#caught wanking

Hermione would like to see a study—an actual, peer-reviewed study—on how many women would be slowly driven to hysteria if they had to endure fifteen men massaging her. 

One at a time. 

While the rest looked on. 

With no release.

There’s only so many times she can be rubbed down with warm oil before she loses her mind. 

If the footage from this wasn’t going to be broadcast on a family-friendly network, she’d rub her thighs together for some relief. As it is, this Bachelorette didn’t come on the show to cause a scandal. Not for love, either. Which is good, because the first thing a producer did was take her to the side and point to a picture of a man with black hair and a cheesy lightning tattoo on his neck and say, “This is who you’ll pick. Budge up and I’ll show you the rest of your top four.”

She knows it’s fake. Hermione can’t even remember the name of the lanky red-head whose thumbs are digging into her trapezius muscle without mercy. Nicknames are the only way to survive in this environment, so once Red’s turn is over, she tilts her face to the side to see who’s replacing him.

Ah, Yachty Jack Frost. 

Hair dyed that trendy colour of so-blonde-it’s-grey to match his eyes, slim but solidly-built, and the insufferable ability to namedrop at the slightest provocation, he looks like the word “lacrosse.” No doubt his soundbites will catapult him straight to one of the franchise’s auxiliary shows. 

“That’s not my neck,” she gasps when she feels cool hands to contrast the hot skin of her inner thighs. Furtive whispering and indignation sparks between the men standing off to the side, each one clumsily toeing the line of trying to figure out what “likable” outrage might look like on their handsome faces. 

“Oh, is that where I was supposed to put these?” Yachty says, stroking his thumbs high enough to graze her ass cheeks under the towel. His brazen attitude sends a bolt of heat straight to her center. “You’re too polite to ask for it, but I think you’d rather have me work my magic elsewhere.”

Acutely aware of the blinking red microphone light below her mouth, Hermione takes great pains to keep her breathing steady. Directly on the floor is a teleprompter that shows the name of her current masseuse.

“Draco,” she moans in shock when the tips of his thumbs brush against her actual cunt. She’d meant to sound cross but that would require an ability to think past the abrupt awareness of how wet she is when he deliberately blows cool air between her legs.

Worked up enough to nearly forget herself, Hermione turns her head to the side.

“Pansy,” she barks to her producer, wrapping the towel around her torso as she sits up. “Bathroom break.”

Severely put-out, Pansy yanks her headphones off and yells, “Cut!” 

Before Hermione can push her way through the line of men glowering at the rake behind her, dark green stiletto nails wrap around her bicep and lead her in the opposite direction. 

“If you’re going to ruin my shot then you’ll do a quick interview as penance,” Pansy grouses, plopping Hermione into a maroon corduroy papasan chair. 

When a producer asks for her thoughts on Draco’s bold approach, a very small part of her looks on in horror when an honest-to-god giggle escapes her.

By the time she makes it to her deserted hair and makeup trailer, the towel rubbing against her nipples is almost distracting enough for her not to notice the muffled moan that comes from inside. Fingers wrapped around the knob, she glances around to see everyone on set scrambling to make the most of the outrage Draco had provoked with personal interviews. 

She slips inside.

“Oh, fuck, Theo,” Draco groans, leaning against the wall next to Baby Grinch Eyelashes—Theo—as their forearms cross to work each other’s cocks. “Do that again. Twist at the top.”

Hermione’s mouth drops open, watching Draco throw his head back as Theo grinds into Draco’s fist with singular concentration.

Both of them are horrendously attractive and completely unabashed when they hear the door click shut behind her.

“Ah,” Theo says, watching her from wickedly half-lidded eyes. “So she’s human, after all. When Draco mentioned how soaked you were, I thought he was lying.”

It’s difficult to connect the dots between what he’s saying and the fact that her feet are already moving closer to the both of them. Is she into this? Are they even into her?

“God, she kept moving her legs farther apart,” Draco says, punching his hips forward in a particularly vicious thrust as he meets Hermione’s eyes and follows them down. The tip of his cock glistens with moisture before it’s swallowed again by Theo’s fist. “Would’ve buried my face in your cunt if you hadn’t stopped production.”

Right. Okay, then.

Hermione’s vibrator died on her third night here and every day since has been torture. It makes her decision easy. 

“Can I...?” 

Draco yanks her to his side and plants a searing kiss against her lips. She has the vague sensation of her towel slipping against her sensitive skin, the firmness of Draco’s chest hardening her nipples. How is it that he can kiss her like he’s not simultaneously giving and receiving pleasure? His tongue splits the seam of her lips like a letter opener and she’s greedy for it, letting him fuck her mouth with distressing competence.

Two hands thread their way into her curls as Draco tugs her hair back to expose her neck. His hot breath hits her throat as he kisses his way to her collarbone and Theo shifts her hips to face him, wedging his thigh between hers and encouraging her to ride it. She rocks back and forth, the ache in her cunt sharpening enough to make her whimper. 

“So Hermione,” Theo pants, his hips rocking slightly into her as he continues to work Draco’s cock. “Give me a hint. Am I in the top three?”

Hermione laughs, rolling her hips against him. “That depends entirely on your work ethic.”

It didn’t, actually. Theo, with his bright blue eyes and Timothee-Chalamet-but-on-protein-shakes build, was guaranteed to be a fan favorite. He’d already been hand-picked to be the next Bachelor but Pansy would gut her if she told him before the network decided for sure.

Theo winks, leaning forward to kiss her. “Then it’s in the bag,” he says against her lips.

“And me, Granger?” Draco asks before he licks a stripe across her nipple, then blows. It stiffens painfully. “Do you think I’m here for the right reasons?”

Hermione scoffs, grinning. She knows for a fact he’s here to gain enough followers on social media before he launches his own microbrewery. Several of the contestants have informed her, expecting her to send him home.

She hadn’t for two reasons. 

First, he has to make it to the final four, according to Pansy. Keeping a pot-stirrer in the mix is good for views. Secondly, she wasn’t here for love, either. Being the Bachelorette will give her enough money and exposure to accept more pro-bono cases as a defense attorney and this is technically a paid-for vacation. Who was she to judge?

“If those reasons include shit-talking and making me come, then yes. I believe so,” she says.

Draco smirks, grey eyes glinting with mischief. The back of his fingernail gently glides over her nipple and Hermione cries out. 

“Come on,” he says, standing up straight and tugging the both of them after him to the couch. “You can sit on Theo’s cock while I earn my keep.”

Theo leans back on the couch with his arms spread out wide.

“Reverse cowgirl, Hermione. My favorite,” he says, hands guiding her hips as she sinks down his length.

Both of them hiss at how easy it is.

Draco gets to his knees, his hands anchors for Hermione’s feet as he watches her slowly raise and lower herself on Theo’s cock.

“Fuck, Theo. If you could see how stuffed full she is—”

“I can fucking feel it,” Theo grunts, his fingertips digging into her hips.

“You want my cock to fill you up next?” Draco asks Theo, pressing a surprisingly tender kiss to his knee as he reaches to rub Hermione’s clitoral hood with two fingers.

Theo bucks under her in response.

“God, please,” he says hoarsely. Theo’s hips roll slowly, and between that and Draco’s clever fingers, Hermione could actually combust.

“That’s it,” Draco coaxes, leaning forward. His tongue slips through her folds, moving up and down with her as she fucks herself on Theo’s cock. “Show me how good you can fuck her, Theo.”

“Shit!” Hermione’s entire body shudders as her orgasm blindsides her. She throws her head back on Theo’s shoulder, tightening around him as he licks from her neck to her ear.

Draco’s tongue never stops, and he groans as he spills into his fist.

“Your fucking tongue, Draco,” Theo grinds out, losing his patience. Lifting Hermione a bit, he thrusts into her hard, over and over again.

“Ah, Theo!”

Draco replaces his tongue with his fingers and once more, Hermione unravels. Theo follows her down, gasping against her neck as he comes inside her.

“Hermione?” 

Chests heaving, all three of them freeze at the sound of her name being called. 

“Did she fall into the fucking toilet? Jesus Christ,” Pansy says from outside the trailer, aggravated enough that her slightly British accent bleeds through.