pressures, a waterfall, seating and nooks of all sizes for soap and accoutrements. Lucius had been loath to install the device, but secretly Narcissa enjoyed the hell out of the hand-held contraption when Draco was away at school.
As part of the mist, she could clearly see her son. His arms braced taut against the ivory tile and his head was in the free fall of water. A quick wave of uncertainty rolled over her and abated. Her chin rose and she stepped forward.
His back jolted like a crucio when her hand pressed to it. "Christ!" He exclaimed.
"Hardly." She chuckled when he whirled and backed into the wall.
"Yes, I know." The water was hot and her skin pinked where it was hit. She pressed herself against him.
He'd been crying. He pressed his hands flat to the tile as if that would stop the desire to touch, to squeeze, to take. But she knew it wouldn't - counted on it, in fact. "What the fuck?" He spat.
"Exactly." Her own hands wandered freely, followed or preceded by her eyes. She stroked the hards and softs of his belly, scratched up the insides of trembling thighs, palmed and perked flat, male nipples. "Why did you leave?"
"This is sick," he answered, eyes tightly closed.
She stroked his cock boldly. The half-mast hardness responded with full sail billow and her own eyes widened. "Doubtless to many." His head cracked against the wall and water sprayed over them. "But does it feel good?"
"Unggod!" Was his strangled reply as she set a rhythm of pulling and twisting.
"I thought so," she muttered. Petite, she kissed him mid-chest. "Draco?" She'd not let up her attentions to his tumescence. It was truly a beautiful cock. He whimpered. "Darling?"
"What?!" He managed, manic, finally looking at her face.
She slowed at last, gave him some respite while she demanded answers. "Is it me?" She asked innocently. "Or just my feet?"
"Arrrh!" He growled, hands coming to clasp her shoulders, spinning her into the fall of water. She gasped. "It's you!" He shouted. The exclamation echoed off of glass and tile. "It's been fucking you ever since I can remember! I wanted to hate you like a boy ought but I bloody couldn't! You bitch! You weren't ever like the others' mothers!" He shook her. Rage gave way to defeat. "And now...you're here."
Tears threatened again - wavered his voice.; whether they stemmed from anger, lust, shame or frustration, she wasn't certain. Probably a bit of all. She reached for his jaw, cupped it and made him see her. "Now I'm here."
His lips curled. So it was anger. His eyes were steel. She hadn't expected such resistance. "Fuck you," he ground out.
She grinned. Dared to laugh. "You won't."
She screamed when he threw her, only because she knew he wanted to hear it. But her loss of balance was genuine, so she scrambled to remain upright against the tiled seating. He took full advantage and she lost her breath when he slammed her back to the cooler surface and climbed over her. "I won't?" He challenged.
An electrical surge charged her. It was carnality unleashed. "Draco," she coughed. She put up a token struggle, their slick bodies making a parody of fighting. Truthfully the victory in his eyes when he wrestled her arms above her head probably mirrored a victory in her own. "Son!"
The word was the final test. A last reminder of any reason and he dashed it beautifully against the rocks of utterly wrong. Her knuckles scraped hard the wall above her head when he shoved her up. Her cunt burned when he shoved himself inside her. Her thighs - her body - tensed against the intrusion. The cry of pain was a real one and predictably - perfectly - he ignored it.
"This what you want?" He rasped. He was far from gentle, eating her grunts and shouts like a lecher. The bench they were positioned on was short and the angle awkward. One of her legs stretched up and the other down, putting one foot by his head and the other on the shower floor. "No longer a whore for father, now you want to be a whore for me?" Her head threatened to crash into the tile every time he pumped his slim, straight hips against hers.
He released her hands, confident she would use them to brace against the wall as he took her savagely. "Fuck, Narcissa," he grunted. Watched her wet coral-tipped tits jar with every punishing thrust. She felt like the cruelest heaven enclosing his swollen soul. "If I'd known..."
She watched him as well, face contorted by pain/pleasure. "If you'd known?" She groaned as he took hold of the ankle near his head, pulled it to his lips and bit - hard - the arch of it. "You'd what?" She taunted. "Be a man before now?" The burn was ripening to a blaze and she wanted to come so badly...
He managed a shallow laugh. Water droplets shook into her eyes. "I'm already more of a man than you've ever known." His own pleasure turned his mocking grin to a grimace. "More of a man than father is."
"Oh! Oh!" She keened at the approaching undoing. So bloody close... "Think you're so much better?" She spoke over shattering sensibilities. "You're not. The witch who's making you a man right now is the same witch who made your father a man." Her hand slapped hard and sudden around his neck, drew him to her face. "His mother! Your mother! It's always the mother who makes the man, son!"
She couldn't absorb his reaction to this truth. Her body snapped taut. Neck arched like a dying swan's and she wailed her release. Draco followed helplessly, his face against hers, mouths open and teeth gnashing. His answering cry was more guttural - a surrender and a conquest at once.
Then the inevitable collapse. She'd expected it. The heavy devastation of fresh incest pressed him into her embrace. He quivered with quiet sobs while mist rolled around them. She rolled her eyes and folded an exhausted leg around his bent back. "Hush," she soothed. "That's enough."
He pushed away from her in slow motion. Looked to the patch of thin, dark scratch where they were joined before pulling his flaccid cock to freedom. His milky spendings - the product of their lust - pooled in the puddle of water beneath them. He looked a little ill.
"Let me up." Practical feminine hands moved him away and she arranged herself to rise. "I'm going to have a bit of a wash-up." She patted the side of his face. "Then time for dinner, I believe."
He watched her step into the shower's spray. Watched her wash away the filth of them together - the same filth that currently squished under his arse and thighs. He rubbed at his face. "Mum?"
"Hm?" She was soaping a flannel.
He licked water from his lips. They tasted of her mouth. "What...what now?"
She looked at him, barely distracted from her cleansing. She blinked in that brisk way she had that spoke of 'sizing up,' of deciding how much of her attention a situation merited. "I said dinner." Obviously, this situation required little or none of her precious time.
Quickly she was before him, leaning, her soapy breasts filling his line of sight. She took his chin in steadfast fingers. "Dinner. So get yourself together, and dress, and come down. And for Merlin's sake, don't act strange in front of your father."
Draco closed his eyes as she stepped back beneath the spray. He heard the glass door hiss open and click shut. Her dismissal stung, but he supposed she was right. He had a quick rinse and stepped out to find she'd taken his towel. His wet feet slapped across the en suite and he produced another from the cupboard.
He was surprised to find her in his room. She was wrapped in lush white cotton, waving her wand to efficiently retrieve her clothing. Garments swirled over her waiting arm. She was pretty, fresh, clean with a healthy pink blush highlighting her pale skin. Her hastily dried hair was a tangled fall of dark and light moving amorphously around her back and shoulders.
She paused, felt his eyes on her and turned. She tried an uncertain smile. He tried one in return. "I'll see you at dinner?" He nodded.
But at his door, she paused. "And Draco?" He stopped his toweling. "Tonight. One hour after your father retires. Come to my rooms." The uncertain smile turned coy, daring. An elegant eyebrow arched. "If you like."
She was gone. He stared at the space she'd occupied as if her ghost still lingered there. Damn her. His nostrils flared and he snatched his wand from his bedside table, summoned clothes from his wardrobe.
Tea. With father. He cinched his tie almost brutally to his neck. And mother. Another wand flick summoned shoes. Then an hour or so of polite conversation and feigned interest in father's probationary business.
Back in his lavatory, he combed his hair neatly before the mirror, inspecting the part with surgical precision. Then the old bastard's off to bed. He tucked the comb neatly into its wall niche and examined his final appearance.
He stroked the shadow forming along his jaw. He could use a shave, but hadn't the time nor the inclination. Besides...doubtful mother will mind. A brief image of red burn marring the insides of her creamy thighs flared something awful and amazing in his abdomen.
He shrugged into his dinner jacket with quick grace, straightened his cuffs. Took a deep breath at his door. What had she said? 'Get yourself together.' Chin high, lips set in the Malfoy curl, he made his way down the muted corridor to the landing.
There, he encountered his mother. Perfectly put together in a trim blue frock - obviously new - and low heels that kept her nearly a head shorter than him. "Mother." He gave her a curt nod.
"Son." She folded her hand over his offered arm. They descended the stone stairs together, beckoned by the scents of fish and cooked butter.
Perfectly put together. He looked down at her soft eyes and gently curving lips. Later, mother...
I will tear you apart.
AN: Thanks always to Narcissa Nerea for her invaluable input. Thanks also to Quentin Tarantino and the film Pulp Fiction for the original germ of this idea. Who knew I could bastardize the innocent (or not so innocent) foot rub in such a fashion? Oh...I think we all knew.