8 - upwards to infinity
Welcome to our eighth prompt post.
As ususal, here are a few things to keep in mind:
1) All fills for prompts of the earlier prompt posts go in the post the prompt was posted in. No re-posting or splitting up prompts and fills.
2) Self-prompt when you post unprompted fic. (This means posting what the fill is about in a first comment, like a real ( Read more... )
As ususal, here are a few things to keep in mind:
1) All fills for prompts of the earlier prompt posts go in the post the prompt was posted in. No re-posting or splitting up prompts and fills.
2) Self-prompt when you post unprompted fic. (This means posting what the fill is about in a first comment, like a real ( Read more... )
The undernote of dinner increased as he advanced on the kitchen. He could almost see himself in the oven door but was more interested in the casserole within, bubbling gently, something in red wine, and, as yet, not a vegetable in sight. Mashed potato! There was a heartening thought - he patted his stomach, quite content with a bit of winter padding - things with leaves could wait until the risk of frost had passed, a chap needed feeding if he was to stay warm in this weather.
He blinked as he caught sight of a rather strange, almost random, item propped against a cupboard. The cleaners must have left it - bit odd really, had there been a problem with the vacuum? Peter hadn't lost his head and insisted on them doing it by hand, had he? Their rugs weren't that valuable - even if they'd been first rate, they'd not suffer from hoovering. How strange! He picked up the carpet-beater and took a good look at it.
Not bad, he thought. Not bad at all. Very neat job on the paintwork, quite realistic ageing, but you could tell from the raffia that it wasn't genuinely old. He swished it through the air, clearing the fruitbowl by a fraction of an inch - he needed more space, where he could get a good swing going.
He swooped the carpet-beater through the air and grinned - carpets, his arse. The sound effects were amazing, the business end of the thing had much greater surface area than anything he'd ever encountered before, and the thought of using it, on Peter, or Peter taking it to him, was incredibly arousing. He closed his eyes and rubbed his backside with his hand, trying to imagine what it would feel like, how much it would sting.
It had to hurt. A few strokes and most of his arse would be ablaze. Would Peter take it slowly and let him absorb every stroke? Or quickly, like that time before the taxi arrived - bundled into it with his arse burnished and the prospect of an orgasm three hours away; a boring dinner, sat on the most uncomfortable seat known to man and a few extra strokes when he got home for his foul temper. Peter wouldn't dare again... but the sex they'd had after that, fuelled by anger and frustration, had been extraordinary.
He was doomed. He set the implement on the worktop and stared at it.
It was absurd, but he had a burgeoning urge to bend over, there and then. Imagining Peter behind him, talking to him. Giving him a good dressing-down before applying the beater to his thoroughly-deserving arse. He looked out the kitchen window, wondering where his sense of embarrassment had gone, or shame, or even just common sense - the beater belonged to the cleaners and they'd likely be back for it; neither he nor they needed them to find him wanking into the sink. He needed to calm down and get himself under control.
Dinner - that was the key. If he knew how the oven worked, he could find out how much longer it would take to cook before he started shouting up the stairs for the boyfriend who might not be home for hours. His stomach rumbled and he realised it'd been half a day since he'd last eaten. Track down the chef, then have a discussion with the disciplinarian - that was the proper and civilised approach to these things.
Giving the implement back to the cleaners - well, only if he must.
"Peter?" he called up the stairs. "We need to talk." That sounded ominous, not the impression he wanted to give. "After dinner, don't worry!"
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There was a muffled snort behind him, but George snuggled up close, put an arm round his waist and pulled his backside firmly into George's lap. He really shouldn't wriggle, that would give the game away. He managed a few seconds before his body betrayed him.
"Knew you were awake, you big liar." There was a kiss planted on the back of his neck and the hand moved stealthily up and down his chest. Peter stretched within the confines of the hold on him and made to roll over onto his back, for George's benefit, of course.
"Not so fast," he was told, and kissed again. "I was thinking about today," said George, sounding quiet and ruminative. "I've got all morning but there's the likelihood of having to go out this afternoon..." Peter had heard the phone in the middle of the night and was just pleased George wasn't bounding off first thing in the morning.
"Go on, dear boy," he said, bringing the hand to his mouth and kissing it. George could still be delightfully shy about certain things, even when they'd been discussed beforehand; and with that thought it struck him that perhaps it was an act, part of the warm-up routine. If it was, it was very well done indeed.
"I wondered if we could..." he paused. "This morning." Peter, very carefully, didn't react.
"I see no reason why not," he said. "As long as you think we have time."
"I've manoeuvred things," the boy admitted. Peter smirked unseen.
"In that case, shall I put on some coffee, get myself ready and sit in my office?"
He could feel George nodding behind him. "That sounds like a plan. I'll knock when I get there."
"Good boy," he said, and George loosened his grip and let him turn over. A bit of a cuddle first, he thought, and then down to business.
***
Pacing around nervously before indulging in sexual activities was ridiculous, Peter told himself. This was George, after all, there was nothing to be nervous about, he was just being silly. He fiddled with his tie, tucking it into his waistcoat again, making sure it lay perfectly flat.
He wasn't sure he'd ever dressed up as a bloke for sex before. Well, apart from the times when he'd just happened to be dressed as himself and then had sex, of course; he rested his forehead on his hand and cursed George roundly for upsetting the balance of his mind.
The boy would be here soon. He would be dressed appropriately - waistcoats somehow being the order of the day all round - he would deliver a lecture on punctuality being the mark of a gentleman before settling into his talk about the boy's behaviour. Then would come the discipline, a thought that made him rather more nervous than exultant right now.
He did recognise part of the knot in his stomach as 'new implement' nerves and reminded himself of his relative success with the cane, but there was something about the first time with a new weapon - uncertainty, a gnawing risk that things could go wrong in some way he'd never have imagined - and there was the novelty of the scenario, but there at least he could draw on other times when he'd had to take the lead in such things. He could do it, he told himself firmly. He just had to apply his mind.
The carpet-beater sat on his desk; he resisted the urge to handle it and worried that it wasn't sufficiently obvious. Hanging on the wall? Too theatrical. Positively Chekhovian, in fact. But he wanted something to put the fear into the boy in case he thought he could charm his way out of it; sweet-talking an old retainer with shows of affection, looks from under his lashes, shy acceptance of due punishment. The Young Master at his most beguiling, such a shame the boy had indulged his own recklessness so thoroughly before he'd gone away - the number of times he'd presented himself for punishment! - leaving London influences behind had seemed a good idea, but the boy didn't appear to have mended. Now he was running amok and far from home, cast out among ne-er-do-wells with no-one to care for him. No-one with his best interests at heart, no-one to give him what he really needed.
Peter buttoned his jacket and stood quietly by his desk. They also serve, who only stand and wait.
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He'd wear it every day if he could get away with it. Fucking genius idea, whichever one of them had actually said it first - the whole conversation had passed in a blur of ideas and wine and casual waftings of an implement at close quarters and had ended in an early retreat to bed and deep, instant sleep at the end of a busy week.
Peter was going to take the carpet-beater to his arse. George guffawed at the very idea; look at him, as fine a specimen of manhood as he'd seen for many a day. The very motion was utterly laughable. What did he think he was going to do? Offer it up, to a butler? Not now, not any more. He was beyond all that, he'd put away childish things, he was a man now.
No, the fact that he'd been asked to go and see ol' Mandelson in his Bullingdon kit was a sign of the way things were going to be now. No more meekly taking his stripes, no more shaking his hand afterwards, no more wistful moments.
He'd left home now, there was another life for him. Even if it wasn't really so great, and not entirely as enjoyable as he'd hoped, well, it'd get better, if he stuck at it. This was just going to be an awkward conversation along the way - he could tell Mandelson to stop being a go-between for his father too, he didn't need his hand held any more. This evening he'd go out and get wrecked if he could find any of his old friends again - that was how he'd deal with things from now on.
There was nothing to worry about. Ten minutes and he'd be home and dry. He knocked on Mandelson's door and waited.
***
Peter took a deep breath. "Enter," he said, not moving an inch.
George walked in and his eyes shot open at the sight of the carpet-beater, but he got his response under control and nodded briskly to him. "I believe you wished to see me?" he asked politely.
"Indeed," said Peter, glancing up at the clock. He really wanted to look at George instead, but didn't want to be caught in the act. "Some time ago, to be accurate."
George looked a little sheepish but only momentarily. "Well, I'm here now," he said, giving a confident smile.
Peter took the opportunity to give him a once-over and was really quite impressed, against all his better judgment. Many men would look ridiculous in such clothing, but it suited the boy, superbly well. Dark navy tailcoat setting off the crisp shirt, and was that a hint of sandalwood? He was exceptionally well-groomed, even by George's usual high standards. He wanted to touch, he wanted to press him urgently against the wall and make him moan... he settled for pacing around him, scrutinising in detail. The little curl, present and correct above the velvet collar. His hair, a high glossy shine that he wanted to disturb, violently. His arse, highlighted by the cut of the jacket; that would be his, and sooner rather than later.
George shivered under the scrutiny. Order had been restored.
"But you came home yesterday, and yet you did not find your way to see me; one might have thought you were avoiding me." A low blow, and not one they'd agreed to in the plan.
George looked startled and Peter waited.
"I - I was busy. I thought it best to sort things out first." He looked up from his survey of the floor in some anguish. "I wasn't avoiding you, I was embarrassed. Ashamed." A most delightful flush emerged out of his collar and Peter wanted to hold him close and put away the nasty carpet-beater. That just wouldn't do; the boy had form when the rod was spared - 'spoiled' didn't begin to cover it.
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George shifted from one foot to the other and looked gratifyingly uncomfortable. "I -" he began. "I'm afraid that's true. I didn't mean to, but things got rather out-of-hand."
Peter picked up the carpet-beater and idly twirled it in his hand. George appeared transfixed by the sight, and if Peter wasn't mistaken, somewhat aroused already. He stepped closer to the boy, his hand almost reaching out to confirm his suspicions, the temptation to brush the implement over his backside almost too much to bear.
"I was instructed to cane you and show no mercy," he hissed. "I may yet do so." He was ever-so-slightly appalled by the words coming out of his mouth unbidden, but, on balance, not a bad idea at all.
"No!" George squeaked. "Not the cane, please! I - I'll pretend I was caned, like I used to. I know the footmen can't sit down for days, I'll just be the same."
"The footmen," Peter warmed to the idea; a couple of immaculate young men in the house taking care of him and George had an almost tangible appeal, "take their punishment like the men they are. Now you're of age and have departed the family home, would it not serve you to do likewise?"
George pouted. Peter wanted to kiss him.
"Or would you rather I put you across my knee, sir, like I used to do?"
George closed his eyes and Peter could see him making an effort not to whimper. He might spare the boy trying to speak, after a moment or two of excruciating silence.
"I'm sorry. I won't do it again."
"That's better," he said briskly, hoping to hide the outrageous reaction he'd had to George being quite so contrite. "But I believe a certain discomfort is still called for, if only to remind you the next time you consider such a course of action." He swished the carpet-beater through the air with some style and looked the boy straight in the eye.
"Jacket off, hang it neatly," he said crisply. George struggled to co-ordinate himself, but placed the coat over the back of the chair, buttons bright.
"We'll have you here, in front of the fireplace," he added, indicating the spot with the beater. George obeyed without a word, but Peter stood close to him and could hear his breathing, rough and ragged. The mirror over the mantelpiece had been set on the floor instead, he didn't think George had realised the implications just yet.
"Backside bared for striping, if you please, sir." he instructed, smacking the beater against his foot. George glowered at him like a small boy before unzipping his trousers and letting them fall. He hesitated for a second and Peter's attention was drawn to his underwear. Not the familiar boxer shorts, old friends to a man, but rather more figure-hugging, positively inviting his hand upon them. He gave in without any resistance, running his hand over the warm, fine-knitted curve of the boy's buttocks.
"New fancy ways at university, sir? Hoping to impress someone, perhaps?"
"No! Nothing like that!" George protested and Peter felt rather inexplicably smug. "I'm not like that," he added, bending over in a graceful way that made Peter catch his breath. The boy'd just saved himself a good walloping for tarting about but he fancied one should be given for that purpose before he departed again.
"Hold onto your ankles, boy, and we'll make a start."
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He wasn't as supple as he'd been twenty years ago and his arse was abutting rather more prominently into the air than it would have been then. He didn't mind that either, once he'd got over the entirely arousing shock of it. But he was about to be thrashed for the rioting he'd committed twenty years ago - if they'd done that at the time, he'd have wrecked a restaurant a week and enjoyed every minute of it, not that he hadn't then, of course.
He felt the carpet-beater being moved across his arse and couldn't hold back a whimper. He wanted Peter to start now, he wanted to feel the blaze burn into his backside, he wanted desperately to bare his arse and feel the full sting of the thing, not a muffled blow.
"Wait," he said, and did exactly that, underwear now round his ankles with his trousers.
"Good boy," said Peter, his voice cracking. George opened his eyes at the sound and realised he could see himself in the mirror behind him, his arse with the beater now being placed back on it, caressing it almost, Peter lifting it away; he closed his eyes and waited, breath held, for the first stroke.
He heard the swish and the crack before he felt the pain, the glorious bite right across his arse, the heat spreading out over his skin and down to his thighs. In the mirror he could see pink patches where he'd been struck, he moaned pleasurably and closed his eyes, waiting again.
"You are not being beaten for your own gratification, my boy."
The second stroke was sharper and delivered to one buttock alone; George gasped immediately and held onto his legs firmly. Defined marks appeared in the rear view mirror, curved and red and stinging.
"You are being beaten for rioting without due cause and wilful damage -" another stroke landed, an exquisite sensation of pain across his backside, his arse becoming increasingly pink with red underpinnings.
"Conduct unbecoming of a gentleman, without a care in the world for consequences or cost - " The bloom of pain intensified and George breathed deeply and slowly, letting each stroke blossom and fade. Peter was a fucking genius at this, he watched himself lift his rear end for more, harder, right now.
"Only fitting that you should present yourself for punishment as you presented yourself to offend..." He'd never put on this kit again without thinking about this, but he'd no idea how often Peter could stand to look at it.
"The implement will be kept in the umbrella stand, for you to see every day." He was yowling by now, the blows were landing on his seriously tender arse; just over the horizon was a point of no return and Peter had better beware.
"You will fetch it when requested and bare your arse for its application without prompting." He bellowed his approval and took in the sight of his bright red backside, he writhed and cried out his pain and longing. "Now, please, can't wait any longer...."
Peter took hold of him with one hand and slapped his arse with the other until he came.
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"Fine, thank you," he said, snuggling up under the man's arm. "Can still see individual lines, but the general redness has gone down a bit. Have a look if you like."
"I prefer to watch you looking," Peter admitted. He'd openly observed George getting the measure of his markings, running his hands over his stripes, rubbing and pressing them to reinvigorate the pain.
George laughed. "I know you do," he said, giving Peter a firm hug. "So is this a permanent addition, then, the new implement? Happy with its performance in the field?"
"Very happy, I'll add it to the paperwork tomorrow. You could always test it yourself, if you wish," he added casually.
George snorted at his transparent ploy. "You put it in the umbrella stand, didn't you?" he asked, sidestepping the hint. That was fine for Peter, he knew it would take up residence in the boy's mind and its continued presence on a daily basis would help with that. "Were you serious about that?"
"Yes," he replied, to the first question, or however George wished to take it. "It's there, looking innocuous, if a little incongruous. The rest depends on you, you know," he reminded him. "And your rioting tendencies..." He stroked the side of George's face and kissed him on the forehead.
"Ah. Yeah, about that..." George looked more attentive and Peter realised he'd made a mistake assuming the boy was half-asleep just because he was himself. And he'd switched his brain off before his last comment and now George would pounce - he could almost see the cogs whirring as George re-played the scene; he didn't have a clear path to the door and was going to have to fake it.
"Did you just thrash me, as a student, for not having a reason to riot?" The boy narrowed his eyes at him and Peter knew it was no time to split hairs on the logic of the matter.
"My dear boy! Whatever gave you that idea? The very thought of it." He affected a look of the utmost innocence and kept his breathing steady. "Now then, why not let an old man sleep, it's been quite a day."
He closed his eyes and prayed.
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I LOLed. A lot.
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