Gift for bgreenwivy; A Smeltings Tradition - Part 1
Recipient: bgreenwivy
Title: A Smeltings Tradition
Author: songquake
Betas: I had quite the complement of betas for this. Thanks to R, for her cheerleading and reassurance that the kink and characterisation were not ridiculous; to A and J, for doing last-minute SPAG and fluency checks (you two really are my angels!), and most of all to T, who has stayed with this project since September, when it was just a wee baby plot-bunny. Your encouragement, suggestions, and Brit-picking have been essential to getting this fic out of my head and onto the screen. Thank you, m’dear! Again, thank you all; I shall give each of you full and proper credit (you know, with usernames) after the reveals are posted.
Pairing/s: Piers Polkiss/Dudley Dursley
Rating: NC-17/M+
Warning(s): Under-age sex (they are just over 15), drinking, pot-smoking, BDSM, mention of very dub-con and bullying, naughty language, sympathetic treatment of unpopular characters.
Word Count: 16 226
Summary:Piers has been booted from Smeltings; Dudley knows his parents don't actually care enough to raise him. In the summer after their Fifth Year at Smeltings, how will their symbiosis evolve?
Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction set in the Harry Potter universe - all recognizable characters and settings are the property of J. K. Rowling and her associates. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work.
Author's Notes: bgreenwivy, when I first read the requested pairings, I thought, oh, god, I can't write THAT one! I started out trying to work with some of the other pairings, but this, the first you listed, kept challenging me to write it. I hope that I did justice to your imaginings. Also, multo thanks to the mods, for hosting the fest, for contacting bgreenwivy when I had questions, and for your patience with my requests for extensions!
A Smeltings Tradition
Monday, 9 August, 1995
It had been four days since Piers had seen Dudley, four days since they had left the play park for home as the clouds rolled in. Come to think of it, he hadn't seen that toe-rag of a cousin of Big D's, either; it was as if they'd both disappeared entirely that evening. It was annoying, not disconcerting, damn it. He wasn't upset so much as irritated that his mate wasn't around to help with his brilliant plan.
Piers sighed in exasperation as he left his house on Pansy Lane.
Plans were good for maintaining their sense of...purpose. Their little gang had built quite the reputation for themselves out in Little Whinging. Since that time in primary school when they had got ice cream money off of ten kids in a single afternoon, threatening them with certain pain if they snitched, the play park and most of the streets were theirs. The kids who hadn't been victimised stood in awe of them, and were easy to talk into doing favours for the gang. Extra sweets, their parents' cigarettes, anything they wanted, they could get off of these brats. Well, except for the hash, which this summer had become a staple in their regimen. That was a revelation; it made the world more agreeable all around. It even made Potter seem like less of a freak, like his madness (and there is madness there, Piers can tell) and his weird behaviours were understandable.
During most of the year, Dudley would be off at Smeltings, the private school Piers had also attended, working on his boxing and growing bigger and scarier. But not smarter; they both knew that Piers was the brains of their operation, despite the fact that he would now be going to the local comprehensive school and was unlikely to attempt anything beyond the required GCSE's. He had started at Smeltings at the same time as Dud, but got caught, as they say, 'fraternising' with a lower form. Not only had the school decided he was a terrible influence, but his parents had decided that they didn't need to spend what little money they had left after drinking for a faggot's education. He wasn't bound for uni, though he might have found a way to put his brains to use there. He would just have to do well enough either being the brains behind their local dealer or proving himself at the local auto shop and eventually running that. The latter was his only plan that could garner him even marginal legitimacy in their fussy village. Banking was out, since he had a well-deserved reputation as a young criminal, and even working the till at Tesco's was likely out of reach. But this was an issue that could wait until after the summer holiday. Right now, Piers was focused on his immediate needs.
Dud's disappearance did nothing to further these more short-term plans. They'd recently hooked up with a small-time pot distributor, and between the skills of the two of them, were getting a pretty sweet deal for their marijuana. Piers' latest idea was for him and Big D to meet their dealer in the park, smoke up with him, pay him for a small bag of the stuff, and have Dudley knock him into the pond. Then Piers would drop his hand into the dealer's rucksack and get a whole bunch more while Dud helped him out of the water and apologised for being a clumsy oaf. Dudley wasn't likely to get excited about that part, but he liked the weed as much as anybody, and really, he had the easy job here. And then they could go to one of their houses and laugh about how easy it was to get one over on the dealer in question.
In the relationship between the two bullies, Piers was the instigator, the bloke who had for years overridden Dudley's conscience while building up his confidence, the one who had kept the group of them slippery enough to evade detection by the cops and their parents. Dud's strength and sheer mass, however, was essential for the ongoing dealings with the stoner who sold to them. It also played a major role in securing Piers' place with the rest of their gang, and he knew it. Piers may have been crafty, but the other boys in their crew didn't respect brains so much as brawn, and he was admittedly on the small side. He was tall, but bony-thin, with olive skin and wiry muscles that most of the gang derided as not nearly big enough underneath it. But when they were kids, Piers and Dudley had worked out what Piers liked to think of as a mutually beneficial relationship: with Dudley protected Piers and Piers helped Dud with his homework. The two of them went together, neither of them special enough on his own to coalesce their band of juvenile delinquents. But as a team... as a team they couldn't be beat. Literally.
Each knew enough about the other that they could be bound in blackmail for the rest of their adolescent lives, and perhaps their adult lives, too. Piers knew that while Dudley milked his parents for all the goodies he could, he couldn't respect them. Dudley knew about Piers' fights with his drunken father, which is the excuse Piers used for why he'd be going back to the local school. Piers knew that Dudley had enormous trouble reading, and only passed his exams when Piers had helped him with their reading assignments; Dudley knew that Piers was a closeted swot. Among other things, Piers thought, grateful that Dudley didn't know the rest. His blood had run a bit cold when Big D had mocked the toe-rag for crying about some boy in his sleep. No, the relationship that the two blokes had was not one based in trust or fondness, but on the camaraderie that grew over the course of a lifetime of hanging out. They were friends out of habit, because their mothers took tea together once a week and they were in the same class at school. Friends because as boys they became the meanest kids in their level, and the sneakiest. With Dudley fat and Piers swottish (and queer, his mind helpfully added), it was bully or be bullied.
In any case, it was both disturbing and problematic that Dudley and Potter had disappeared at the same time -- in summer, no less. Summer was to be a time of relaxing, of smoking up after a good fight. Now both the fight and the reward were out of reach.
With a nod of his head, Piers approached the front door of Number Four, Privet Drive. He rang the bell.
“Go away!” sounded the voice of Mr. Dursley from behind the door.
“Mr Dursley, it's Piers Polkiss! Is Dudley home?” Piers was treading on thin ice; Vernon Dursley was well-known in Little Whinging for his violent temper and irrational public outbursts. But Piers also knew that ‘keeping up appearances’ was the cardinal rule in the Dursley household. Mr Dursley would not dare to explode on the front steps, nor would his wife allow him to let the neighbours witness a shouting match through the front door, especially with ‘Little Diddybuns' best friend,’ as Petunia tended to call Piers.
As expected, the door opened. “Well, come in, boy! Don't stand there letting out our nice central air!”
“Yes, sir,” Piers said. “Is Dudley here? I was just stopping by because I haven't seen him in a few days, and we had a plan to work out together so he'd still be in shape when it was time to go back to Smeltings.” Solid gold, Piers thought. There's nothing that makes these jokes for parents more proud than the thought of their son as a boxing star, and ‘having tea’ or ‘working out’ with the son of the Garden Club's social chair.
“Oh, Piers! It's good of you to come by!” Mrs Dursley exclaimed. “I'm so sorry for any worry - Duddykins caught quite a chill out in that storm a few days ago and has been in bed ever since.. I've been making sure that he's resting and eating well so he'll be his old self in no time. But it is still terribly rude for Dudley not to have called you. On behalf of my son, I apologise.” By the end of her speech, Mrs Dursley seemed to have calmed down a bit.
That woman is always a little too high strung, Piers noted. It's a wonder anyone can tolerate an entire conversation with her. I can see why Dudley wants to get out so much. “May I go up and visit him?”
Dudley had heard the overly-loud ding-dong of his parents' newly installed electric doorbell (“Bigger is always better, right, Dudders?” his father had boomed), and his father's nasty retort. Nobody unexpectedly rang their doorbell except salesmen, and his father had absolutely no patience for them. He curled even further under the blankets, trying to let their warmth comfort him after such a shocking, eye-opening, and confusing few days. His blankets were a safe place, not like that dark alley. They were soft and solid, and dry and warm. He wished that his parents would turn down the air conditioning; the sense that he'd never be warm or happy again hadn't quite left.
When he and Potter were in that narrow passage together, he thought he was going to die. It didn't help that when his cousin had mentioned that magic had made him feel that way, his father had exploded and his mother had gone white as an institutional sheet (like the ones at Smeltings, always bleached to within an inch of their life). His dad thought he'd needed medical attention, but his mum had insisted that the only way to help him was to take him to one of their hospitals, and everyone agreed that was not an acceptable option. Well, his parents agreed, at least. So staying in the house it was. Potter had been locked in Dudley's second bedroom for days (which had made Dudley feel safer - at least he couldn't point that wand at him if he was locked up), but had disappeared the night before while his parents were out and Dud had been in his bed with the headphones on. Good riddance, Dudley thought, though there was something about Potter's disappearance that made him nervous, too. In any case, Dudley wanted nothing to do with going outside - who knew when it would get cold again or the snakes might attack? He knew that the giant boa constrictor from the zoo had found its way to the alley just because it didn't like him... or maybe his cousin had called it again... it hissed in his ear....he'd never be safe, or happy, or warm if it found him...
Yes. Bed was the warm, dry place where he could just reach into the Milk Tray box his mum had bought him and grab a sweetie any time he felt he needed it. Chocolate was almost as comforting as his blanket, and Mum would bin the wrappers for him tomorrow.
Pounding on the stairs startled Dudley out of his reverie. Quickly, he sat up, clutching his blanket to him. When there was a second pounding on his door, he relaxed. Dudley recognised the pattern of knocks that Piers always used.
“C'min, Piers,” Dudley called, consciously loosening his hold on the covers. “All right, mate?”
“Shite, Dud,” Piers said as he closed the door behind him and ignored the greeting. “Your mum said you'd been ill, but I've never seen you like this before.” To someone who didn't know of Dudley's great strength and bravery, it would look as if the large boy were cowering. “And what's with the chocolate? I thought you'd given that stuff up except for when we smoked.” Nothing was off-limits when Dud got the munchies, no matter what rules his boxing coach had put in place.
“Er, yeah. Not well at all. Pretty sick after that storm. Fever, you know. And chills. And in the middle of all that, Potty Potter had to go ranting with his crazy-talk again... Mum's been hovering over me so much that I'm not sure I'll ever be allowed outside unchaperoned again.”
“A bit extreme, eh?”
Dudley rolled his eyes. “You know how she gets, calling me all those ridiculous names and insisting that I stay in bed like her good ickle Duddlywump and eat lots of chicken soup so I can grow big and strong. And Dad comes up and shouts about getting out of bed and showing the germs who's boss, and then they fight, Dad goes out drinking with your dad, and Mum buys me another sack of chocolates to make me feel better.” He didn't mention how the chocolate seemed to be the only thing that could keep the chill and panic away.
“Where is Potty anyway? Is he sicking up in your second bedroom as well?”
“I haven't been sicking up! Tell the truth, I don't feel that bad, but Mum'll keep buying me whatever I want as long as I look pathetic enough. And to tell another truth, Potty's done a runner. Again.”
Piers rolled his eyes. Potty was predictable. “Where does he go, anyway? Isn't this the fourth summer in a row he's disappeared? Doesn't he know that he's supposed to stick around for our entertainment?”
“Yeah, well, a letter came threatening to kick him out of his school. Can you believe that? Getting booted from school? And from St Brutus' of all places?” Dudley was already starting to feel normal: less frightened, more masculine and capable. Mostly of beating up anyone or any...thing that came across his path.
Piers, on the other hand, had started to look a bit discomfited, as if he were hiding something. Dudley saw him school his face into a smirk when Piers noticed him watching. “Yeah,” he said instead. “Who'd think one could get kicked out of a school for the incurably criminal? What'd he do?”
Dudley got quiet. How to handle this? Because he knew that Potter had gotten the threat for using that weird magic - the magic that always got Mum and Dad so upset - to protect him. But Piers couldn't know about that. Not at all.
“Er...dunno, mate. Must be pretty bad. You'd think that there would just be disciplines for the incurably criminal kids who broke their schools rules - beatings and whatnot.” Though Dudley didn't want to think of what sort of punishments would await a wizard who broke the rules - surely something horrid. He still remembered with a twinge in his bottom that tail that the giant smelly man had given him when he'd first taken Harry away. If that was a punishment for wanting some cake, he'd hate to think of what would happen to a kid who was caught out after hours, or missed his assignments. Lost in thought, he realised that the discipline at Smeltings was really quite the best one could get. It changed his direction when he got caught - he'd certainly not do the things he'd been caned for again in plain sight.
Interrupting Dudley's brooding, Piers added, “Their teachers and matrons, or whoever, they must need a holiday from all that criminality.”
“Guess.”
“You know, it always surprised me that it was Potter who got sent to St Brutus'. You know, rather than us. He was always just a little twat who didn't even fight back when we went Harry Hunting. Didn't figure him to be a bad boy at all.”
“Well, you know it didn't come from our primary school, even though I don't think he was ever caught up in his lessons. They thought he was slow and maybe truant, but not a bad seed.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It was my dad, mostly. Got sick of Potter talking back, pilfering stuff, damaging the house, and sneaking around. I guess he probably got the school to say the bloke was antisocial, too, since he never had any friends.”
“Shite, Dud.” Piers paused thoughtfully. “I'd always been a little jealous, you know. Not that I really wanted to go to St Brutus', but it felt like he was showing us up, getting sent there when we were the ones who beat everyone up.”
“Not funny, Piers.” Somehow, Dudley was tired of this conversation.
Thursday, 12 August, 1995
Another three days, the sun was shining with irritating cheer, and Dudley at long last rang Piers. “Mum's finally convinced I can leave the house without dying. Anything going on?”
Ten minutes later, he was outside the Polkiss house at Number Eleven, Pansy Lane. He still thought it funny that Piers the Pansy (and Piers thought he didn't know) lived on a street named for him. Not to mention that the outside of the Polkiss house was even prissier than his mum's, with every blade of grass and petal of the garden carefully groomed. But Dudley couldn't risk losing the brains of his operation, so he had quit pursuing that line of mockery by the time they were ten.
“Dud, you're porking up again. You'd better get back to working out, or Coach Brewster is gonna have your arse.” Also, you're hotter and manlier when you've got more muscle than fat, Piers mused, but he'd never say that - not unless he wanted a pounding of the fisticuffs variety. No way he was gonna let Dudley think he was perving on him, even if sometimes he did. Especially when Big D let Piers order him around...there was something peculiarly arousing about having control over someone bigger than him. Which was what Piers planned to do today.
“And you've still got bony legs and beady eyes. We'll just have to cope,” Dudley retorted.
He's getting better at the comeback, Piers thought. It was strangely attractive. Out loud, he announced: “Today we're gonna score some pot off of Carmichael. And more than we have money to pay for,” he added, when it looked like Dudley was going to object. “I already have about fifteen quid. That should buy a nice bit for us.”
“And the rest? The 'more than we can pay for'?”
“That, my friend, is where teamwork comes in.” Piers explained his dump-the-dealer-in-the-pond plan. Dudley looked less than impressed.
“You mean I get to be the klutz. Again,” he said flatly.
“Of course! You know I'm not strong enough to knock him over. Not big enough to make it look like an accident, either.”
“Yeah, and once he figures out what we've done, where'll we get our weed from?”
Since when does Dudley...? This could be a mess, both in the short term (since unquestioning loyalty and willingness was necessary for this particular scheme) and in the longer term (since Piers suspected Dudley had only ever kept him around for his brains and strategic way of looking at the world).
Piers deflated a little. “I hadn't thought that far,” he conceded. “When did you start planning ahead?”
“That's the shite that keeps me from decking my parents. I don't want the supply to run dry. 'Sides, it's only a few more weeks, and then we're back at Smeltings and the joys of the student trade. Last thing we need is for us to get blacklisted from the pot market in Little Whinging next summer.”
“Right,” Piers nodded. “Then let's just go meet Car and pay what we've got for what we can get.”
“I can still knock him into the pond, right?”
“Yeah, just make sure he doesn't have the weed in his clothes. Would be a shame to waste it. Listen, we're almost late to meet him already. Let's take that short-cut we found the other week.”
Dudley took a deep breath. “Got it.” Piers meant the alley; Dudley hoped that whatever had attacked him and his cousin there was well and truly gone.
The two kept a brisk pace going down Pansy Lane, Wisteria Walk, and to the small alley Dudley had last seen when the cold and despair had soaked him. He stopped in his tracks. A man would be insane to risk that again.
“Er, I know we're late, but Car will wait for us. Let's walk around,” the normally macho boy said.
Piers' response was incredulous. “Why the bloody fuck would we do that?”
Dudley's pallor was washed away in his embarrassment. What could he say that would both get him out of walking the alley and manage to save him face?
There was nothing for it. “Er, it's rather humiliating. Do you need to know?”
“Well, I'd think that a little bit of humiliation is the price you'll have to pay for being a big girl's blouse and holding us up,” Piers sneered.
Dud took a slow breath, calming himself while the lie took shape in his brain. “It's just that I wasn't really sick from the rain, is all. I, er, slipped in the alley and knocked my head. Potter practically had to carry me home. And it looks like the kind of alleyway that's never completely dry.”
“You serious, mate?” When Dudley grimaced and nodded, Piers continued. “I have no bloody clue how you can be so light on your feet in the ring and such a klutz out of it. It's like your fat arse needs the floor to be padded or something.” Piers watched his friend grow even redder about the face. If only he could make that face blush for other reasons.... No, keep it under control, Polkiss. You're one up on him now; don't waste it.
“Well, you've heard it. I know I'm a complete berk for not wanting to do it, but could you just humour me?”
The mixed emotions of humiliation and anxiety on Dudley's face were strangely endearing. “Whatever,” said Piers, making a big show of rolling his eyes.
Even as he took his first hit from the bowl, Dudley felt some of the tension leave his shoulders and mind. It was amazing what just the expectation of relief could do.
The two boys were camped out in Piers' attic bedroom as usual. Piers had moved up there a couple of summers ago; with him spending most of the year at school, his parents wanted to turn his bedroom into a study for his father. What his father had to ‘study’ was beyond the ken of both young men (they suspected pornography and whiskey), but Piers had decided to take full advantage of the extra privacy his own floor afforded him.
Piers had a stereo and TV/VCR, of course, and many tapes and CD's to entertain himself and any friends. His most recent acquisition had been a Playstation, and he and his friends (usually Dudley, but sometimes Malcolm or Gordon) could spend many stoned hours playing Mega Mutilation or Star Fighter, or even Tetris when they had smoked themselves silly enough. An afternoon of smoking meant an afternoon of lazing about, with snacks galore and mindless entertainment.
Plus, of course, the meandering discussions, from why someone like Kurt Cobain would kill himself to how many licks it would take to reach the Tootsie Roll Centre of a Tootsie Pop. And sometimes, when it was just Dudley and Piers, they'd get really stoned, pilfer some whiskey or gin, and forget to keep their game faces on with one another.
This afternoon, the attic was stifling and their only relief was the fan blowing their smoke out the small window by Piers' bed. Having decided it was too hot for hunting children or even playing video games, the teens were lying sideways on the bed, their legs dangling off. It was the type of afternoon most conducive to dangerous conversation.
“Ta,” said Piers as he took the bowl back. He drew a long toke and held it for a few seconds before exhaling. “Some good stuff, that. All right, Duds?”
Dudley looked over at Piers, slowly pulling himself from his train of thought. “All right,” he responded. Even though he wasn't, quite. “Piers, you can't convince your dad that it's worth it to drink less so that you can come back to Smeltings? Only, I have no idea how I'll survive lessons without you there to help me.”
“Hey, no getting soft on me, mate. You'll find some other swot to help you in exchange for protection, I'm sure.”
“I don't fancy having to chat someone up about it,” Dudley muttered. “Besides, you're clever, can't you find a scholarship of some sort?”
Piers was caught, but he found he didn't much care. Dudley was right; without help, he'd likely get sent home for not meeting Smeltings' academic standards. “Truth is, it's not the money, Dudders.”
“Then why -”
“I got caught fagging a firstie at the end of term. The headmaster thought I had taken the tradition a bit too literally.”
“Blimey, mate. What did you do?”
“Pass the bowl again, will you?” Piers took another deep draw, gathering his courage to tell the truth. “Well, not that it matters much, but you know that brat Mulrooney?”
“Er, I think so,” Dudley said, confused.
“Well, he cheeked me, so I knocked his books out of his hands.”
“That doesn't sound like much - not a huge offence that would get you anything more than maybe a detention.”
“Well, it's what happened after...” Piers trailed off. “I took the opportunity to relieve him of his maths assignment. And the little sod started whinging, and looked fit to get a strop on. So I offered him a deal.”
“Oh, Piers, don't tell me you were caught... what's it called when you make somebody bribe you?”
“Extorting.”
“Yeah. You were caught extorting a firstie?”
“Well, not that, at least not yet. I was caught getting sucked off by a firstie. That was the deal we made.” Piers kept looking at the ceiling, not wanting Dudley to see his face yet. He knew he was blushing at the memory, not just from the part where they got caught (which was pretty embarrassing; who knew that he'd end up being so loud when he came?), or even the slick, luxurious feel of those lips wrapped around his cock, the tongue almost involuntarily moving up and down the vein on the underside. He was blushing, getting turned on, because of the power he'd felt at that moment - that he could get Mulrooney to do whatever he wanted, that he could grab the boy's hair and move his head back and forth so that it felt even better. And now there was no need for his best mate to see that.
“Shite.” Dudley whispered. “Had you gotten away with that kind of stuff before?”
“What, you're not revolted?” Piers said. “And no, this was the first time I'd tried that.”
“Revolted that you're a faggot after all, or that you extorted a boy for a blowjob?” Dudley said, eyes narrowing as he turned his head toward his friend.
“The first.”
“Oh, for Chrissakes, Piers. Just because I stopped taking the mickey about it doesn't mean I didn't know. You may be clever, but even you can't seem to stop looking at the people you find attractive. Who happen to be blokes.” And sometimes even me.
“And the other?”
“Is pretty low, even for you.” Somehow, the pleasant haze had faded a bit. Dudley took another hit, and passed the bowl.
Piers coughed, then tried to chuckle. “I never took you as the type to be more put off by the bullying than the poofterism, mate.”
“And I never took you to be that kind of prat.” Dudley stood, swaying a little from the head-rush.
“Dud? Where you going, mate?”
“Home. Don't need this to ruin a perfectly good high.” Dudley let the bedroom door bang shut behind him, and called his goodbye to Mrs Polkiss as he saw himself out.
He really should have taken another hit before leaving. And played another round of Mega Mutilation, since that, at least, would have filled his mind temporarily with something else.
Dudley was having trouble holding onto his mellow after Piers' revelation. No longer irritatingly cheerful, the sun now beat down upon him like a searchlight.
Fuck, he thought.
In a manner of speaking, their conversation had crystallised for Dudley everything he disliked about his world, his friends, and himself. We're a bunch of wankers. No, worse. We're the biggest arseholes in Little Whinging, and apparently the biggest ones at Smeltings, too.
He'd known, of course, but he hadn't realised. He knew that younger kids didn't do stuff like bring him sweets and carry his homework, that blokes his age didn't do his homework for him because they liked him. They did it because they were terrified. Because even if he weren't the Junior Heavyweight Boxing Champion, he also had backup in the form of other blokes like Piers, Malcolm and Gordon. Each was ruthless. Together, they were almost a terrorist organisation
And he was pretty sure that the guys in his gang... he was pretty sure that they didn't even like each other. They'd banded together as lads for strength, each knowing his own weaknesses could get his arse kicked by older kids in primary school. And they worked together like friends, he thought. But it wasn't like they had bloody heart-to-hearts. More like bloody hands-to-noses, if they disagreed.
They were uncivilised. Piers' story about the firstie and the blow job was just a different sort of bullying.
Potter had said that what had happened to him in the alley was that the demented cold wind was trying to suck out his soul. Well, he might have been safe, then, even if Potter hadn't intervened. Living this life without a soul would probably be even easier.
And with that thought, Dudley Dursley came to a realisation.
He wanted to reform himself. He did not want to be incurably criminal, knowing that he belonged at St Brutus' rather than Smeltings. And he would need help to change.
“I don't want to be an arsehole any more.”
“Well, bully for you,” retorted Piers. “Are you going to tell me why you bolted out of here, and why the fuck you came back?”
Dudley saw how the carpet had been singed where they had dropped ashes over the months. He looked out the window at the sun, lower in the sky and somewhat softer, encouraging. He stared at Piers' dresser, and saw the first aid supplies they had used to patch each other up this summer, taping ribs or hands, disinfecting and covering small cuts, those Steri-Strips and that hippie stuff that helped you heal that Gordon had nicked from his mum, who was a nurse. Piers had the most privacy, so his room had been their urgent care centre. Realising that he was stalling, Dudley looked up, directly at his comrade-in-arms.
“I came back because I need your help. Even though the reason I ran is 'cause I figured out what kind of an arsehole you were.”
“What, you find it sickening that I'm queer?”
“Wha- No!” Dudley warmed, trying not to think of how his denims had tightened while Piers was describing the situation. “I find it sickening that you're a fucking child molester.”
Piers was silent at that. Examined his toenails. That one on the end looked to be turning yellow; maybe kind of cool, but mostly gross. He hoped it would fall off soon. He preferred to think about that than about what Dudley had just accused him of being.
Also the fact that Dud seemed thoroughly unsurprised that he liked boys.
“Well, what sort of 'help' do you want?” His voice started to grow louder. “And since you just accused me of being the sickest kind of criminal, why the bloody fuck - no pun intended, of course - but why the bloody fuck should I even consider doing you a fucking favour?” Piers was nearly spitting by the time he finished. He was even more incensed since Dudley appeared unperturbed by the outburst.
“Let's see,” Dudley paused, tapping his chin. “Well, I could tell you that you'll help me because I could go out and spread the word that not only are you a poof, but that you're a poof who has a thing for the wee ones. But I'd like to think that you'll help me just because you would think it fun.”
Fun? That caught Piers' attention. “Details. Mind, I'm not agreeing to anything.”
“Right. Okay,” Dudley took a deep breath, finding it hard to believe that he was going to say this. “I don't want to be an arsehole any more, but I can't just stop.”
“Why not?”
“Please. You've known me how long? Have I ever shown any sort of...,” Dudley paused, searching for the right word, “restraint in anything?”
“You're good at restraining others,” Piers pointed out.
Dudley drew a tight breath and continued. “That's not the point, you berk. The point is that I get pissed off and I don't even think of controlling myself. I just hit first, and forget about it later.”
“Okay, so what is it you want?”
“I need someone to keep me in line. Make me follow rules. Punish me if I don't. Discipline. I need it, and I think you wouldn't mind being in charge of it.”
“I'm not your fucking parent, Dud.”
|Dudley snorted derisively. “You think I'd ask my parents to help me reform? Have you met my parents? Mum would be all, 'Duddlebuns, you're perfect! Would you like some pudding?' and my father would likely do that thing he likes to think of as lecturing where he drones on and on but is loud about it. He would be telling me that the only way people will respect me is if they’re afraid of me, and why was he paying for boxing gloves if I wasn't going to employ my training to make my point when it really counts.” He took a breath. “They're terrible people, and terrible parents. How do you think I ended up this way? You couldn't have been taking all the credit.”
Piers nodded. That was a point. “So you want me to make up a list of rules for you to follow to become a fucking perfect gentleman, and punish you when you fail to follow them.”
“In a nutshell.”
“And you think I'll enjoy it because...”
“Because I know that you like to be in charge, and like it even more when you get to be in charge and humiliate someone at the same time.”
“Point. Why do you think this'll work?”
“Because when Headmaster Crowe punished me, I thought twice before making the same infraction. He'd lecture, yes, but he was convinced that the only thing that could 'reform' my behaviour and remind me of my place was a good paddling or caning. I certainly learnt not to break rules and get caught.”
“And who will report you to me?”
“Er... Well, I was thinking that since we end up hanging together a lot, you'd probably be witness to most of my infractions. Any others... I'd report?” He started as Piers snorted.
“Oh, yes. Self-tattling sounds like such a good idea. Like you'd be telling me the truth.”
“I'm the one who's trying to learn to change. Maybe honesty is something that should be a rule. You've seen me lie enough. You've caught me at it before.” This was true; as schoolboys, Piers had an uncanny way of knowing when Dudley was hiding some of the loot from their bullying.
“I need to think about it. My ego is still smarting from that terribly unfair accusation you levelled upon me before.”
“Unfair, my arse.”
“If we do this, cheeking me will definitely get you a demerit.”
Friday, 13 August, 1995
“You will not hold me accountable to these rules, Dudley.
"You will not cheek me or anyone who outranks you, including the other members of our gang, your parents, any other adults, and especially teachers.
"You will address me as 'Sir' or 'Teacher' when alone with me, as I am your master teacher. Similarly, all adults will be referred to as 'Sir' or “Ma'am,' unless there is a specific title such as 'Reverend' or 'Professor' that is more appropriate.
"You may correct youngsters for cheeking by verbally informing them about the rules of etiquette - you'll be reading An Etiquette Manual for Men, by the way - but you may not touch them, or raise your voice.
"You will use words like please, thank you, you are welcome, and proper salutations. You will close your mouth while chewing, and use proper table manners.
"You will not lie, to me or anyone else.
"You will offer to help your parents with work in the house, and offer assistance to anyone you notice may need it.
"You will improve your speech, removing vulgarity. You will begin by refraining from using foul language when addressing or describing other people, and eventually remove it from your vocabulary altogether.
"You will complete your assignments on time, whether for me, your parents, or your tutors and professors. If you can't do it by yourself, you will ask for help.
"You will not cheat in school, in games, or in any other way.
"You will treat women with courtesy. You will treat children and animals with kindness.
"If you find your temper rising, you will excuse yourself and only return when your feelings are under control. You will make apologies for having to leave. You will not taunt anyone, and you will treat everyone with respect, including that derelict cousin of yours.
"When you're wrong, you will make no excuses, but apologise and accept the repercussions from those you have wronged as well as from me. You may ask questions about what the correct response should have been if you cannot figure it out yourself.
“I will note any infractions I witness, but I shall require you to carry three objects at all times: a notepad and Biro so that you can list all your infractions including date, time, and location, and your Smeltings stick, both as a reminder of the honourable institution which you purport to represent, and to remind you of what may come should you fall short of meeting the expectations set forth. Do you understand and agree, Dudley?”
Dudley gulped. He had not expected Piers to take it so seriously, nor to have enumerated so many rules along with reading assignments. But he nodded. “Yes, Sir.”
Piers handed Dudley a written copy of the rules. “Good man. This begins now. We shall meet in three days to evaluate your progress.”
Monday, 16 August, 1995
The sun was shining again as Dudley approached the Polkiss residence and climbed the front steps. "I asked Piers to do this," he muttered to himself. I asked him because he's the only one vicious enough to whip me into shape. This is correction that I need. He took a moment to wipe his hands -- individually, as he had to use one to hold his Smeltings Stick -- on the front of his knee-high khakis. His notebook and Biro sat in his left back pocket as he gave himself one last once-over to make sure his shirt was buttoned and tucked in, that his laces were properly tied, and his back straight.
There was nothing for it: he could not procrastinate any longer, not if he didn't want to be late. Dudley rang the doorbell. Mrs Polkiss answered the door.
"Hullo, Mrs. Polkiss. How are you, today?"
"Very well, Dudley. And how are you?"
"I'm also well, ma'am."
"My, Dudley. You certainly are polite today."
"I'm just trying to practice good manners, ma'am. I'm trying to become a respectable member of society."
"And a wonderful goal that is. Would that all the young men might take their example from you."
"Er, yes, Ma'am," Dudley conceded, blushing a bit. "I'm here to visit Piers; I believe he's expecting me. Is he available?" Dudley asked, surprised that he wanted to escape this bizarre universe of stilted manners for the painful but direct communication he'd have with his Teacher.
"Of course he is, Dudley," Mrs. Polkiss said. "He's right up--"
"Here, Mum," Piers' voice came from the landing between the first and second floors. "You may come on up, Dudley."
"Thank you, Mrs. Polkiss," Dudley remembered to say as he turned to climb the stairs.
"You're very welcome, Dudley," Mrs. Polkiss said, beaming.
"Stand in the centre of the carpet, and hand me your notebook and Smeltings Stick," Piers said calmly as Dudley followed him into his bedroom. Taking the items, Piers added, "Hands behind your back, and remain quiet while I look over your infractions."
He smirked as Dudley complied, then turned around and sat at his desk, facing away from Dudley as he started paging through the notebook.
Day 1: 13 August -- Sometimes forgot to close my mouth while chewing. Correkted when I rememberd, but I forgot 4 times. Forgot to ask Mum weather she needed help before or after dinner. Then I said shit when I realised my mistake. Did not say thank you when Mum served the meal.
Day 2: 14 August -- Let Mum both make and clean up after breakfast, and winjed (as yushy always) about my quarter grapefruit. Damn diet, again. I just swore in my log, that's got to be another dimerit. Did not call Mum and Dad "sir" or "ma'am," also Mrs. Figg. Also did not offer to help Mrs. Figg across the street, dispite her full arms. That woman realy just needs to get a trolley for her grosseries. Told Mum I was taking tea at Malcolm's, when I was really at the play park with the gang. And aparrently taking the mickey out of a friend counts as "cheeking," because when I told Malcolm that his new haircut made him look like a cancer patient, Piers sent me a really mean look. Opened my mouth while eating 8 times today...
The next day's entries were much the same, as was that morning's, though Dudley had apparently gotten better at asking his mother whether she would like help cleaning up after meals. But the lying about teatime, the horrendous table manners, and occasional swear words popped up daily. Not to mention Dudley's dreadful spelling, but Piers should have expected that.
"This is a good start," Piers said, "but not good enough. It seems that merely recording your infractions is not preventing you from repeating them. What do we have.... here: twenty instances of chewing with your mouth open, one instance of unacceptable grooming, six instances of not offering to help your mother, one instance of failing to help an elderly neighbour, forgetting your spoken manners eight times, cheeking a superior, three instances of lying, and ten instances of swearing, but as they were not swears directed at people, you're off the hook for them. And then there was your greeting of my mother."
"Sir? I thought I was very polite with your mother," Dudley protested.
"You think that 'hullo' is a formal enough greeting for one of your elders?"
"No, sir," Dudley said, his head cast down.
Piers looked at his student. "And, well, there were many rules. So I am going to ask you some questions, just to make sure that we have a full account."
"Yes, sir."
"Have you taunted any children?"
"No, sir."
"Have you finished reading An Etiquette Manual for Men?"
Dudley looked confused. "No, sir."
"And why is that?"
"I haven't got a copy yet, sir."
"Unacceptable. You will acquire a copy of the Manual as soon as possible, and have it read within the next week. It's short; you can work on it every day or come to me for help." Piers paused a bit before his next question. "Did you place a serviette on your lap for every meal?"
"No, sir," said Dudley. This time he was cringing. Good, thought Piers. Let him fear the trouble he's got himself into here. "My mother has decided that except for fancy meals, we should use paper serviettes, sir."
"A paper serviette can lie on your lap as well as a linen one. A gentleman will always eat properly, even if the facilities do not seem to require it." Piers had been practising his snooty voice, and felt he was using it to excellent effect.
"Yes, sir," Dudley said softly.
"So, let's see. That's forty-five demerits for the first three days. Not good for you, Dudley."
"No, sir," Dudley said glumly. He wondered what punishment was in store.
"Now, normally, each demerit would earn you a corresponding strike. But since this is your first correction session since the term ended, I don't expect that you are able to manage that. Therefore, I will be giving you only a third of the punishment that you deserve. How's that sound?"
"Er...thank you, sir?"
"You're damn right you better thank me. As time goes on, you will feel the pain for each time you overlook the rules." Piers took the Smeltings Stick off his desk and showed it to Dudley. "This is to be the instrument of your correction. The fact that it is what I will use to, well, 'drive home the point' is the reason you carry it at all times. It is both to remind you of your responsibilities as you try to become respectable, and to be available to me should I see you in need of immediate correction at any time."
Dudley winced, and drew in a steadying breath. "Yes, sir. I carry it with me as a reminder and as the instrument of my education."
"Yes. Another reminder is to apologise to anyone whom you disrespect as soon as you can. So you will be making your apologies to my mother as you leave. Got it?"
"Yes, I understand, sir."
"Good man. Now it is time for that correction to begin. Take down your trousers and pants, and get down on all fours." Piers looked forward to watching the stick hit Dudley's huge arse, turning the skin white before fading into red, red lines.
Dudley felt his face turning red. He wants to hit my naked arse, he thought. I suppose I ought to have expected that. He unbuckled his belt, almost wishing he were going to be hit with it instead. The Smeltings Stick just looked so...hard, and mean. Its knobs would mean that his arse would be marked in that bumpy pattern. And that the pain, the bruises would be uneven. Still, he pulled down his trousers and pants; he might as well get it over with.
Once Dudley was on his hands and knees, he heard Piers murmur "Good," and then a whoosh as the Smeltings Stick cut through the air--
"Ahhhh!" Dudley cried out.
Piers paused. "You can't take your stripes like a man yet, can you." He sighed as he moved to the stereo and turned up the volume on his Pearl Jam CD. "We can't have my mum hearing you, can we?"
Dudley stilled. "No, sir. And I'll try to do better, sir."
"You better. Now that was one strike. I want you to count the rest. Out loud." He swung the Smeltings Stick again.
"Two!" Dudley said loudly. Clearly, the Stick brought out something loud in him. Piers had been smart to put on the stereo. The Stick hit his arse again. "Three!" He couldn't believe he had asked for this.
The punishment continued, the Stick hitting his arse at irregular intervals, but never so quickly as to let them blend into one another. Dudley felt the stripes emerging as parallel lines on his bottom. As he cried "Six!" he realised that there was something satisfying about getting the punishment he deserved. This is what he had been hoping for: correction for the times he had been stupid, careless, or mean. This is what he deserved for all the years he'd been an arsehole and the bogeyman for so many kids.
"Seven!" he called, and moaned as he felt his cock twitch. His face, already red and sweating, felt like it was heating up even more.
Piers paused, and Dudley froze, worried that his Teacher had noticed his new physical response. But it was just a pause for consideration, it seemed, as Piers then let the stick fall along the outside of each thigh ("Eight! Nine!"). He stepped back.
"Sir?" Dudley asked.
"The ladder on your arse is quite the sight, Dudley," Piers remarked, admiring his own work. Dudley continued to pant. "Now go on and catch your breath. You have six stripes to go."
As soon as Dudley had calmed himself, he heard the whoosh of the Stick again, and another stripe landed on the outside of his left thigh. "Ten!"
"Eleven," he whimpered as the next strike hit, and closed his eyes as his cock renewed its interest. He was starting to feel frustrated; it was embarrassing enough to be beaten for his schoolboy transgressions, but to be turned on by the punishment and unable to relieve the sexual tension in his groin was beyond embarrassing. It was humiliating.
"Twelve," Dudley moaned, hearing Piers hum behind him. Dudley hoped that his Teacher was pleased by his submission, his willingness to learn.
"Thirteen!" he cried out as his hips started to pump back and forth involuntarily. "Please, sir!"
"Please, what?" Piers murmured from behind him.
"Please... please!" Dudley felt the words escape his lips, and was just grateful that he hadn't said something about his stiffie.
He heard Piers chuckle darkly. "Harder, eh?" he said, right before putting all his strength into the last two smacks.
"Fourteen! Ahhh -- Fifteen!" Dudley could barely hold himself up, breathing heavily, fighting to keep his tears of humiliation and pain back. He felt hands, one cool, one warm, feeling -- was that caressing? -- the pattern of the bumpy stripes, the ladder, on his bum. This made his cock fill even more, and looking to where it curled under his shirt, he could see a spot of moisture on the fabric.
"That was fifteen. Next time, expect more unless your behaviour has improved quite a bit,," Piers commented.
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," whimpered Dudley.
"Your arse looks grand, by the way. I did a good job creating that ladder. Even if the stripes aren't really straight -- the Smeltings Stick leaves the ladder a bit bumpy, you see."
"I know, sir," Dudley replied after drawing a deep, centring breath.
"I bet you'd love to see it, or at least feel it, wouldn't you, Dud?"
"Yes, sir," Dudley breathed.
"That's not something you deserve, though. Pull up your trousers, and do not pull them down to see the effect of your punishment until you are getting ready for bed."
Damn. There went the idea of jerking off as soon as he got home.
"I'll see you here at the same time next week," were the last words Piers said to him as he placed the Smeltings Stick and notebook on the floor beside Dudley's belt.
Piers turned from Dudley, sat at his desk, and pretended to ignore his "student" as the boy re-dressed himself and gathered his notebook and Smeltings Stick. Piers just waved him out the door; he needed this exit to be quick.
He turned down the stereo as he listened to Dudley descend the stairs and stammer an apology to his mum. Good, he didn't forget. Not that Piers would have minded Dudley starting to earn his next demerits right away. This beating had been oddly satisfying, and he had definitely noticed Dudley's arousal. It would have been obvious from his moans even if he weren't sporting a nice little erection.
I need to look at some porn that shows beatings, he thought, considering where he wanted to take this. And also maybe look at some books....
As soon as he was sure Dudley was gone and that his mother had gone off elsewhere in the house, Piers pulled down his own trousers and pants. He took his cock in his left hand and used his right to smear pre-come around the head as he started to masturbate.
Read Part 2...
Title: A Smeltings Tradition
Author: songquake
Betas: I had quite the complement of betas for this. Thanks to R, for her cheerleading and reassurance that the kink and characterisation were not ridiculous; to A and J, for doing last-minute SPAG and fluency checks (you two really are my angels!), and most of all to T, who has stayed with this project since September, when it was just a wee baby plot-bunny. Your encouragement, suggestions, and Brit-picking have been essential to getting this fic out of my head and onto the screen. Thank you, m’dear! Again, thank you all; I shall give each of you full and proper credit (you know, with usernames) after the reveals are posted.
Pairing/s: Piers Polkiss/Dudley Dursley
Rating: NC-17/M+
Warning(s): Under-age sex (they are just over 15), drinking, pot-smoking, BDSM, mention of very dub-con and bullying, naughty language, sympathetic treatment of unpopular characters.
Word Count: 16 226
Summary:Piers has been booted from Smeltings; Dudley knows his parents don't actually care enough to raise him. In the summer after their Fifth Year at Smeltings, how will their symbiosis evolve?
Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction set in the Harry Potter universe - all recognizable characters and settings are the property of J. K. Rowling and her associates. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work.
Author's Notes: bgreenwivy, when I first read the requested pairings, I thought, oh, god, I can't write THAT one! I started out trying to work with some of the other pairings, but this, the first you listed, kept challenging me to write it. I hope that I did justice to your imaginings. Also, multo thanks to the mods, for hosting the fest, for contacting bgreenwivy when I had questions, and for your patience with my requests for extensions!
A Smeltings Tradition
Monday, 9 August, 1995
It had been four days since Piers had seen Dudley, four days since they had left the play park for home as the clouds rolled in. Come to think of it, he hadn't seen that toe-rag of a cousin of Big D's, either; it was as if they'd both disappeared entirely that evening. It was annoying, not disconcerting, damn it. He wasn't upset so much as irritated that his mate wasn't around to help with his brilliant plan.
Piers sighed in exasperation as he left his house on Pansy Lane.
Plans were good for maintaining their sense of...purpose. Their little gang had built quite the reputation for themselves out in Little Whinging. Since that time in primary school when they had got ice cream money off of ten kids in a single afternoon, threatening them with certain pain if they snitched, the play park and most of the streets were theirs. The kids who hadn't been victimised stood in awe of them, and were easy to talk into doing favours for the gang. Extra sweets, their parents' cigarettes, anything they wanted, they could get off of these brats. Well, except for the hash, which this summer had become a staple in their regimen. That was a revelation; it made the world more agreeable all around. It even made Potter seem like less of a freak, like his madness (and there is madness there, Piers can tell) and his weird behaviours were understandable.
During most of the year, Dudley would be off at Smeltings, the private school Piers had also attended, working on his boxing and growing bigger and scarier. But not smarter; they both knew that Piers was the brains of their operation, despite the fact that he would now be going to the local comprehensive school and was unlikely to attempt anything beyond the required GCSE's. He had started at Smeltings at the same time as Dud, but got caught, as they say, 'fraternising' with a lower form. Not only had the school decided he was a terrible influence, but his parents had decided that they didn't need to spend what little money they had left after drinking for a faggot's education. He wasn't bound for uni, though he might have found a way to put his brains to use there. He would just have to do well enough either being the brains behind their local dealer or proving himself at the local auto shop and eventually running that. The latter was his only plan that could garner him even marginal legitimacy in their fussy village. Banking was out, since he had a well-deserved reputation as a young criminal, and even working the till at Tesco's was likely out of reach. But this was an issue that could wait until after the summer holiday. Right now, Piers was focused on his immediate needs.
Dud's disappearance did nothing to further these more short-term plans. They'd recently hooked up with a small-time pot distributor, and between the skills of the two of them, were getting a pretty sweet deal for their marijuana. Piers' latest idea was for him and Big D to meet their dealer in the park, smoke up with him, pay him for a small bag of the stuff, and have Dudley knock him into the pond. Then Piers would drop his hand into the dealer's rucksack and get a whole bunch more while Dud helped him out of the water and apologised for being a clumsy oaf. Dudley wasn't likely to get excited about that part, but he liked the weed as much as anybody, and really, he had the easy job here. And then they could go to one of their houses and laugh about how easy it was to get one over on the dealer in question.
In the relationship between the two bullies, Piers was the instigator, the bloke who had for years overridden Dudley's conscience while building up his confidence, the one who had kept the group of them slippery enough to evade detection by the cops and their parents. Dud's strength and sheer mass, however, was essential for the ongoing dealings with the stoner who sold to them. It also played a major role in securing Piers' place with the rest of their gang, and he knew it. Piers may have been crafty, but the other boys in their crew didn't respect brains so much as brawn, and he was admittedly on the small side. He was tall, but bony-thin, with olive skin and wiry muscles that most of the gang derided as not nearly big enough underneath it. But when they were kids, Piers and Dudley had worked out what Piers liked to think of as a mutually beneficial relationship: with Dudley protected Piers and Piers helped Dud with his homework. The two of them went together, neither of them special enough on his own to coalesce their band of juvenile delinquents. But as a team... as a team they couldn't be beat. Literally.
Each knew enough about the other that they could be bound in blackmail for the rest of their adolescent lives, and perhaps their adult lives, too. Piers knew that while Dudley milked his parents for all the goodies he could, he couldn't respect them. Dudley knew about Piers' fights with his drunken father, which is the excuse Piers used for why he'd be going back to the local school. Piers knew that Dudley had enormous trouble reading, and only passed his exams when Piers had helped him with their reading assignments; Dudley knew that Piers was a closeted swot. Among other things, Piers thought, grateful that Dudley didn't know the rest. His blood had run a bit cold when Big D had mocked the toe-rag for crying about some boy in his sleep. No, the relationship that the two blokes had was not one based in trust or fondness, but on the camaraderie that grew over the course of a lifetime of hanging out. They were friends out of habit, because their mothers took tea together once a week and they were in the same class at school. Friends because as boys they became the meanest kids in their level, and the sneakiest. With Dudley fat and Piers swottish (and queer, his mind helpfully added), it was bully or be bullied.
In any case, it was both disturbing and problematic that Dudley and Potter had disappeared at the same time -- in summer, no less. Summer was to be a time of relaxing, of smoking up after a good fight. Now both the fight and the reward were out of reach.
With a nod of his head, Piers approached the front door of Number Four, Privet Drive. He rang the bell.
“Go away!” sounded the voice of Mr. Dursley from behind the door.
“Mr Dursley, it's Piers Polkiss! Is Dudley home?” Piers was treading on thin ice; Vernon Dursley was well-known in Little Whinging for his violent temper and irrational public outbursts. But Piers also knew that ‘keeping up appearances’ was the cardinal rule in the Dursley household. Mr Dursley would not dare to explode on the front steps, nor would his wife allow him to let the neighbours witness a shouting match through the front door, especially with ‘Little Diddybuns' best friend,’ as Petunia tended to call Piers.
As expected, the door opened. “Well, come in, boy! Don't stand there letting out our nice central air!”
“Yes, sir,” Piers said. “Is Dudley here? I was just stopping by because I haven't seen him in a few days, and we had a plan to work out together so he'd still be in shape when it was time to go back to Smeltings.” Solid gold, Piers thought. There's nothing that makes these jokes for parents more proud than the thought of their son as a boxing star, and ‘having tea’ or ‘working out’ with the son of the Garden Club's social chair.
“Oh, Piers! It's good of you to come by!” Mrs Dursley exclaimed. “I'm so sorry for any worry - Duddykins caught quite a chill out in that storm a few days ago and has been in bed ever since.. I've been making sure that he's resting and eating well so he'll be his old self in no time. But it is still terribly rude for Dudley not to have called you. On behalf of my son, I apologise.” By the end of her speech, Mrs Dursley seemed to have calmed down a bit.
That woman is always a little too high strung, Piers noted. It's a wonder anyone can tolerate an entire conversation with her. I can see why Dudley wants to get out so much. “May I go up and visit him?”
Dudley had heard the overly-loud ding-dong of his parents' newly installed electric doorbell (“Bigger is always better, right, Dudders?” his father had boomed), and his father's nasty retort. Nobody unexpectedly rang their doorbell except salesmen, and his father had absolutely no patience for them. He curled even further under the blankets, trying to let their warmth comfort him after such a shocking, eye-opening, and confusing few days. His blankets were a safe place, not like that dark alley. They were soft and solid, and dry and warm. He wished that his parents would turn down the air conditioning; the sense that he'd never be warm or happy again hadn't quite left.
When he and Potter were in that narrow passage together, he thought he was going to die. It didn't help that when his cousin had mentioned that magic had made him feel that way, his father had exploded and his mother had gone white as an institutional sheet (like the ones at Smeltings, always bleached to within an inch of their life). His dad thought he'd needed medical attention, but his mum had insisted that the only way to help him was to take him to one of their hospitals, and everyone agreed that was not an acceptable option. Well, his parents agreed, at least. So staying in the house it was. Potter had been locked in Dudley's second bedroom for days (which had made Dudley feel safer - at least he couldn't point that wand at him if he was locked up), but had disappeared the night before while his parents were out and Dud had been in his bed with the headphones on. Good riddance, Dudley thought, though there was something about Potter's disappearance that made him nervous, too. In any case, Dudley wanted nothing to do with going outside - who knew when it would get cold again or the snakes might attack? He knew that the giant boa constrictor from the zoo had found its way to the alley just because it didn't like him... or maybe his cousin had called it again... it hissed in his ear....he'd never be safe, or happy, or warm if it found him...
Yes. Bed was the warm, dry place where he could just reach into the Milk Tray box his mum had bought him and grab a sweetie any time he felt he needed it. Chocolate was almost as comforting as his blanket, and Mum would bin the wrappers for him tomorrow.
Pounding on the stairs startled Dudley out of his reverie. Quickly, he sat up, clutching his blanket to him. When there was a second pounding on his door, he relaxed. Dudley recognised the pattern of knocks that Piers always used.
“C'min, Piers,” Dudley called, consciously loosening his hold on the covers. “All right, mate?”
“Shite, Dud,” Piers said as he closed the door behind him and ignored the greeting. “Your mum said you'd been ill, but I've never seen you like this before.” To someone who didn't know of Dudley's great strength and bravery, it would look as if the large boy were cowering. “And what's with the chocolate? I thought you'd given that stuff up except for when we smoked.” Nothing was off-limits when Dud got the munchies, no matter what rules his boxing coach had put in place.
“Er, yeah. Not well at all. Pretty sick after that storm. Fever, you know. And chills. And in the middle of all that, Potty Potter had to go ranting with his crazy-talk again... Mum's been hovering over me so much that I'm not sure I'll ever be allowed outside unchaperoned again.”
“A bit extreme, eh?”
Dudley rolled his eyes. “You know how she gets, calling me all those ridiculous names and insisting that I stay in bed like her good ickle Duddlywump and eat lots of chicken soup so I can grow big and strong. And Dad comes up and shouts about getting out of bed and showing the germs who's boss, and then they fight, Dad goes out drinking with your dad, and Mum buys me another sack of chocolates to make me feel better.” He didn't mention how the chocolate seemed to be the only thing that could keep the chill and panic away.
“Where is Potty anyway? Is he sicking up in your second bedroom as well?”
“I haven't been sicking up! Tell the truth, I don't feel that bad, but Mum'll keep buying me whatever I want as long as I look pathetic enough. And to tell another truth, Potty's done a runner. Again.”
Piers rolled his eyes. Potty was predictable. “Where does he go, anyway? Isn't this the fourth summer in a row he's disappeared? Doesn't he know that he's supposed to stick around for our entertainment?”
“Yeah, well, a letter came threatening to kick him out of his school. Can you believe that? Getting booted from school? And from St Brutus' of all places?” Dudley was already starting to feel normal: less frightened, more masculine and capable. Mostly of beating up anyone or any...thing that came across his path.
Piers, on the other hand, had started to look a bit discomfited, as if he were hiding something. Dudley saw him school his face into a smirk when Piers noticed him watching. “Yeah,” he said instead. “Who'd think one could get kicked out of a school for the incurably criminal? What'd he do?”
Dudley got quiet. How to handle this? Because he knew that Potter had gotten the threat for using that weird magic - the magic that always got Mum and Dad so upset - to protect him. But Piers couldn't know about that. Not at all.
“Er...dunno, mate. Must be pretty bad. You'd think that there would just be disciplines for the incurably criminal kids who broke their schools rules - beatings and whatnot.” Though Dudley didn't want to think of what sort of punishments would await a wizard who broke the rules - surely something horrid. He still remembered with a twinge in his bottom that tail that the giant smelly man had given him when he'd first taken Harry away. If that was a punishment for wanting some cake, he'd hate to think of what would happen to a kid who was caught out after hours, or missed his assignments. Lost in thought, he realised that the discipline at Smeltings was really quite the best one could get. It changed his direction when he got caught - he'd certainly not do the things he'd been caned for again in plain sight.
Interrupting Dudley's brooding, Piers added, “Their teachers and matrons, or whoever, they must need a holiday from all that criminality.”
“Guess.”
“You know, it always surprised me that it was Potter who got sent to St Brutus'. You know, rather than us. He was always just a little twat who didn't even fight back when we went Harry Hunting. Didn't figure him to be a bad boy at all.”
“Well, you know it didn't come from our primary school, even though I don't think he was ever caught up in his lessons. They thought he was slow and maybe truant, but not a bad seed.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It was my dad, mostly. Got sick of Potter talking back, pilfering stuff, damaging the house, and sneaking around. I guess he probably got the school to say the bloke was antisocial, too, since he never had any friends.”
“Shite, Dud.” Piers paused thoughtfully. “I'd always been a little jealous, you know. Not that I really wanted to go to St Brutus', but it felt like he was showing us up, getting sent there when we were the ones who beat everyone up.”
“Not funny, Piers.” Somehow, Dudley was tired of this conversation.
Thursday, 12 August, 1995
Another three days, the sun was shining with irritating cheer, and Dudley at long last rang Piers. “Mum's finally convinced I can leave the house without dying. Anything going on?”
Ten minutes later, he was outside the Polkiss house at Number Eleven, Pansy Lane. He still thought it funny that Piers the Pansy (and Piers thought he didn't know) lived on a street named for him. Not to mention that the outside of the Polkiss house was even prissier than his mum's, with every blade of grass and petal of the garden carefully groomed. But Dudley couldn't risk losing the brains of his operation, so he had quit pursuing that line of mockery by the time they were ten.
“Dud, you're porking up again. You'd better get back to working out, or Coach Brewster is gonna have your arse.” Also, you're hotter and manlier when you've got more muscle than fat, Piers mused, but he'd never say that - not unless he wanted a pounding of the fisticuffs variety. No way he was gonna let Dudley think he was perving on him, even if sometimes he did. Especially when Big D let Piers order him around...there was something peculiarly arousing about having control over someone bigger than him. Which was what Piers planned to do today.
“And you've still got bony legs and beady eyes. We'll just have to cope,” Dudley retorted.
He's getting better at the comeback, Piers thought. It was strangely attractive. Out loud, he announced: “Today we're gonna score some pot off of Carmichael. And more than we have money to pay for,” he added, when it looked like Dudley was going to object. “I already have about fifteen quid. That should buy a nice bit for us.”
“And the rest? The 'more than we can pay for'?”
“That, my friend, is where teamwork comes in.” Piers explained his dump-the-dealer-in-the-pond plan. Dudley looked less than impressed.
“You mean I get to be the klutz. Again,” he said flatly.
“Of course! You know I'm not strong enough to knock him over. Not big enough to make it look like an accident, either.”
“Yeah, and once he figures out what we've done, where'll we get our weed from?”
Since when does Dudley...? This could be a mess, both in the short term (since unquestioning loyalty and willingness was necessary for this particular scheme) and in the longer term (since Piers suspected Dudley had only ever kept him around for his brains and strategic way of looking at the world).
Piers deflated a little. “I hadn't thought that far,” he conceded. “When did you start planning ahead?”
“That's the shite that keeps me from decking my parents. I don't want the supply to run dry. 'Sides, it's only a few more weeks, and then we're back at Smeltings and the joys of the student trade. Last thing we need is for us to get blacklisted from the pot market in Little Whinging next summer.”
“Right,” Piers nodded. “Then let's just go meet Car and pay what we've got for what we can get.”
“I can still knock him into the pond, right?”
“Yeah, just make sure he doesn't have the weed in his clothes. Would be a shame to waste it. Listen, we're almost late to meet him already. Let's take that short-cut we found the other week.”
Dudley took a deep breath. “Got it.” Piers meant the alley; Dudley hoped that whatever had attacked him and his cousin there was well and truly gone.
The two kept a brisk pace going down Pansy Lane, Wisteria Walk, and to the small alley Dudley had last seen when the cold and despair had soaked him. He stopped in his tracks. A man would be insane to risk that again.
“Er, I know we're late, but Car will wait for us. Let's walk around,” the normally macho boy said.
Piers' response was incredulous. “Why the bloody fuck would we do that?”
Dudley's pallor was washed away in his embarrassment. What could he say that would both get him out of walking the alley and manage to save him face?
There was nothing for it. “Er, it's rather humiliating. Do you need to know?”
“Well, I'd think that a little bit of humiliation is the price you'll have to pay for being a big girl's blouse and holding us up,” Piers sneered.
Dud took a slow breath, calming himself while the lie took shape in his brain. “It's just that I wasn't really sick from the rain, is all. I, er, slipped in the alley and knocked my head. Potter practically had to carry me home. And it looks like the kind of alleyway that's never completely dry.”
“You serious, mate?” When Dudley grimaced and nodded, Piers continued. “I have no bloody clue how you can be so light on your feet in the ring and such a klutz out of it. It's like your fat arse needs the floor to be padded or something.” Piers watched his friend grow even redder about the face. If only he could make that face blush for other reasons.... No, keep it under control, Polkiss. You're one up on him now; don't waste it.
“Well, you've heard it. I know I'm a complete berk for not wanting to do it, but could you just humour me?”
The mixed emotions of humiliation and anxiety on Dudley's face were strangely endearing. “Whatever,” said Piers, making a big show of rolling his eyes.
Even as he took his first hit from the bowl, Dudley felt some of the tension leave his shoulders and mind. It was amazing what just the expectation of relief could do.
The two boys were camped out in Piers' attic bedroom as usual. Piers had moved up there a couple of summers ago; with him spending most of the year at school, his parents wanted to turn his bedroom into a study for his father. What his father had to ‘study’ was beyond the ken of both young men (they suspected pornography and whiskey), but Piers had decided to take full advantage of the extra privacy his own floor afforded him.
Piers had a stereo and TV/VCR, of course, and many tapes and CD's to entertain himself and any friends. His most recent acquisition had been a Playstation, and he and his friends (usually Dudley, but sometimes Malcolm or Gordon) could spend many stoned hours playing Mega Mutilation or Star Fighter, or even Tetris when they had smoked themselves silly enough. An afternoon of smoking meant an afternoon of lazing about, with snacks galore and mindless entertainment.
Plus, of course, the meandering discussions, from why someone like Kurt Cobain would kill himself to how many licks it would take to reach the Tootsie Roll Centre of a Tootsie Pop. And sometimes, when it was just Dudley and Piers, they'd get really stoned, pilfer some whiskey or gin, and forget to keep their game faces on with one another.
This afternoon, the attic was stifling and their only relief was the fan blowing their smoke out the small window by Piers' bed. Having decided it was too hot for hunting children or even playing video games, the teens were lying sideways on the bed, their legs dangling off. It was the type of afternoon most conducive to dangerous conversation.
“Ta,” said Piers as he took the bowl back. He drew a long toke and held it for a few seconds before exhaling. “Some good stuff, that. All right, Duds?”
Dudley looked over at Piers, slowly pulling himself from his train of thought. “All right,” he responded. Even though he wasn't, quite. “Piers, you can't convince your dad that it's worth it to drink less so that you can come back to Smeltings? Only, I have no idea how I'll survive lessons without you there to help me.”
“Hey, no getting soft on me, mate. You'll find some other swot to help you in exchange for protection, I'm sure.”
“I don't fancy having to chat someone up about it,” Dudley muttered. “Besides, you're clever, can't you find a scholarship of some sort?”
Piers was caught, but he found he didn't much care. Dudley was right; without help, he'd likely get sent home for not meeting Smeltings' academic standards. “Truth is, it's not the money, Dudders.”
“Then why -”
“I got caught fagging a firstie at the end of term. The headmaster thought I had taken the tradition a bit too literally.”
“Blimey, mate. What did you do?”
“Pass the bowl again, will you?” Piers took another deep draw, gathering his courage to tell the truth. “Well, not that it matters much, but you know that brat Mulrooney?”
“Er, I think so,” Dudley said, confused.
“Well, he cheeked me, so I knocked his books out of his hands.”
“That doesn't sound like much - not a huge offence that would get you anything more than maybe a detention.”
“Well, it's what happened after...” Piers trailed off. “I took the opportunity to relieve him of his maths assignment. And the little sod started whinging, and looked fit to get a strop on. So I offered him a deal.”
“Oh, Piers, don't tell me you were caught... what's it called when you make somebody bribe you?”
“Extorting.”
“Yeah. You were caught extorting a firstie?”
“Well, not that, at least not yet. I was caught getting sucked off by a firstie. That was the deal we made.” Piers kept looking at the ceiling, not wanting Dudley to see his face yet. He knew he was blushing at the memory, not just from the part where they got caught (which was pretty embarrassing; who knew that he'd end up being so loud when he came?), or even the slick, luxurious feel of those lips wrapped around his cock, the tongue almost involuntarily moving up and down the vein on the underside. He was blushing, getting turned on, because of the power he'd felt at that moment - that he could get Mulrooney to do whatever he wanted, that he could grab the boy's hair and move his head back and forth so that it felt even better. And now there was no need for his best mate to see that.
“Shite.” Dudley whispered. “Had you gotten away with that kind of stuff before?”
“What, you're not revolted?” Piers said. “And no, this was the first time I'd tried that.”
“Revolted that you're a faggot after all, or that you extorted a boy for a blowjob?” Dudley said, eyes narrowing as he turned his head toward his friend.
“The first.”
“Oh, for Chrissakes, Piers. Just because I stopped taking the mickey about it doesn't mean I didn't know. You may be clever, but even you can't seem to stop looking at the people you find attractive. Who happen to be blokes.” And sometimes even me.
“And the other?”
“Is pretty low, even for you.” Somehow, the pleasant haze had faded a bit. Dudley took another hit, and passed the bowl.
Piers coughed, then tried to chuckle. “I never took you as the type to be more put off by the bullying than the poofterism, mate.”
“And I never took you to be that kind of prat.” Dudley stood, swaying a little from the head-rush.
“Dud? Where you going, mate?”
“Home. Don't need this to ruin a perfectly good high.” Dudley let the bedroom door bang shut behind him, and called his goodbye to Mrs Polkiss as he saw himself out.
He really should have taken another hit before leaving. And played another round of Mega Mutilation, since that, at least, would have filled his mind temporarily with something else.
Dudley was having trouble holding onto his mellow after Piers' revelation. No longer irritatingly cheerful, the sun now beat down upon him like a searchlight.
Fuck, he thought.
In a manner of speaking, their conversation had crystallised for Dudley everything he disliked about his world, his friends, and himself. We're a bunch of wankers. No, worse. We're the biggest arseholes in Little Whinging, and apparently the biggest ones at Smeltings, too.
He'd known, of course, but he hadn't realised. He knew that younger kids didn't do stuff like bring him sweets and carry his homework, that blokes his age didn't do his homework for him because they liked him. They did it because they were terrified. Because even if he weren't the Junior Heavyweight Boxing Champion, he also had backup in the form of other blokes like Piers, Malcolm and Gordon. Each was ruthless. Together, they were almost a terrorist organisation
And he was pretty sure that the guys in his gang... he was pretty sure that they didn't even like each other. They'd banded together as lads for strength, each knowing his own weaknesses could get his arse kicked by older kids in primary school. And they worked together like friends, he thought. But it wasn't like they had bloody heart-to-hearts. More like bloody hands-to-noses, if they disagreed.
They were uncivilised. Piers' story about the firstie and the blow job was just a different sort of bullying.
Potter had said that what had happened to him in the alley was that the demented cold wind was trying to suck out his soul. Well, he might have been safe, then, even if Potter hadn't intervened. Living this life without a soul would probably be even easier.
And with that thought, Dudley Dursley came to a realisation.
He wanted to reform himself. He did not want to be incurably criminal, knowing that he belonged at St Brutus' rather than Smeltings. And he would need help to change.
“I don't want to be an arsehole any more.”
“Well, bully for you,” retorted Piers. “Are you going to tell me why you bolted out of here, and why the fuck you came back?”
Dudley saw how the carpet had been singed where they had dropped ashes over the months. He looked out the window at the sun, lower in the sky and somewhat softer, encouraging. He stared at Piers' dresser, and saw the first aid supplies they had used to patch each other up this summer, taping ribs or hands, disinfecting and covering small cuts, those Steri-Strips and that hippie stuff that helped you heal that Gordon had nicked from his mum, who was a nurse. Piers had the most privacy, so his room had been their urgent care centre. Realising that he was stalling, Dudley looked up, directly at his comrade-in-arms.
“I came back because I need your help. Even though the reason I ran is 'cause I figured out what kind of an arsehole you were.”
“What, you find it sickening that I'm queer?”
“Wha- No!” Dudley warmed, trying not to think of how his denims had tightened while Piers was describing the situation. “I find it sickening that you're a fucking child molester.”
Piers was silent at that. Examined his toenails. That one on the end looked to be turning yellow; maybe kind of cool, but mostly gross. He hoped it would fall off soon. He preferred to think about that than about what Dudley had just accused him of being.
Also the fact that Dud seemed thoroughly unsurprised that he liked boys.
“Well, what sort of 'help' do you want?” His voice started to grow louder. “And since you just accused me of being the sickest kind of criminal, why the bloody fuck - no pun intended, of course - but why the bloody fuck should I even consider doing you a fucking favour?” Piers was nearly spitting by the time he finished. He was even more incensed since Dudley appeared unperturbed by the outburst.
“Let's see,” Dudley paused, tapping his chin. “Well, I could tell you that you'll help me because I could go out and spread the word that not only are you a poof, but that you're a poof who has a thing for the wee ones. But I'd like to think that you'll help me just because you would think it fun.”
Fun? That caught Piers' attention. “Details. Mind, I'm not agreeing to anything.”
“Right. Okay,” Dudley took a deep breath, finding it hard to believe that he was going to say this. “I don't want to be an arsehole any more, but I can't just stop.”
“Why not?”
“Please. You've known me how long? Have I ever shown any sort of...,” Dudley paused, searching for the right word, “restraint in anything?”
“You're good at restraining others,” Piers pointed out.
Dudley drew a tight breath and continued. “That's not the point, you berk. The point is that I get pissed off and I don't even think of controlling myself. I just hit first, and forget about it later.”
“Okay, so what is it you want?”
“I need someone to keep me in line. Make me follow rules. Punish me if I don't. Discipline. I need it, and I think you wouldn't mind being in charge of it.”
“I'm not your fucking parent, Dud.”
|Dudley snorted derisively. “You think I'd ask my parents to help me reform? Have you met my parents? Mum would be all, 'Duddlebuns, you're perfect! Would you like some pudding?' and my father would likely do that thing he likes to think of as lecturing where he drones on and on but is loud about it. He would be telling me that the only way people will respect me is if they’re afraid of me, and why was he paying for boxing gloves if I wasn't going to employ my training to make my point when it really counts.” He took a breath. “They're terrible people, and terrible parents. How do you think I ended up this way? You couldn't have been taking all the credit.”
Piers nodded. That was a point. “So you want me to make up a list of rules for you to follow to become a fucking perfect gentleman, and punish you when you fail to follow them.”
“In a nutshell.”
“And you think I'll enjoy it because...”
“Because I know that you like to be in charge, and like it even more when you get to be in charge and humiliate someone at the same time.”
“Point. Why do you think this'll work?”
“Because when Headmaster Crowe punished me, I thought twice before making the same infraction. He'd lecture, yes, but he was convinced that the only thing that could 'reform' my behaviour and remind me of my place was a good paddling or caning. I certainly learnt not to break rules and get caught.”
“And who will report you to me?”
“Er... Well, I was thinking that since we end up hanging together a lot, you'd probably be witness to most of my infractions. Any others... I'd report?” He started as Piers snorted.
“Oh, yes. Self-tattling sounds like such a good idea. Like you'd be telling me the truth.”
“I'm the one who's trying to learn to change. Maybe honesty is something that should be a rule. You've seen me lie enough. You've caught me at it before.” This was true; as schoolboys, Piers had an uncanny way of knowing when Dudley was hiding some of the loot from their bullying.
“I need to think about it. My ego is still smarting from that terribly unfair accusation you levelled upon me before.”
“Unfair, my arse.”
“If we do this, cheeking me will definitely get you a demerit.”
Friday, 13 August, 1995
“You will not hold me accountable to these rules, Dudley.
"You will not cheek me or anyone who outranks you, including the other members of our gang, your parents, any other adults, and especially teachers.
"You will address me as 'Sir' or 'Teacher' when alone with me, as I am your master teacher. Similarly, all adults will be referred to as 'Sir' or “Ma'am,' unless there is a specific title such as 'Reverend' or 'Professor' that is more appropriate.
"You may correct youngsters for cheeking by verbally informing them about the rules of etiquette - you'll be reading An Etiquette Manual for Men, by the way - but you may not touch them, or raise your voice.
"You will use words like please, thank you, you are welcome, and proper salutations. You will close your mouth while chewing, and use proper table manners.
"You will not lie, to me or anyone else.
"You will offer to help your parents with work in the house, and offer assistance to anyone you notice may need it.
"You will improve your speech, removing vulgarity. You will begin by refraining from using foul language when addressing or describing other people, and eventually remove it from your vocabulary altogether.
"You will complete your assignments on time, whether for me, your parents, or your tutors and professors. If you can't do it by yourself, you will ask for help.
"You will not cheat in school, in games, or in any other way.
"You will treat women with courtesy. You will treat children and animals with kindness.
"If you find your temper rising, you will excuse yourself and only return when your feelings are under control. You will make apologies for having to leave. You will not taunt anyone, and you will treat everyone with respect, including that derelict cousin of yours.
"When you're wrong, you will make no excuses, but apologise and accept the repercussions from those you have wronged as well as from me. You may ask questions about what the correct response should have been if you cannot figure it out yourself.
“I will note any infractions I witness, but I shall require you to carry three objects at all times: a notepad and Biro so that you can list all your infractions including date, time, and location, and your Smeltings stick, both as a reminder of the honourable institution which you purport to represent, and to remind you of what may come should you fall short of meeting the expectations set forth. Do you understand and agree, Dudley?”
Dudley gulped. He had not expected Piers to take it so seriously, nor to have enumerated so many rules along with reading assignments. But he nodded. “Yes, Sir.”
Piers handed Dudley a written copy of the rules. “Good man. This begins now. We shall meet in three days to evaluate your progress.”
Monday, 16 August, 1995
The sun was shining again as Dudley approached the Polkiss residence and climbed the front steps. "I asked Piers to do this," he muttered to himself. I asked him because he's the only one vicious enough to whip me into shape. This is correction that I need. He took a moment to wipe his hands -- individually, as he had to use one to hold his Smeltings Stick -- on the front of his knee-high khakis. His notebook and Biro sat in his left back pocket as he gave himself one last once-over to make sure his shirt was buttoned and tucked in, that his laces were properly tied, and his back straight.
There was nothing for it: he could not procrastinate any longer, not if he didn't want to be late. Dudley rang the doorbell. Mrs Polkiss answered the door.
"Hullo, Mrs. Polkiss. How are you, today?"
"Very well, Dudley. And how are you?"
"I'm also well, ma'am."
"My, Dudley. You certainly are polite today."
"I'm just trying to practice good manners, ma'am. I'm trying to become a respectable member of society."
"And a wonderful goal that is. Would that all the young men might take their example from you."
"Er, yes, Ma'am," Dudley conceded, blushing a bit. "I'm here to visit Piers; I believe he's expecting me. Is he available?" Dudley asked, surprised that he wanted to escape this bizarre universe of stilted manners for the painful but direct communication he'd have with his Teacher.
"Of course he is, Dudley," Mrs. Polkiss said. "He's right up--"
"Here, Mum," Piers' voice came from the landing between the first and second floors. "You may come on up, Dudley."
"Thank you, Mrs. Polkiss," Dudley remembered to say as he turned to climb the stairs.
"You're very welcome, Dudley," Mrs. Polkiss said, beaming.
"Stand in the centre of the carpet, and hand me your notebook and Smeltings Stick," Piers said calmly as Dudley followed him into his bedroom. Taking the items, Piers added, "Hands behind your back, and remain quiet while I look over your infractions."
He smirked as Dudley complied, then turned around and sat at his desk, facing away from Dudley as he started paging through the notebook.
Day 1: 13 August -- Sometimes forgot to close my mouth while chewing. Correkted when I rememberd, but I forgot 4 times. Forgot to ask Mum weather she needed help before or after dinner. Then I said shit when I realised my mistake. Did not say thank you when Mum served the meal.
Day 2: 14 August -- Let Mum both make and clean up after breakfast, and winjed (as yushy always) about my quarter grapefruit. Damn diet, again. I just swore in my log, that's got to be another dimerit. Did not call Mum and Dad "sir" or "ma'am," also Mrs. Figg. Also did not offer to help Mrs. Figg across the street, dispite her full arms. That woman realy just needs to get a trolley for her grosseries. Told Mum I was taking tea at Malcolm's, when I was really at the play park with the gang. And aparrently taking the mickey out of a friend counts as "cheeking," because when I told Malcolm that his new haircut made him look like a cancer patient, Piers sent me a really mean look. Opened my mouth while eating 8 times today...
The next day's entries were much the same, as was that morning's, though Dudley had apparently gotten better at asking his mother whether she would like help cleaning up after meals. But the lying about teatime, the horrendous table manners, and occasional swear words popped up daily. Not to mention Dudley's dreadful spelling, but Piers should have expected that.
"This is a good start," Piers said, "but not good enough. It seems that merely recording your infractions is not preventing you from repeating them. What do we have.... here: twenty instances of chewing with your mouth open, one instance of unacceptable grooming, six instances of not offering to help your mother, one instance of failing to help an elderly neighbour, forgetting your spoken manners eight times, cheeking a superior, three instances of lying, and ten instances of swearing, but as they were not swears directed at people, you're off the hook for them. And then there was your greeting of my mother."
"Sir? I thought I was very polite with your mother," Dudley protested.
"You think that 'hullo' is a formal enough greeting for one of your elders?"
"No, sir," Dudley said, his head cast down.
Piers looked at his student. "And, well, there were many rules. So I am going to ask you some questions, just to make sure that we have a full account."
"Yes, sir."
"Have you taunted any children?"
"No, sir."
"Have you finished reading An Etiquette Manual for Men?"
Dudley looked confused. "No, sir."
"And why is that?"
"I haven't got a copy yet, sir."
"Unacceptable. You will acquire a copy of the Manual as soon as possible, and have it read within the next week. It's short; you can work on it every day or come to me for help." Piers paused a bit before his next question. "Did you place a serviette on your lap for every meal?"
"No, sir," said Dudley. This time he was cringing. Good, thought Piers. Let him fear the trouble he's got himself into here. "My mother has decided that except for fancy meals, we should use paper serviettes, sir."
"A paper serviette can lie on your lap as well as a linen one. A gentleman will always eat properly, even if the facilities do not seem to require it." Piers had been practising his snooty voice, and felt he was using it to excellent effect.
"Yes, sir," Dudley said softly.
"So, let's see. That's forty-five demerits for the first three days. Not good for you, Dudley."
"No, sir," Dudley said glumly. He wondered what punishment was in store.
"Now, normally, each demerit would earn you a corresponding strike. But since this is your first correction session since the term ended, I don't expect that you are able to manage that. Therefore, I will be giving you only a third of the punishment that you deserve. How's that sound?"
"Er...thank you, sir?"
"You're damn right you better thank me. As time goes on, you will feel the pain for each time you overlook the rules." Piers took the Smeltings Stick off his desk and showed it to Dudley. "This is to be the instrument of your correction. The fact that it is what I will use to, well, 'drive home the point' is the reason you carry it at all times. It is both to remind you of your responsibilities as you try to become respectable, and to be available to me should I see you in need of immediate correction at any time."
Dudley winced, and drew in a steadying breath. "Yes, sir. I carry it with me as a reminder and as the instrument of my education."
"Yes. Another reminder is to apologise to anyone whom you disrespect as soon as you can. So you will be making your apologies to my mother as you leave. Got it?"
"Yes, I understand, sir."
"Good man. Now it is time for that correction to begin. Take down your trousers and pants, and get down on all fours." Piers looked forward to watching the stick hit Dudley's huge arse, turning the skin white before fading into red, red lines.
Dudley felt his face turning red. He wants to hit my naked arse, he thought. I suppose I ought to have expected that. He unbuckled his belt, almost wishing he were going to be hit with it instead. The Smeltings Stick just looked so...hard, and mean. Its knobs would mean that his arse would be marked in that bumpy pattern. And that the pain, the bruises would be uneven. Still, he pulled down his trousers and pants; he might as well get it over with.
Once Dudley was on his hands and knees, he heard Piers murmur "Good," and then a whoosh as the Smeltings Stick cut through the air--
"Ahhhh!" Dudley cried out.
Piers paused. "You can't take your stripes like a man yet, can you." He sighed as he moved to the stereo and turned up the volume on his Pearl Jam CD. "We can't have my mum hearing you, can we?"
Dudley stilled. "No, sir. And I'll try to do better, sir."
"You better. Now that was one strike. I want you to count the rest. Out loud." He swung the Smeltings Stick again.
"Two!" Dudley said loudly. Clearly, the Stick brought out something loud in him. Piers had been smart to put on the stereo. The Stick hit his arse again. "Three!" He couldn't believe he had asked for this.
The punishment continued, the Stick hitting his arse at irregular intervals, but never so quickly as to let them blend into one another. Dudley felt the stripes emerging as parallel lines on his bottom. As he cried "Six!" he realised that there was something satisfying about getting the punishment he deserved. This is what he had been hoping for: correction for the times he had been stupid, careless, or mean. This is what he deserved for all the years he'd been an arsehole and the bogeyman for so many kids.
"Seven!" he called, and moaned as he felt his cock twitch. His face, already red and sweating, felt like it was heating up even more.
Piers paused, and Dudley froze, worried that his Teacher had noticed his new physical response. But it was just a pause for consideration, it seemed, as Piers then let the stick fall along the outside of each thigh ("Eight! Nine!"). He stepped back.
"Sir?" Dudley asked.
"The ladder on your arse is quite the sight, Dudley," Piers remarked, admiring his own work. Dudley continued to pant. "Now go on and catch your breath. You have six stripes to go."
As soon as Dudley had calmed himself, he heard the whoosh of the Stick again, and another stripe landed on the outside of his left thigh. "Ten!"
"Eleven," he whimpered as the next strike hit, and closed his eyes as his cock renewed its interest. He was starting to feel frustrated; it was embarrassing enough to be beaten for his schoolboy transgressions, but to be turned on by the punishment and unable to relieve the sexual tension in his groin was beyond embarrassing. It was humiliating.
"Twelve," Dudley moaned, hearing Piers hum behind him. Dudley hoped that his Teacher was pleased by his submission, his willingness to learn.
"Thirteen!" he cried out as his hips started to pump back and forth involuntarily. "Please, sir!"
"Please, what?" Piers murmured from behind him.
"Please... please!" Dudley felt the words escape his lips, and was just grateful that he hadn't said something about his stiffie.
He heard Piers chuckle darkly. "Harder, eh?" he said, right before putting all his strength into the last two smacks.
"Fourteen! Ahhh -- Fifteen!" Dudley could barely hold himself up, breathing heavily, fighting to keep his tears of humiliation and pain back. He felt hands, one cool, one warm, feeling -- was that caressing? -- the pattern of the bumpy stripes, the ladder, on his bum. This made his cock fill even more, and looking to where it curled under his shirt, he could see a spot of moisture on the fabric.
"That was fifteen. Next time, expect more unless your behaviour has improved quite a bit,," Piers commented.
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," whimpered Dudley.
"Your arse looks grand, by the way. I did a good job creating that ladder. Even if the stripes aren't really straight -- the Smeltings Stick leaves the ladder a bit bumpy, you see."
"I know, sir," Dudley replied after drawing a deep, centring breath.
"I bet you'd love to see it, or at least feel it, wouldn't you, Dud?"
"Yes, sir," Dudley breathed.
"That's not something you deserve, though. Pull up your trousers, and do not pull them down to see the effect of your punishment until you are getting ready for bed."
Damn. There went the idea of jerking off as soon as he got home.
"I'll see you here at the same time next week," were the last words Piers said to him as he placed the Smeltings Stick and notebook on the floor beside Dudley's belt.
Piers turned from Dudley, sat at his desk, and pretended to ignore his "student" as the boy re-dressed himself and gathered his notebook and Smeltings Stick. Piers just waved him out the door; he needed this exit to be quick.
He turned down the stereo as he listened to Dudley descend the stairs and stammer an apology to his mum. Good, he didn't forget. Not that Piers would have minded Dudley starting to earn his next demerits right away. This beating had been oddly satisfying, and he had definitely noticed Dudley's arousal. It would have been obvious from his moans even if he weren't sporting a nice little erection.
I need to look at some porn that shows beatings, he thought, considering where he wanted to take this. And also maybe look at some books....
As soon as he was sure Dudley was gone and that his mother had gone off elsewhere in the house, Piers pulled down his own trousers and pants. He took his cock in his left hand and used his right to smear pre-come around the head as he started to masturbate.
Read Part 2...