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Howl and Whimper

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They say that Azkaban won't be so bad. That, compared to the reasons why he's there in the first place, it would be much easier. It wouldn't be heaven, but it wouldn't be some sort of hell, either. It doesn't make him any less terrified. Then again, he has heard enough horror stories about Azkaban that he thinks that he should be allowed to be terrified. The Dementors are gone, but that doesn't mean the mind games are. 


But Draco learned from Hogwarts and for that terrible year of living under the Dark Lord's reign that it was easier to just lie down and take it. Don't fight back, don't cause a fuss.




A few weeks - maybe months? He isn't sure, - into his sentence, he hears a whispered conversation through the bars of his cell. He catches the words Too Full and ponders over them for a while. The hushed speech was the closest he had come to human contact (unless you counted the guard that threw food through the bars of the cell every now and then, enough to keep him alive but not enough for his collar bones to not poke out from under his tatty robe) in an unbearable amount of time.


But then as time passes, the waves lap against the stone walls and the conversations slips from his mind.




He doesn't understand. It's too dark, not the normal Azkaban-typical type of dark, but the type that means there's a strip of cloth around his eyes, blinding him. He's bound tightly, on his back with his arms tied beneath him and his ankles tied together with the cuffs attached to the cuffs around his wrists. Uncomfortable, but that's the last of his worries. There's a faint vibrating motion constantly, and it makes him feel sick. For the first time he wishes he was back in Azkaban.




The first thing they do, before he has even been unbound, is wrap a cold strip of leather around his throat.




But to who?





A strong hand on the back of his neck forces him to his knees. He wants, desperately, to kick in the stranger's face and make a mad dash for freedom, but his limbs are numb. He wants nothing more than to curl up and cry, nothing more than to wake up in his grand bedroom in the manor, nothing more than to whisper his nightmare to Pansy. But wants get him nowhere.


"Be a good boy," The owner of the hand says, his voice deep and rough and wholly unfamiliar. His hand rubs his scalp and Draco has to resist the urge to lean into his touch. It's horrible but it's the closest he's been to an actual person in so long.


This time, he resists the urge. It's worse because he knows that surely there will be a time when he will not.





He still doesn't understand. It's been months? Weeks? Years? No matter what he knows that it's longer than Azkaban.


They didn't hurt him often, not like he would've expected. They were hurting his head. His mind. Changing him. Making him into something he doesn't want to be. Even in the times they did hurt him enough to bruise, it still worked for them. Ensured that he would never run. He wouldn't, not anymore.


A hard rubbery gag is forced between his teeth, leaving his mouth permanently open in an 'O' of surprise. It's ridiculous and humiliating and terrifying and he wants it to end.


There's a man and a woman who are with him most days, and sometimes other people who he is slowly becoming familiar with will visit, though he isn't allowed to interact with them, the most he'll get is a condescending pat on the head. On those days Draco is usually left in his kennel, or tied to a stake outside. Trying to escape is futile, the collar is impossible to remove and even if it wasn't they would be alerted before he could make decent attempt at leaving the property.


From what he can tell he is still in England, somewhere with empty fields that stretch for miles without end. He would know; he's been in a lot of them.


Usually the man but occasionally the woman, will take him out on walks that are utterly humiliating. After Draco has finished eating the utterly disgusting mush that passes for food, the gag buckled back around his head and a leash is clipped to his collar.


"Good doggie!" The man praises when Draco obediently crawls behind him, head bowed and flushed in shame. He hardly remembers the days when he was a respected heir to a wealthy pureblood inheritance. They seem like such a distant dream. They are a distant dream.


The man stops near some bushes and waves his hand, the signal Draco was waiting for, and Draco does his business. That's the nice way of putting it, the other ways Draco doesn't want to think about.


The first times he couldn't, not with them standing there staring at him. It was too much, a step too far. He would crouch beside the bushes shivering, while the man looked at him in feigned confusion. After some time he forced himself to do it. It was easier than waking up on a piss-stained blanket and being hosed down with freezing water afterwards.


Draco rubs his cheek against the scratchy material of the man's trousers to relieve an itch (he's not allowed to use his hands, they've seen to that), and the man scratches behind his ears. It's a small comfort, but at this point he'll grasp at whatever he can have.


He pants around the gag best he can, mostly limiting his breaths to his nose. He thinks he would do anything to just be able to breathe normally. Just breathe. Maybe one day they'll let him. Be a good boy.


His hands and knees are caked in mud when the man tugs on his leash and leads him back inside. The woman is waiting for them. She presses a kiss to the man's lips and then bends down to give Draco a pat on the head and a crunchy biscuit, unbuckling the gag as she does. It tastes disgusting, but it's all he has.


Too busy crunching down his biscuit, he doesn't hear the woman coming up beside him until her hand rests on the small of his back. He looks up at her, his eyes unable to focus properly. He blinks sluggishly in confusion until he spots it, long and thick, resting in her hand. A spike of pure terror surges through him. Is this not enough? Have they gotten bored? Why, why, why?


He tries to scramble up onto all fours, mind long past trying to stand, but collapses in a heap by her feet. He paws at the floor, sliding slowly along the tiles. But it's not enough. It'll never be enough. Be a good boy, she says, whispering the cursed words into his ear. He goes limp, the only movement of his body is his mouth, shuddering as he heaves out whimper after whimper.


She gives his head another pat and leaves him curled up in the corner of the kitchen, going back to whatever she was doing before. He can do nothing more but shift unobtrusively a few times, a weak attempt to relieve the ache. It only makes it pull and prod at his insides.



Training, they say. Time to be useful. His old fears are renewed in a rush of terror. No. They - they can't be serious?


Yes, they can.





He's terrible at it. He chokes until tears spill from the corners of his eyes, only to be harshly scolded because good pets don't do that. But he can't stop, the sobs and the tears and the snot just keep coming. Even when the man pulls him off his spent cock he still can't stop, not even when they chain him up outside for the night as punishment. He can only stop hours later, shivering on the ratty blanket, staring up at the cloudy night sky.


Practice makes perfect, he says. Practice practise practise. Choking, coughing swallowing. It becomes an endless cycle, until he doesn't know day by day. They don't go on walks everyday like they used to, a thick layer of white covers the ground. Months have passed. Or is it years?


He starts practising with the woman, crawling forwards and licking her between her legs. It's more gentle than it is with the man, no less hair pulling but much less choking. He can listen to the radio while he gently brings her to orgasm. He can't make out many of the words anymore, though.


He doesn't have the gag anymore. He is tamed now, they say.  He wants to snap and snarl, but he knows they're right. They have too much unquestioned power over him for him to snap.


They start to touch him when he pleases them. He hasn't been touched like that before, not ever, and it takes only a short amount of time for his cock to harden between his legs whenever they walk into the room. Sometimes, when he hasn't been a good enough boy, they leave him. His unsated cock refuses to wilt on it's on, and he becomes so aroused it's painful. He's beyond wanting it to stop at this point, and ends up humping the carpet for release. His cock stays red and hard even through his orgasm, and Draco growls and whimpers with pure, undiluted need. Finally, the man relents and wraps his hand around Draco's cock and brings him off, letting his cock finally relax.


Draco nuzzles against the man's trouser leg. Something for something. Never something for nothing.




It's heavy and horrible, but he gets used to it. He gets used to having his face pressed into the floor while the woman works the plug out of him and works another one in. He thinks that it gets bigger every few times. . . and that it must mean. . . something.


But then her hand snakes around his tummy and finds his swelling cock and his thoughts are forgotten.




He pants as the man leads him around the garden, the snow having finally melted back into the earth. It's first time being outside in. . . in . . . time. Lots of time. He thinks.


The man stops to let him piss up a tree, and he does so even though a tiny, tiny part of him is still fighting. It gets smaller everyday.


The man stares at him unabashedly and he finds his cock hardening under his gaze. He stares at him with hope and sits up, hands by his chest. Begging.


"Alright then, puppy." He says. Draco begins to crawl back towards him but the man moves quicker and he finds himself with his face pressed into the dirt, his cock brushing against his tummy. He whimpers in confusion when he feels the man's fingers around his buttocks, pulling at the plug. He doesn't - what? - he never - that's not his -


The man slides in with one long, abrupt thrust, and Draco howls. He was stretched, but nowhere near ready for this, and he burns. His fingers dig into the mud, dirt scraping under his nails. He can't cry, that's not what dogs do, so instead he howls with every hard thrust. And they are hard, brutally so. Even through the brutal assault his cock refuses to wilt, stays standing hard. The man reaches down underneath him and jerks him off in time with his thrusts, his come spurting over his tummy.


The man pulls out and Draco feels warm come splatter his back. There's the sound of a zipper and then his leash is being tugged.


"Come on, puppy, be a good boy."


Good boy, good good good. Good boy.


It takes every last remaining bit of strength for him to get up onto all fours again. He follows the man with shaky legs, mouth hanging open in pain with each movement. 


As he crawls over the threshold, he turns his head to take one final look at the field behind him. Snow has come and gone. It's been forever. No one is coming for him.


He gives in.





It becomes a routine. He sleeps in his kennel outside if he has been bad, and on a soft bed inside a cage if he has been good. He has more good days than bad days, and despises the freezing cold of the kennel.


The smell of the woman's perfume or the man's cologne is enough to make his cock swell and his mouth salivate. They tug at him until he wilts, only to harden again a few hours later. There's a pillow on his soft dog bed in his cage, and more often than not it's covered in white streaks when the sun rises. He is a slave to his body's needs, completely and utterly.




The other men smell different and are bigger and he is afraid of what they'll do to him. It's no mystery what they are going to do with him. The man had spoken to him, but the only words he caught were gambling and settling and debts.


One of them approaches and he gets into position, arse in the air with his face pressed into the floor. Somebody laughs, more than one. He closes his eyes when he feels fingers on his hips and the man sliding into him, not wanting to know how many are left. It hurts so much and he wants the others back, but they don't hear his begging through his growls and his whimpers. He is too well trained to try to run, yet with every painful second the idea becomes more tempting. But his traitorous cock starts to swell, and it doesn't take long for them to notice. He thinks they make a game of it, waiting until he starts rubbing against the floor for them to relent and tug him to release. Over and over and over.




You were good, doggie. So good. We'll have to do that again some time.


no no no no no no no no no no no no no-





The kitchen door is open, which is wrong. The kitchen door is never open at random times in the day. Not ever.


Curious, he crawls inside. There's a sweet smell of something familiar that he can't quite place. He's smelt it before, his instincts are sure of it. He pads further inside, instantly spotting what's tickling his nose.


A cake sits on the table, unattended and golden. It smells so good and before it even registers in his brain he takes the tray between his teeth and pulls it off the table. He buries his nose in the delicious smelling treat and starts to eat, jam and cream smearing around his face.


The scent of perfume and the twitch of his cock alerts him that he is not alone. The woman is standing by the open doorway, her face twisted into a furious expression. She takes a step towards him and Draco pulls his lips back and bares his teeth, growling and snarling. She extends a hand, to hit him, and he bites into her soft skin, tearing it. The woman shrieks as he keeps pulling until a layer of skin comes off with his teeth. Blood joins the jam and cream around his face.


A weight slams into him as he gets ready for another bite, and he topples to the floor under it. The man's fist slams into him over and over until he's a whimpering mess. He grabs his collar and, ignoring Draco's desperate choking, drags him outside and through the grass. He clips the collar to the stake and leaves him with a final kick to the crotch that he can't even recoil from. There's no give, no leash to let him wander a few paces. His chin is forced up. If he begins to fall asleep his head will droop and the collar will choke him. Not everything they do is too complicated for him to understand.


He's left out for days, the man only coming out twice to force the mush down his throat. By the time he is finally let back in he wants to do nothing but sleep in his soft dog bed. He isn't allowed to do that, though, first he has to show that he has learnt his lesson.


He bows his head when the woman enters the room, the action alone making his vision blacken at the edges. He shows her his forgiveness by licking and sucking and swallowing. He rests his head against her leg when he's finished, falling unconscious to her hand stroking his hair.





The man says something about debts and he whimpers at the word. The man smacks him on the nose.


"Don't be a whiny bitch. You're a good boy, you know your place." He spits.


My place. The words echo through his head as he opens his mouth wide to service the man. He's a dog, a mutt, a glorified pet. A sudden, oddly coherent, thought strikes him.


If he is the pet, doesn't that make the man his master?




More days, weeks, months (years?) pass. More cocks, more orgasms, more exhaustion. He's trying. He is a good boy. A good mutt. He'll play ball for his masters(sometimes literally).


The strip of leather is cold around his neck, and the floor is hard on his reddened knees. A hand fists in his hair as he sucks, like a good boy. It's always been this way.




"Holy fucking shit. . .Malfoy, fucking hell. . ." A new voice says. He doesn't understand. Is this a favour for his master.


A hand touches his shoulder and he rolls over, conditioning drilled into him. He knows how to follow orders and be a good boy.


"We're going to get you out of here. . . just stay still until medics. . . What have they done to you?" The voice sounds slightly horrified and he has no idea why. Is he doing something wrong? He can't remember anything else.


"Sshhh, it's alright, it's me, it's -" He sinks back into unconsciousness at the soothing tone of the man's voice.