Fic: Digging the Pit; BabySimm!Master / JohnSmith!Ten AU; NC-17
Inspired by
45eugenia 's brilliant manip (srsly, I had it up on the screen while I wrote!) and meant as a prequel to either the comment!pr0n created by this comm's inspiration pic or
boulette_sud 's wonderful fic.
Many thanks to betas
voodoo_vibe for 'splaining some things, and to
snowgrouse for patiently sorting my sad ass out. Sorry 'bout those knickers, dear.
A trap must be laid and baited before it can be sprung...
Digging the Pit
John is sitting at his desk in his quarters, marking papers and recording the marks. His door is open because it is his turn on discipline duty, dispensing punishments. Farringham School has a reputation for discipline, both military and academic, and John is proud to uphold his part of that reputation.
He looks up at the knock at the door. It’s the problem boy. “Back again, Saxon?” he asks rhetorically, as permission to enter.
“It would appear so, Mr. Smith.” Just barely smiling, Harry Saxon steps into the room and shuts the door behind him.
John waves him over to the desk. “What was it this time?” he inquires with a sigh.
“Mr. Johnson said I was being disrespectful to Matron, sir.”
Oh, how much fun Harry had setting up that scenario! Discovering that the nurse had caught John’s eye; going up to her and making idle chit-chat; waiting for another teacher to be within range of hearing. Uttering in a tone of voice so bland, “Matron, you’re such a wonderful nurse; are you just as good at playing ‘Doctor’?” It took the woman a full fifteen seconds, staring at him with her mouth slightly open, before she realized just how badly she’d been insulted. She gave a quick, breathy gasp and bright red spots appeared high on her cheeks. This was immediately followed by the outraged bellow of the other teacher who’d witnessed the encounter. Harry is still quite surprised that the man hadn’t dragged him up here by his ear.
Standing up, John walks around his desk, a rattan cane clasped in both hands behind his back. Harry turns to face him as John walks up to him. John doesn’t stop until they are just inches apart, planning to use his extra height to intimidate the boy. “Were you cheeking Matron, Saxon?”
Harry raises his chin until there is less than an inch of space between their noses and looks John straight in the eyes. He lets a little of his real self leak into the glare; not all nine hundred years of experience, but a good deal more self-assurance and challenge than a teenage boy would normally have. “I expect so, sir.”
“How many did he give you?” Eyes locked with the boy’s, John taps the end of the cane against the wooden floor so that there is no mistaking the question.
“He said, “at Mr. Smith’s discretion,” sir. He said you had rather definite ideas when it came to messing about with Matron.” The double entendre is deliberate; John can’t help but catch it. Harry knows that whether or not John ignores it, he will address his task with more attention and enthusiasm because of it.
“He’s right; I cannot abide disrespect toward the weaker gender. Well, you know the drill well enough. In fact, this is starting to be a regular occurrence.”
In fact, if John ever bothered to look at the records, he’d discover he’s seeing Harry every time he has discipline duty, and that he’s the only one Harry’s been sent to. Because there are more teachers than disciplinary hours, no teacher has one particular weekly time. Harry had to nick the monthly rota sheet and plan his malfeasance accordingly. But John will not discover this until it’s too late; Harry’s careful to maintain his problem-student attitude whenever John’s around, and John could never begin to think he might be pursued in such a way.
“I imagine it does look that way, sir.” Without taking his eyes off John’s, Harry slowly unfastens his trousers. At the last second before his trousers and pants fall to the floor, Harry turns and leans forward to put his hands on John’s desk.
Normally a boy would stand fairly close to the desk, close enough he could bend his knees when he heard the cane start to whistle as it sliced through the air, in an attempt to make the blows fall on his back instead of his arse. And most boys stood with their feet as close together as they were allowed to, desperate to protect their balls.
Harry does neither. He stands far enough back from the desk that he nearly has to balance on his toes, and spreads his legs as wide as the trousers around his ankles will allow. He knows he can handle the pain (even in this very-young body) and it’s important - very important - that John Smith sees everything, no matter where he stands to deliver the blows. Because unlike most boys anticipating a caning, Harry is growing hard, and before this session is over he wants to be certain John is, too.
John takes up a position off to Harry’s left so he can see his face. He likes to be able judge whether the boy is handling his punishment or if it should be lessened. It also gives him plenty of room to swing. “Shall we begin, then?” he announces.
‘Amateur,’ thinks Harry. Half the value of the first blow comes from the recipient not knowing exactly when the strike will land.
The noise Harry makes at the impact is not the usual sharp cry of pain, but a slightly noisy gasping followed by a low, breathy moan. Startled, John’s eyes fly to the boy’s face to find Harry’s head turned toward him, Harry’s dark eyes watching back with some strange knowledge and anticipation. John’s gaze then travels down Harry’s body, checking for signs of something amiss. The pink welt rising from the strike is normal, but thrusting out in front of the boy is his cock, hard and long and beautiful. Something inside of John tells him this is very wrong.
An anger starts building in him; anger that the boy shows no remorse for insulting a woman, especially that particular one; anger that Harry seems to be enjoying what was meant as a punishment; anger that he is watching John and expecting him to react; anger that he himself is reacting exactly as the boy seems to expect, and he hates himself for it. So John funnels all that anger into a second blow, aiming for the area lower down that he knows from experience should cause a reflex jerking reaction and an involuntary yelp of pain.
Instead he hears a louder gasp and a beautiful moan, and the jerking comes only from the boy’s cock. John feels his own move inside his trousers in response to the sound and the sight. His self-loathing and anger grow, and he chooses the path for his next blow to cover the most unmarked skin and intersect prettily with the other welts, and strikes again.
So it continues on, spiraling ever upward: blow; gasp and moan; matching jerking cocks, one free, one clothed; John’s loathing and anger; calculation for the next blow.
He’s breathing hard, searching for the perfect spot for the next strike, when it occurs to him that he hasn’t bothered to count the blows he’s been laying on. He’s lost himself in the rhythm. He attempts to count the welts those pretty round buttocks, but finds his gaze pulled away again and again to the boy’s erection. Giving up, he stares instead at the cane in his hand and asks the boy, “So, what was that, Saxon?”
“Eight, sir.”
God help him! He has truly fallen into the experience, the sound of the cane through the air and on the flesh, the view of arse and welt and cock. Shuddering once, he shakes himself completely back from his trance. “That’s enough then, I think,” he tells the boy. More than enough; the lad may not sit comfortably for several days. Imagining Harry shifting uncomfortably in his seat during upcoming classes causes John to shudder again.
He leans the cane up against his desk and walks around to take his chair, very careful not to look at Harry while he pulls up his pants and trousers and fastens them, because despite everything he knows is right, he very much wants to. He wants to keep watching that beautifully striped arse, and the stiff cock that had bounced so wonderfully every time John laid another welt on, watch until both are hidden from view inside the boy’s black trousers. He even wants to run his fingers over his handiwork: the warmth of the welts, the hardness at the front.
Taking up his pen instead to mark down Harry’s punishment, John says gruffly, “It’s not surprising you came to us at such a late age; I can easily see why you had to leave those other schools if your current behavior is any indication of your previous career. Mind you don’t get sent down from here, as well.”
“I’ll do my best to avoid it, sir. I’m certain Farringham is exactly where I need to be.” Harry leers a bit at John as he tucks his shirt into his trousers. He knows the older man will not dare to look up to see it.
John seems a little puzzled by Harry’s assertion. “How’s that, Saxon?”
Harry moves around to the back of John’s desk and leans down to where his breath is brushing John’s cheek. If John turns his head, their lips will meet. Harry says lowly, “You’re here, Mr. Smith, to tutor me in exactly what I need. And to administer a swift, hard correction when I go wrong.” He leaves their faces close together just long enough to listen to the hitch in John’s breathing, then pulls up and steps back around to the side of the desk so he can watch the expression on John’s face.
John doesn’t dare look up from his paperwork to the boy. He knows the hunger in his eyes will give him away, and whether he finds invitation or disdain in Harry’s face, he will be lost. He works to control his breathing until he can reply. “Yes… Well. Off you go; I have other things I should be doing. And Saxon - I’d rather not see you back here.”
“I’m certain you wouldn’t, sir.” But you will, John, thought the Master. And next time, you will fall.
45eugenia 's brilliant manip (srsly, I had it up on the screen while I wrote!) and meant as a prequel to either the comment!pr0n created by this comm's inspiration pic or
boulette_sud 's wonderful fic.
Many thanks to betas
voodoo_vibe for 'splaining some things, and to
snowgrouse for patiently sorting my sad ass out. Sorry 'bout those knickers, dear.
A trap must be laid and baited before it can be sprung...
Digging the Pit
John is sitting at his desk in his quarters, marking papers and recording the marks. His door is open because it is his turn on discipline duty, dispensing punishments. Farringham School has a reputation for discipline, both military and academic, and John is proud to uphold his part of that reputation.
He looks up at the knock at the door. It’s the problem boy. “Back again, Saxon?” he asks rhetorically, as permission to enter.
“It would appear so, Mr. Smith.” Just barely smiling, Harry Saxon steps into the room and shuts the door behind him.
John waves him over to the desk. “What was it this time?” he inquires with a sigh.
“Mr. Johnson said I was being disrespectful to Matron, sir.”
Oh, how much fun Harry had setting up that scenario! Discovering that the nurse had caught John’s eye; going up to her and making idle chit-chat; waiting for another teacher to be within range of hearing. Uttering in a tone of voice so bland, “Matron, you’re such a wonderful nurse; are you just as good at playing ‘Doctor’?” It took the woman a full fifteen seconds, staring at him with her mouth slightly open, before she realized just how badly she’d been insulted. She gave a quick, breathy gasp and bright red spots appeared high on her cheeks. This was immediately followed by the outraged bellow of the other teacher who’d witnessed the encounter. Harry is still quite surprised that the man hadn’t dragged him up here by his ear.
Standing up, John walks around his desk, a rattan cane clasped in both hands behind his back. Harry turns to face him as John walks up to him. John doesn’t stop until they are just inches apart, planning to use his extra height to intimidate the boy. “Were you cheeking Matron, Saxon?”
Harry raises his chin until there is less than an inch of space between their noses and looks John straight in the eyes. He lets a little of his real self leak into the glare; not all nine hundred years of experience, but a good deal more self-assurance and challenge than a teenage boy would normally have. “I expect so, sir.”
“How many did he give you?” Eyes locked with the boy’s, John taps the end of the cane against the wooden floor so that there is no mistaking the question.
“He said, “at Mr. Smith’s discretion,” sir. He said you had rather definite ideas when it came to messing about with Matron.” The double entendre is deliberate; John can’t help but catch it. Harry knows that whether or not John ignores it, he will address his task with more attention and enthusiasm because of it.
“He’s right; I cannot abide disrespect toward the weaker gender. Well, you know the drill well enough. In fact, this is starting to be a regular occurrence.”
In fact, if John ever bothered to look at the records, he’d discover he’s seeing Harry every time he has discipline duty, and that he’s the only one Harry’s been sent to. Because there are more teachers than disciplinary hours, no teacher has one particular weekly time. Harry had to nick the monthly rota sheet and plan his malfeasance accordingly. But John will not discover this until it’s too late; Harry’s careful to maintain his problem-student attitude whenever John’s around, and John could never begin to think he might be pursued in such a way.
“I imagine it does look that way, sir.” Without taking his eyes off John’s, Harry slowly unfastens his trousers. At the last second before his trousers and pants fall to the floor, Harry turns and leans forward to put his hands on John’s desk.
Normally a boy would stand fairly close to the desk, close enough he could bend his knees when he heard the cane start to whistle as it sliced through the air, in an attempt to make the blows fall on his back instead of his arse. And most boys stood with their feet as close together as they were allowed to, desperate to protect their balls.
Harry does neither. He stands far enough back from the desk that he nearly has to balance on his toes, and spreads his legs as wide as the trousers around his ankles will allow. He knows he can handle the pain (even in this very-young body) and it’s important - very important - that John Smith sees everything, no matter where he stands to deliver the blows. Because unlike most boys anticipating a caning, Harry is growing hard, and before this session is over he wants to be certain John is, too.
John takes up a position off to Harry’s left so he can see his face. He likes to be able judge whether the boy is handling his punishment or if it should be lessened. It also gives him plenty of room to swing. “Shall we begin, then?” he announces.
‘Amateur,’ thinks Harry. Half the value of the first blow comes from the recipient not knowing exactly when the strike will land.
The noise Harry makes at the impact is not the usual sharp cry of pain, but a slightly noisy gasping followed by a low, breathy moan. Startled, John’s eyes fly to the boy’s face to find Harry’s head turned toward him, Harry’s dark eyes watching back with some strange knowledge and anticipation. John’s gaze then travels down Harry’s body, checking for signs of something amiss. The pink welt rising from the strike is normal, but thrusting out in front of the boy is his cock, hard and long and beautiful. Something inside of John tells him this is very wrong.
An anger starts building in him; anger that the boy shows no remorse for insulting a woman, especially that particular one; anger that Harry seems to be enjoying what was meant as a punishment; anger that he is watching John and expecting him to react; anger that he himself is reacting exactly as the boy seems to expect, and he hates himself for it. So John funnels all that anger into a second blow, aiming for the area lower down that he knows from experience should cause a reflex jerking reaction and an involuntary yelp of pain.
Instead he hears a louder gasp and a beautiful moan, and the jerking comes only from the boy’s cock. John feels his own move inside his trousers in response to the sound and the sight. His self-loathing and anger grow, and he chooses the path for his next blow to cover the most unmarked skin and intersect prettily with the other welts, and strikes again.
So it continues on, spiraling ever upward: blow; gasp and moan; matching jerking cocks, one free, one clothed; John’s loathing and anger; calculation for the next blow.
He’s breathing hard, searching for the perfect spot for the next strike, when it occurs to him that he hasn’t bothered to count the blows he’s been laying on. He’s lost himself in the rhythm. He attempts to count the welts those pretty round buttocks, but finds his gaze pulled away again and again to the boy’s erection. Giving up, he stares instead at the cane in his hand and asks the boy, “So, what was that, Saxon?”
“Eight, sir.”
God help him! He has truly fallen into the experience, the sound of the cane through the air and on the flesh, the view of arse and welt and cock. Shuddering once, he shakes himself completely back from his trance. “That’s enough then, I think,” he tells the boy. More than enough; the lad may not sit comfortably for several days. Imagining Harry shifting uncomfortably in his seat during upcoming classes causes John to shudder again.
He leans the cane up against his desk and walks around to take his chair, very careful not to look at Harry while he pulls up his pants and trousers and fastens them, because despite everything he knows is right, he very much wants to. He wants to keep watching that beautifully striped arse, and the stiff cock that had bounced so wonderfully every time John laid another welt on, watch until both are hidden from view inside the boy’s black trousers. He even wants to run his fingers over his handiwork: the warmth of the welts, the hardness at the front.
Taking up his pen instead to mark down Harry’s punishment, John says gruffly, “It’s not surprising you came to us at such a late age; I can easily see why you had to leave those other schools if your current behavior is any indication of your previous career. Mind you don’t get sent down from here, as well.”
“I’ll do my best to avoid it, sir. I’m certain Farringham is exactly where I need to be.” Harry leers a bit at John as he tucks his shirt into his trousers. He knows the older man will not dare to look up to see it.
John seems a little puzzled by Harry’s assertion. “How’s that, Saxon?”
Harry moves around to the back of John’s desk and leans down to where his breath is brushing John’s cheek. If John turns his head, their lips will meet. Harry says lowly, “You’re here, Mr. Smith, to tutor me in exactly what I need. And to administer a swift, hard correction when I go wrong.” He leaves their faces close together just long enough to listen to the hitch in John’s breathing, then pulls up and steps back around to the side of the desk so he can watch the expression on John’s face.
John doesn’t dare look up from his paperwork to the boy. He knows the hunger in his eyes will give him away, and whether he finds invitation or disdain in Harry’s face, he will be lost. He works to control his breathing until he can reply. “Yes… Well. Off you go; I have other things I should be doing. And Saxon - I’d rather not see you back here.”
“I’m certain you wouldn’t, sir.” But you will, John, thought the Master. And next time, you will fall.