Chapter Text
Two weeks later, Hermione steps out of Draco’s Floo to find him waiting, leaning against the wall in his shirtsleeves. She’s come straight from work, so her satchel is slung over her shoulder.
“Leave your bag,” he says, nodding at the elaborate row of coat hooks. “We’re going to visit Longbottom.” He says it while watching for her reaction, so definitely sees her eyes widen, the blush she feels steal across her face. The pause before she nods.
“All right,” she says. He doesn’t move. “... sir,” she adds, belatedly. She’s always clumsy at the transition, shifting from one self to another.
He straightens up, pushing off the wall, and she turns to hang her bag. He comes up behind her, close enough to smell, close enough to feel the heat from his body against her back, his breath on the top of her head. Anticipation tingles across her skin. Her hair is loose, another rule, and he slides his hands up into it, tugging firmly. It sends goosebumps cascading across her scalp and she sways, eyes closing.
It takes a moment to realize how his hands are moving; efficiently pulling it into a braid. No one has braided her hair for her since she was small. And this certainly doesn’t feel the same. He makes quick work of it, muttering a charm at the end to hold it secure in a single thick plait down her spine. Hermione barely has time to wonder where he learned it before he’s taken her wrists in one hand. A delicious shiver runs through her and then there’s pressure and darkness as he apparates them both.
Hermione stumbles a little at the landing, but his hand around her wrists steadies her. They’re in a garden. After a moment she recognizes it as Neville’s, behind the house that was his grandmother’s. Which means they’re standing beside his own personal greenhouse, not one of the several Hogwarts greenhouses he oversees.
Draco releases her wrists and opens the greenhouse door before she can register anything else, stepping inside. She follows him.
The air in the greenhouse is thick and humid, almost a living thing as it presses into her lungs. It smells green, alive, not particularly floral though there’s a faint scent of spice. The light seems green, too, filtering in through lazy curtains of ivy and ceiling-high fronds. Neville is nowhere in sight.
It’s warm and still. Draco reaches past her and locks the door.
“Shoes,” he says, and she takes a breath and steps out of her low wedges, feeling the loss of the extra inch as she faces him at his full height. “Trousers,” he says, and she sucks in a breath, darting her eyes around the florid green space.
But she’s well acquainted with the consequences if he has to ask twice. She steels herself and flicks open the fly of her smart office slacks, shimmying them down her hips to pool at her feet.
She took off her knickers and bra in the loo before leaving work. They’re folded and tucked away in the bottom of her bag, back at Draco’s house. It gets her pulse racing, the workday walk she takes from the toilet to the Floo; bare beneath her workwear, hair shaken free from its professional bun, ready to find out what he’s going to do to her.
By the greenhouse door, she steps quickly out of her slacks and folds them, placing them neatly atop her shoes in the corner by the door. He watches without reaction, as though he’s unmoved seeing her bend over bare-arsed in front of him.
She’s ready to pull off her shirt, but he turns without a word and walks deeper into the greenery. She follows, feeling off kilter. Just like he likes her to be.
“There you are,” says Neville’s voice and she rounds the corner behind Draco to find Neville at his workbench, repotting something with soil-covered gloves. He shakes off the gloves and rises from his stool to shake Draco’s hand. His eyes flick over to her, then linger. She’s in her favorite cream silk work blouse and … nothing else. It’s not long enough to cover anything below her navel and her face feels impossibly hot. Somehow this feels more lewd than being all the way naked.
“Right,” Neville says, after a moment of staring without actually acknowledging her. He looks back to Draco and jerks his head. “The new prototypes are over here.”
What follows is a strange, embarrassing interlude, in which Neville and Draco move through the greenhouse examining the performance of some new charmed irrigation system he’s put together, while she trails silently behind them, head fuzzy with embarrassment and need.
She’s almost sure that the whole thing is a ruse just to put her in this situation, when they come to a clearing beside a low, sturdy tree. The ground around it is covered in a thick, vibrant moss, velvety soft beneath her bare feet. When she takes a step, it gives like a pillow perfectly balanced between too firm and too soft.
“--and I can show you the off-label pitch as well,” Neville is saying. “If the offer still stands.”
“Of course,” Draco says, gesturing at her gracefully. “I did volunteer our help.”
Hermione gulps and watches him nervously. It’s the wrong direction to be looking.
“May I?” Neville says from behind her, over her head, and before Draco finishes nodding, he’s guiding her away by the upper arms.
Neville moves her to a clear spot on the decadent moss and circles to face her. She feels more than ever the difference in their height, exacerbated by his boots, not to mention his sturdy work clothes next to her near nakedness. Neville presses lightly on her shoulders as she’s biting her lip.
“Kneel here,” he says, and she drops to her knees, sitting back on her heels. The moss is cool and gentle.
“Right,” he says, moving behind her, and she twists to watch as he summons a long piece of wood with a pointed tip. It looks familiar and when he sinks it into the ground at her back, she recognizes it. It’s a planting stake, one as tall as she is, kneeling like this.
Neville’s hand lands on top of her head and softly but firmly turns her back around so she’s looking away and can’t see what’s happening. Being moved like this, like she’s only an object to manipulate, makes her heart start pounding in a particular way.
Draco is leaning against a nearby tree, arms folded, watching calmly.
“Have you thought about the supply chain if you do get the manufacturing contract?” he asks, and Neville launches into a long answer. She can’t follow it, though, because he’s taken her wrists in each of his sure, large hands and brought them behind her back – behind the stake. He holds them there in one hand while he rummages in his pockets for something, then quickly and surely loops a rope around them, tying them together one atop another. It’s soft, when she tugs, unlikely to chafe, but tightens almost imperceptibly as she tests whether she can slip free. Charmed, then.
“–but there’s that ridiculous tariff on any imports of magical anthracite from Estonia–” Neville is saying to a nodding Draco. He steps in front of her and shoves a foot between her knees, kicking them apart. His work boots are dirt covered and he uses one to push at the inside of one thigh, then the other, ‘til she spreads them wide. With the side of one toe he taps a little at each leg to get her to make minor adjustments, spread just a little further, until he’s satisfied.
Then he summons two much smaller planting stakes – each just the length of his hand, maybe, although that’s none too small.
Still chatting with Draco, Neville shoves one into the ground beside the inside of her knee, then does the same at her other knee. It’s dead simple – if she tries to bring her knees together, she won’t be able to, since they’re in the way. She can’t close her legs.
Hermione takes a deep breath, feeling her stomach flip in nervous, excited anticipation.
Neville takes a step back and looks her up and down. Spread knees, bare cunt, silk blouse pulled tight over her breasts by her bound hands. He nods to himself, then pulls a smooth stone from his pocket, tossing it to the ground in front of her.
It’s one of the irrigation stones he’s been showing Draco, about as big as his palm. It bounces once when it lands, pauses, then bounces itself over to rest between her thighs. Just in front of her defenseless pussy.
Hermione whips her head up to stare at Neville, then Draco, who’s smirking at her reaction. Neville flicks his wand, murmuring a charm, and the water comes.
It’s a spray – multiple streams of water and warmer than she expected, but firm and targeted directly between her legs. Hermione yelps and instinctively tries to rise up off her heels to get away from the sensation, but she can’t. Neville must have applied a sticking charm between her calves and the back of her thighs. The simple effectiveness of his setup is immediately apparent. She can’t move away from the stake she’s tied to, can’t close her knees, can’t lever herself up and out of reach. Instead, she lets out a gasp as the intensity of the water increases and narrows, training itself directly on her clit. She gasps loudly and it turns into an involuntary moan.
“Fuck,” she whispers and hears Draco’s laugh. She squirms, doing her best to wiggle her pussy out of the direct line of fire, but even the micromovements she’s able to make with her hips are no use. The stone adjusts its spray as she moves, as though locked on.
“– can adjust the temperature,–” Neville is saying, and she feels the water warm further, “–aperture,–” the focus of the water spreads until it feels like warm tongues lapping all over her folds, drenching her labia, her clit, her entrance. “–movement,–” he continues, and the spray sweeps briefly against her in a tantalizing arc, “–and intensity.” She catches the movement of his wand from the corner of her eye before the force of the water picks up measurably and she lets out an unexpected shriek. Both Draco and Neville chuckle before the intensity decreases back to its previous level.
“Here, let me get you a seat,” says Neville, and conjures a pair of relaxed camp chairs.
“Cheers,” Draco says, as he makes himself comfortable, stretching his legs out in front of him, crossed at the ankle. Neville takes the other, one ankle on the other knee. They’re both grinning like they’ve got front row seats to the show. Her heart speeds further. She is the show.
“Sir,” Hermione grits out after only another minute has gone by. The feeling is too all-consuming, she can’t get hold of herself. “I need to come, please. Can I please come?”
Draco looks surprised, like she’s just asked something stupid.
“It’s not my prototype,” he says. “You should probably ask the professor.”
A shudder runs through Hermione. She remembers how that went last time.
There’s no choice, though. Squirming, she looks at him.
“Please,” she says, “may I come, Professor? Please let me come.” There’s a note of begging in her voice that makes her sound particularly pathetic.
Neville tilts his head and she twitches her hips through the tiny range of possible movement, shifting where she feels the focus of the water most strongly. Away from her clit, over her lips, down to pound against her open cunt–
“Keep looking at me,” Neville says, and nods.
Hermione shatters everywhere at once, dimly aware of the keening sound she’s making. More aware of Neville’s face, his eyes on hers, the sheer naked intimacy of him watching her come. Watching every twitch and gasp and involuntary grimace. Her eyes are locked on him, sitting calmly in his chair, in his clothes – as she writhes on the ground, coming because she’s been forced to, coming just because he said she could. Everything in her on display; nowhere to hide.
Finally, finally, Hermione heaves in a huge lungful of air, orgasm over except for the last tired twitches of her cunt. She hangs in her bindings, leaning forward a bit so the rope at her wrists is holding her weight. Neville cracks a grin, then chuckles.
“Damn,” he says and she hears Draco laugh softly.
“Indeed,” he says, and Hermione grits her teeth and waits for one of them to cancel the spell. The water is still coming at her full force and it doesn’t feel good any longer. In fact, it’s quite uncomfortable. She twitches her hips again, squirming, feeling her brow wrinkle.
“Please,” she bursts out. “Stop. It’s too much.”
She’s looking at Draco when he says it, so she gets to see the evil grin as it spreads across his face. She knows that smile. She hates that smile.
“But the demonstration isn’t over, pet. You heard me say we’d help!”
Hermione whimpers as a particularly forceful surge of water hits her sore clit.
“In fact,” Draco says, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “I think I’ll let you come as much as you’d like today. We can figure out later how you’ll thank me.”
Hermione groans, half because of the ceaseless beat of water, half because the things he has her thank him for are always awful, and his ideas for how she can show her gratitude are usually worse.
“Please,” she says again, though she knows it’s no use. “I can’t, please stop.”
The water feels almost like something stabbing at her, just under the hood of her clit, and abruptly she comes, with a surprised shriek. A jagged little bolt of orgasm, the pleasure just a flash before she’s back to squirming away from the sensation.
“Please make it stop,” she says, dragging her gaze to Neville. Kind Neville, gentle Neville, Neville who talks to his plants. He leans back in his seat and considers her. “Please. Just for a minute, I can’t–. It hurts.”
He doesn’t look as concerned as she thought he would. Instead he glances at Draco, raising one eyebrow.
“I can finite,” he says, a question. Draco scoffs.
“She knows her safeword.”
Hermione lets out a little sob.
“It hurts,” she says again, the words tumbling out of her now that she’s said them once. But something has happened, between Neville’s nonreaction and Draco’s derision. There’s a heat in her pussy again, alongside the pain. A heat that maybe even likes the pain, feeds off it. Hermione closes her eyes, breathing hard, as the first lick of real pleasure eases its way back in.
“There she goes,” Draco says, amusement in his voice. “Told you she can never get enough.”
Hermione frowns, shaking her head, but she can’t bite back the moan that leaks back out. She doesn’t even realize she’s humping the empty air in front of her until Draco laughs. She flushes, trying to stop her hips, with only temporary success.
“Drink?” Neville says and she looks up at him, back into his face just as her next orgasm washes over her. She’s panting and writhing and staring – while he watches her mildly, reaching up to catch a thermos he’s summoned.
The water changes then, something easing in the force with which it attacks each different millimeter of her exposed sex, and she loses track of time and space for a little while. The change is a relief, eliminates the almost numb feeling she was getting, but brings on her third orgasm more quickly than she expected. She closes her eyes and screams, curling in on herself as much as she can, shoulders hunched, back bowed– but ultimately still held in place, held open.
When she looks up again, they have glasses in hand, sipping on– iced tea? While she moans. The water cools just as the intensity increases and she lets out a little scream, dimly noticing each glass is garnished with a sprig of mint.
Hermione loses track of time, loses count of orgasms. Some are painful, some just tiny waves. The spaces in between are sometimes delicious, sometimes torture. She groans and whimpers and moans and cries. After a while she’s reached that place, the place where she’s just instinct and sensation: thrashing and quivering and begging without any expectation that any of it will do anything. Half crazed with a desperation that flicks between begging for the sensations to stop and begging to come again.
At one point the water slows to a gentle stream lapping against her lips and clit, strong enough to keep her aroused but not to fall over the edge. She’s honestly sobbing after it’s gone on for a while, begging for more.
There’s something almost freeing in knowing this will go on until they decide it shouldn’t, as long as she doesn’t use her safeword. The only thing is that, with each orgasm, she feels emptier and emptier, her cunt clenching on nothing, and she doesn’t even consciously decide to change her babbling, it just seeps in.
“Please,” she’s whimpering. “Please, please fuck me. Please fuck me. Please fill me up.”
Neville laughs.
She looks up, shocked and embarrassed, to see Draco smiling. He casts a tempus.
“That was, what, 29 minutes?” Neville asks. “Well played, you were right.”
Draco smirks, holding out his hand to catch the Galleon Neville flips him.
It takes a moment for her orgasm-addled brain to catch up. They were betting. About watching her suffer for them. Betting that at some point she would beg to be fucked. Betting on how long it would take. She feels a rush of hot humiliation at being such a spectacle – and such a predictable one.
“Please,” she mutters again. She can’t help herself. “I need it.”
Neville quirks an eyebrow at Draco.
“I’ve got some prize zucchini growing somewhere around here,” he offers. Hermione’s cunt spasms. Draco snorts.
“What do you need, pet?” he asks her. Hermione can’t look at either of them.
“Cock,” she whispers, head bent.
“Sorry?” says Draco.
“Cock, sir,” she says louder. “I need cock. Please.”
The water begins coming at her in a pulsing rhythm that quickly becomes overwhelming and she moans. When she can bring herself to look up, Neville’s watching Draco expectantly. Draco waves dismissively.
“I get her as a cocksleeve all the time,” he says. “You’re our host.”
Hermione accidentally bites her tongue. She whimpers.
Draco looks at her consideringly, lounging. He looks cool and rich. Unruffled.
“What do you say, little girl?” he asks. “Will you ask Professor Longbottom for his cock?”
He keeps her gaze as she swallows, rolls her hips, gasps, decides. Draco looks away, satisfied, before she’s even said anything.
“Professor,” she says, voice low, eyes still on Draco. “Will you fuck me? Please?”
There’s no response so she shifts her gaze to Neville. He hasn’t moved, is watching her with dark eyes, and she’s half sure he’s going to refuse, leave her hanging, like last time. And she’s not sure whether to feel relieved or desperate.
Instead of saying anything, Neville shifts his hands down and – oh, god – unbuttons his fly. Hermione chokes out a grateful, mortified whimper and watches him stand, moving behind her.
“That shirt’s not doing much anymore,” he says conversationally, and Draco laughs.
“It really isn’t,” he agrees, and Hermione looks down. She’d forgotten the blouse she was still wearing, thin cream silk, now completely soaked from the tiny droplets hovering in the air around her. It clings tightly to her breasts, nipples hard and perfectly outlined, even her areolae visible. She lets out a small humiliated moan and hears them both laugh.
With a flick of his wand, Draco banishes it, and she’d bet he sent it back to her flat. So she can wear it again to work and spend the day squirming, remembering this moment.
She’s naked now. Tied to the ground in the humid green air, Draco still lounging comfortably in his chair, Neville looming fully dressed behind her. When she looks down the length of her body she can see her swollen pussy, pink and engorged and still under assault by Neville’s invention.
Behind her, Neville mutters a vanishing charm and the post at her back disappears. Her hands are still tied behind her, and Neville presses on her upper back, pushing her forward. He tugs upward on a hip with his other hand and she realizes the sticking charm has been released so she can raise her hips in the air as she bends.
The spray of water adjusts as she does, angle shifting so it never loses its focus on everything between her legs.
The moss is damp and soft against her cheek when she reaches it, Neville’s hand still pressing her down for a moment before releasing. She can see Draco clearly as he sips his iced tea, eyes on her face.
Her hips are high in the air, arse and cunt on full display. Hot, calloused hands spread her cheeks and pause. She can practically feel Neville’s eyes all over her and feels both her holes clench involuntarily.
When she glances down the length of her body, she can see one of Neville’s knees on the ground between her legs, his other foot braced just outside her calf. He moves in slowly, leaning his weight and heat against her: coarse fabric of his trousers and the thick, hot press of his naked cock. He ruts against her, his full hard length sliding through her lips and into the crack of her arse, then back down, while his zipper chafes the back of her thighs. Heat pools in her stomach.
Hermione bites her lip, eyes locked back on Draco’s. He nods, ever so slightly, and she feels a rush of heat in her chest. He’s going to have her go through with it. He wants her to do this so she’s going to. She’s going to let him do anything he wants with her.
Neville’s hands release her arse cheeks and it’s the only warning she gets before his cock presses hot between her legs, pauses for a moment as he adjusts the angle, then thrusts in.
She comes.
It’s overwhelmingly delicious, the feel of something inside her poor hungry walls after all these empty orgasms. She feels herself thrashing, quivering as it drags on – then, mortifyingly, realizes both of them laughing.
“Bloody hell,” says Neville, who’s gone still but has both hands tight around her hips.
“What a little slut,” Draco says fondly, eye catching hers.
Neville agrees with a groan as he pushes the rest of the way inside her without warning. Somehow the huge cock she’d come all over was only half of the real thing.
He doesn’t give her time to adjust, just pulls back and surges back into her with a speed that has her wondering just how unaffected he really was while they were sitting there. (Laughing at her.)
“Shite, she’s wet,” says Neville, pushing in extra hard and pausing for a breath before doing it again. Water is still pounding against her folds and she can’t focus fully on either sensation, the way it’s tormenting her clit or the divine drag of Neville’s cock inside of her. She moans, incoherent and turns to rest her forehead fully on the ground, eyes closed.
When Neville leans over her, curving his body to follow the line of her back, it’s a reminder of just how much larger than her he is. Has he always wanted to do this to her? Has he imagined her tits, her moans, even while she thought they were grabbing a platonic coffee together?
Or would any of her male friends do this, given the chance? Maybe a layer of clothes and Draco’s puckish smile are all that lies between her and an endless series of dicks, until everyone she knows has seen her reduced to this quivering, sex-addled mess.
“Yes,” she finds herself moaning as she feels Neville’s breath hot against her neck. Her bound hands scrabble against his shirt. He has both knees on the ground between her legs now and she wraps her feet around his calves, anchoring herself in place as something swells up from the deep inside her, something luscious and inevitable. Her whole body spasms, goes stiff, and she comes screaming.
Neville fucks her through it, bless him, grunting as he refuses to slow down for her spasming walls. She’s limp afterward, sliding farther forward on the ground, until Neville slides one big hand into her hair at the base of her braid and uses the other on her wrists to pull her upright as he sits back on his own heels. She blinks, dazed, held against the flannel of his shirt with a hand at her chest. He fucks up into her, breath hot against her ear, and takes advantage of the new position to explore her breasts. He pulls and pinches and twists and tugs until she’s writhing, mewling.
When she opens her eyes, Draco’s not even watching. He’s summoned a scroll – Neville’s business plan, maybe? – and is skimming it idly. He glances over for a moment, then back to the scroll and the next orgasm rolls over her like the swell of a wave.
Neville is fucking her shallowly now and she realizes he’s using the tight ring of muscle at the mouth of her cunt to wrap around the head of his cock, where he’s most sensitive. Like her pussy is a sex toy – like she’s a sex toy – so he can get himself off.
And then with a grunt, he plunges all the way back in and she feels it – the pulse of his come landing deep inside her, against her walls, her cervix. The water is sweeping in tiny hard arcs over her swollen clit and the combination of sensations inside and out sends her right into the next orgasm. They’re blurring into each other now, the pleasure building atop the ongoing discomfort of constant stimulation.
He keeps fucking her through the end of his own orgasm, then stays inside her as he catches his breath, keeping her plugged up. The head of his cock is pressed against her cervix, which normally feels uncomfortable, but as soon as she notices it, she’s coming again, twitching around him.
Finally he pulls loose and stands, stepping back away. He mutters a cleaning spell and she hears his zipper.
Now, maybe, they’re done, and they’ll relent, the water will stop.
But it doesn’t and she falls forward again, pressing the side of her face into the moss. Eyes squeezed shut, she squirms and gasps and whimpers as the water pounds on and on and on.
Eventually, somehow, it’s over. She lets out a low sob and doesn’t move, twitching the fingers of her bound hands. A muttered spell and the posts keeping her knees spread disappear. She rolls onto her side, relaxing into the warm, damp moss with a pleased moan.
“Oh, shall I cast a contraceptive spell?” comes Neville’s voice. It sounds far away.
“No need,” says Draco. “I’ll do one later. If I remember.”
She feels a surge of nervous arousal. He will remember, he always does, but he loves to pretend he’s going to breed her. To decide she should be pregnant and fill her so full of his spunk that it happens to her, just because he said so. Or fill her so full of Neville’s–
It’s like the times he pinches her nipples and teases her that he’ll be getting them pierced, as a treat to himself. Maybe her clit too. A game that’s at once so terrifying and alluring she can’t tell anymore if she does or doesn’t want it to spill over into reality. Which is terrifying in its own way.
“Hey. Kitten.” A smack on her bottom. She opens her eyes to blink blearily at Draco. He laughs and lifts her up without warning, startling a yelp out of her. Before she can get her bearings, he’s slung her over his shoulder, her face at the small of his back. Her hands are still tied and her arse and cunt must be on full display as Draco turns back to Neville. She feels a tickle and realizes it must be Neville’s come leaking out of her.
“Thanks for the show,” Draco says.
“Thanks for the participation,” Neville says fervently and Draco laughs.
“Next time you can have her mouth,” he says, a wink in his voice, and Hermione can’t help but squirm. They see, of course, and laugh. “Looks like she’s eager for it,” Draco adds and spins, pressing into darkness, taking her home.