postjentacular

There is, if rumours are to be believed, a cubicle in the men's on the fourth floor of The Ministry where, at a certain time on a certain day, one can get their cock sucked – no questions asked. It's Wednesday night, seven hours into a twelve hour overnight shift and I'm on my knees with my nose squashed against a chipboard wall and struggling to even wrap my tongue around the head because he's not sticking it through far enough – so it's safe to say that the rumours are completely and utterly true.

This guy isn't a regular; my regulars have the basic courtesy to get themselves nice and close for my mouth. Regulars, ha! A good nine times out of ten it's just the one, the same cock that appears through the hole. I'm not complaining, said cock is relatively good: decent size, not overly girthy, always clean, and he chokes back the most delicious moan when I swallow him to the root and bury my nose in his ginger pubes.

Yeah, ginger.

And no, not that one. Granger has a mean right hook which I have no intention of experiencing again. The one from Magical Transportation. Every Wednesday night for the past six months he’s turned up at my hole like clockwork, but tonight it’s gone two am and he’s not shown. He is in, I saw him skulking around the coffee machine earlier, sniffing the swill as if he’s too good for it; plus, my cock-sucking skills are certainly more than enough to keep anyone interested, so where the fuck is he? I'm tempted to go find him and ask.

Fuck it’s not like I have anything, anyone, better to do. Sometimes you've just gotta Gryffindor-up and go get what you want, and here's the thing: he knows it's me and thinks he's clever enough to keep his own identity hidden. He doesn't know that I know he knows. Former Head Boy Weasley might have got the family smarts, but discreet he is not – although neither is he smart enough to have planned what to do should I turn up at his office door. 

“Running late?” I ask from the threshold of his office. He stammers and turns a bright red. Told you he lacked discretion. “Only,” I continue, “I thought we had a meeting?” I swipe my thumb across my bottom lip and watch him hungrily track it. He’s still just sitting there, gaping like a grindylow. “My mistake,” I wave him off and turn around. I get about two half steps before he calls me back with a hissed ‘Malfoy’.

I turn back and give him a convivial smile.

“Maybe we could, could have the mee- meeting now? Here?”

I’m a depraved shitbag who gets his kicks from anonymous blowies at work, but even I draw the line sucking him off while his wife and kids wave cheerily from the framed photos on his desk. I shake my head, “You want a meeting, you know where I’ll be.”

Ten minutes later I’m back on my knees, waiting, and I hear the door swing open. It’s quickly followed by the slide of the lock in the cubicle next to me and the whoosh-thunk of trousers and belt hitting the tiled floor. The cock I've been waiting for slides through the hole, more than half hard.

Usually I’m on it in seconds, there’s no need for foreplay, a swipe of my tongue across the head and then I swallow it down; we both know what we’re here for so why pussyfoot around? Not tonight, though. Tonight I leave it sitting there, sticking out from the wall untouched until it's raised to full mast. After about a minute and a half he gives it a jiggle, a little wave for attention. Thirty seconds later he clears his throat. All-in-all he lasts no more than three minutes before he starts to pull it out. I halt him with a tsk. It takes another tsk for him to put it back where it belongs. I make him wait a minute more before I swipe my thumb through the bubble of pre-come on the head. He tries to thrust into it but I pull back silently. Once he stills I run my thumb over the same spot and this time he doesn’t move. I reward him with a peck on the shaft.

He gives a little groan and then swallows the noise; he gets another peck, this time just because. Then I wrap my lips around my teeth, hollow my cheeks and just go for it. 

There's a fine line between function, finesse, and ferocity and I weave between them like a fucking queen. Nobody leaves Draco Malfoy's hole less than utterly fulfilled – no matter how much of a prick they've been. He likes it fast, I like to be fucked in the face, what else do we need? Sure, the shitbag part of me wants to pull off, leave him spurting into thin air, or better, with a well deserved case of blue balls; but what can I say, I'm greedy and I never say no to what I want. And what I want is to choke on it. I push down till he's buried in my throat and hold myself there nostril-deep in his pubes unable to breath as he empties himself with a muffled groan. When I pull off I don't let him leave, not until I've lavved every last inch clean. 

It's ridiculous that after three years of training and thousands of years of magic, that Unspeakables spend the first year of their job in even more classes fine-tuning spells. For the past sixteen weeks Draco's spent his weekday mornings in a draughty office next door to the Death Chamber with three others from his graduating cohort working on unravelling curses from their training tchotchkes and his afternoons in language-immersion, but now it was all change: for the next sixteen weeks he'd spend mornings in language-immersion and afternoons with the indomitable box.

Language-immersion, his supervisor had reiterated, was vital for their perpetual translation charms to take, a quick Linguae might be enough for a wix on holiday, but Unspeakables needed something a bit more advanced than that, and so for the perpetual translation charm to take it needed soaked in language, like an aural sponge. The first block of classes had the whole cohort cover the basics: Spanish, Arabic, Mesopotamian; and now they were onto languages befitting their specialties: French and Italian for the Love interns; Celtic, Althochdeutsch, and Eald Ænglisċ for the Myths, Legends and Folklorists, and, what, Draco didn't know, for the Dark Arts.

He should've known.

How could he not have?

Regardless, it became bloody obvious when Potter walked into their far too large classroom, sat down heavily behind the desk at the front of the room and started hissing half heartedly, paying Draco and his three classmates no heed. Of course it was Parseltongue, what else would it have been? Who else could it have been?

It took about thirty seconds for Draco’s embarrassing teenage crush to come roaring back at full force and another minute or so before his trousers started to feel a smidge small in the crotch. Of all the inappropriate times… Sure, he saw Potter around the Ministry – at a distance – on the regular, and heard him on the wireless every other week, but polished speeches of pithy soundbites delivered in carefully coached RP did nothing to entice his fucked-up libido, the ol' hiss-hiss on the other hand… It was going to be a long lesson.

Potter didn't let up, at the end of the first hour he paused and Draco attempted to calculate how stealthily he could get from his desk – smack dab in the middle of the room – and out the door to blessed relief, but before he could come up with anything more nuanced than keep his head down and his robe closed, Potter had started up again.

If Draco were certain of anything it was that he’s harder than he’d ever been in his life; he’s going to faint as all of his blood is in his cock, he’s probably never going to be soft again. He’ll die right here and be forever forced to haunt lecture room 12A, the ghost of Draco The Perpetually Horny creeping out newbie Unspeakables for years to come, stuck in limbo until he can fulfil his greatest desire: to come.

He shuffled subtly to sit on his hands, he couldn’t trust them not to stray on their own, to jerk off under the desk leaving a puddle on the floor and his dedicated corpse, sated and empty, a husk in his chair.

For the next hour, everything ceased to exist save for the thundering in his chest, the throbbing between his legs, and that damn hiss. For the briefest flash he considered if he could just come quietly in his boxers but he dismissed the thought as quickly as it arrived, there’s no way he’s going to be able to keep quiet-

“Malfoy.”

No no no no no. There is no fucking way he’s adding a daydream to this clusterfuck.

“Malfoy,” Daydream Potter was speaking to him again, “are you okay, class has been over for like ten minutes.” Daydream Potter was oddly solid as he used his oddly corporeal hand to pull out the chair next to Draco and sit down. “Oh. Is that…”

It was no daydream. There was nothing more he could do, so Draco just nodded as he sat there in his horny, horny shame.

“Is it from…” he trailed off as Draco lifted his head and looked Potter straight in the eye, as he nodded again. In for a sickle, in for a galleon. “Are you going to come for me? Just like this? In your pants, untouched, ſss-hh-a.”

He couldn’t have stopped it if he tried, before Potter even finished hissing, he was coming, the damp patch spreading quickly across his boxers and through onto his trousers. Potter didn’t look away once, holding Draco’s gaze through every judder, grunt, and whine. Giving little encouraging hisses with every jerk of his pelvis.