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“You know, Hughie…”
Mr. Butcher closes the door behind them, the click of the door sets Hughie’s stomach on edge. Or, more like sends a jolt through his stomach. He refuses to call it anticipation.
“Most of the other boys who end up here have reason to be.” He lets his sentence trail as he drags a hand across his desk in the admittedly small office. It’s like Mr. Butcher is cosplaying a supervillain, but jesus he can totally pull it off. Hughie squirms in his chair.
“You’re proper smart, talented. Why is it I see you making trouble for me time and time again?” Mr. Butcher studies him a moment, gruff beard turned down in a frown.
“Home life?” Butcher inquires delicately, well as delicately as Hughie assumes the man can sound.
Hughie can only shrug at him. His home life isn’t that bad, unless a strictly-pizza-roll diet is considered abuse.
Mr. Butcher seems to agree, eyebrows furrowing as he raises a hand to scratch at his scruff. He glances at the computer screen off to the side of his desk before settling his chilling glare on Hughie once again.
“And no one would’ve called you a ‘troubled kid’ before, eh? No -osises or -isms?”
Now Hughie probably should say something, to be polite.
“Not that I know of, sir.” Hughie hopes Mr. Butcher doesn’t notice his voice catching on “sir.” Unless there’s a chance… No, focus Hughie!
“Do you happen to feel inclined to enlighten me on why you’ve been such a little shite lately? And right before graduating, too, Hughie?”
Ugh, his tone is so deliciously stern, so short. And the way his deep accented voice says Hughie’s first name?
Hughie makes eye contact again, searching Mr. Butcher’s face hopefully. He can’t see anything in Butcher’s face that gleans him any hope, though.
Hughie cuts his eyes towards the floor, giving a shitty answer he is pretty sure will just enrage the man further. “No.” His tone was sulky, as if he were six years old rather than eighteen.
Hughie wishes he asked Frenchie for the odds Mr. Butcher would fuck a student, his friends odds are disturbing accurate. Or at that point, he might as well just ask the odds Mr. Butcher would fuck him , it’s not like he’s not been obvious as hell already.
“Hughie…” Butcher growls out, low and frustrated, like he’s restraining himself.
Hughie squirms a little more, not sure if he’s trying to hide that he’s aroused or if he’s trying to replicate the blonde schoolgirl’s writhing from his favorite porno. You probably can’t do both at once, huh?
“Do you want me to expel you, is that what?”
Hughie’s eyes nearly roll. Yes, punish me! Butcher’s tone and his whole voice, it’s just too much.
“Do you want detention? Force me to pay attention to you for a whole week?”
Must be all the porno wiggling, but Hughie nearly falls out of his chair. He catches himself on the front of Mr. Butcher’s desk, not exactly invading his space but definitely a bit of a push. If he had tits like the girls in the videos, this would be a perfect opportunity to flaunt.
“Detention, please, sir.”
Butcher seemingly takes stock of Hughie once again, who is trying not to combust miraculously, before barking out “After school, 3:35, right here.”
Mr. Butcher sweeps around his desk and behind Hughie to hold the office door open again. The swish of him passing leaves Hughie wanting, he tries to catch a whiff of cologne but no such luck. He stands and stiffly adjusts himself before rushing out.
—
At lunch Hughie comes up to Frenchie, who’s sitting with his butt on the tabletop of the stone picnic table, his sneakers perched on the bench. He is pouring over a heavily used textbook.
Hughie goes ahead and blurts out his question, no point in agonizing over it.
“What are the odds Butcher would fuck me?”
Frenchie looks Hughie up and down, as if he’s never really realized how deranged he is. For shame, after all the shit they do together and Frenchie doesn’t expect him to be a little fucked up too?
After a few beats of calculation, Frenchie briskly states, “3 to 1.” He then looks back at his Physics II book, as if the matter is settled.
For Hughie, not so much.
“What! That high?” He’s laughing a bit, what the fuck does Frenchie know that Hughie doesn’t? Shouldn’t it be closer to 1/100? Or even less than that?
“What ‘what’? I’ve got a feeling, petite Hughie!” He leans in with a glint in his eye, “Besides, I heard he’s sleeping in the doghouse, if you know what I mean.”
Hughie is aghast. Well, yes, he did hear that Butcher is not so in with the misses at the moment, but. Rude.
“Hey, I like Mr. Butcher!” Hughie only says to protect his teacher’s honor, but of course Frenchie turns it on him. Hughie did give him ammo, after all.
“That is part of the problem, Hughie.” Frenchie’s eyebrows make a coordinated effort to humiliate him.
—
“What would it take for you to fuck me right here?” Hughie is nothing if not baselessly daring.
Butcher is clearly surprised, but also doesn’t appear to look offended. Perhaps this was a decent gamble after all.
“Hughie, I don’t know what I’ve done to make you think such a breach in professionality is okay, but you better nip it in the bud lad.” Why does he sound like he’s letting Hughie down easy, rather than that delicious stern tone he often takes up. Is this the weak point Hughie can dig into?
“Professionality? Don’t make me laugh. You get to play out your little power trips and I get to engage in some of my own, ahem, interests, but let neither of us pretend what we’ve been dancing around has been professional.” Hughie braces for his hit to land poorly, but shoots his shot anyway. “I also don’t think I’d consider it proper discipline, if I’m being frank with you.”
Hughie didn’t even realize he was leaning so close, but Butcher grabbing a fist full of his hair didn’t exactly startle him. It felt more like winning.
He grins into Butcher’s hold as Butcher plays right into his hand.
“You want discipline?” He sounds more scattered than Hughie expected him to be, impulsive and losing his grip. Metaphorically. His grip on Hughie’s hair is still quite firm.
Even if Mr, Butcher is already on the edge, Hughie cannot resist poking him further. What can he say? Hughie has no self preservation instincts.
“What are you gonna do about it?” He can’t find it in himself to make a proper bratty expression, well unless his current grin/grimace counts. Yeah, actually, his grin is definitely adding to the defiant dare.
It’s getting awkward being held here leaning over the desk, so Hughie hopes Butcher is going to do something about it sooner rather than later.
Butcher releases his hair violently and Hughie scrambles a little bit not to fall. Hughie looks up through his lashes at Butcher, who is seething but luckily he isn’t exactly giving off ‘I’m not gonna fuck the student’ vibes. His breath is still coming out heatedly, his expression pressed. Is that sweat?
But what should Hughie do next, Butcher doesn’t seem to be acting on his arousal or anger. They are locked in some sort of sexually tense stalemate. Well, Hughie was already bold enough to ask Butcher to fuck him, why not double down.
Hughie carefully moves himself around Butcher’s small office, luckily without his gangly limbs knocking anything off the desk or walls.
He brings himself to kneel, next to Butcher’s desk. Butcher’s knees. His cock. Then Hughie looks up at him before pulling out the proverbial shovel and digging deeper.
“I do want discipline, sir.” Hughie can try to do a sexy voice but it hardly cancels out his natural awkwardness. Se la vie.
“And whatever else you see fit to give me, as well.” He flutters his eyelashes a little, face flushing. Hughie tries not to look away, even while his embarrassment grows the longer he kneels here without being acknowledged.
Hughie tries to level his own breathing, his dick is so hard he’s feeling a head rush. Just sitting here, looking up at this ridiculously handsome man. Being allowed to sit here, underneath Butcher.
“Hm..” Butcher says after literal ages. “What should I do to you, quite alotta options. Don’tcha think?” Hughie decides it was rhetorical.
“I could bend you over my lap, lay into that pert little buttocks with my hand or me belt.” Butcher’s hand moves to his belt and yes yes yes.
“I could fuck you raw and dirty, but seems that’s hardly punishment for you slut.” Hughie swallows, hardly coherent enough to reply even if he did want to.
Butcher spins his chair so he’s finally facing Hughie. Hughie’s eye is naturally drawn to his enseam, hoping to see Butcher’s hardness through those dumb black skinny jeans.
“Or, I could step on you.” He brings his black dress shoe up to Hughie’s knees on the ground, threatening. As if wearing nice dress shoes cancels out the travesty of those skinny jeans, Hughie scoffs at Mr. Butcher’s weird personal fashion code.
“Step on you while I stuff my cock down your throat, maybe you’ll finally shut the fuck up.”
Hughie would like to think he successfully held back his whimper, but apparently he did not.
“Yeah?” Butcher says, as if responding to Hughie. He can’t help but nod eagerly.
Butcher adjusts himself towards the edge of his seat, his shoe coming to rest slightly higher on Hughie’s thigh. It feels like it’s burning him in the best way.
As Butcher quickly works his belt buckle and fly, Hughie fears he is hallucinating. He’s been dreaming about Butcher for months, trying to seduce him for just as long.
Once Butcher’s cock is in sight, Hughie attempts to surge forward. He almost makes it before he’s yanked back harshly by Mr. Butcher’s left hand, the man’s shoe raising to press up against Hughie’s clothed cock to encourage obedience.
Hughie’s not sure if he squealed a little or not but it does nothing to dampen his very satisfied smile. Butcher’s eyes darken as he tightens his hold in Hughie’s hair. Hughie lets out a hiss but he can’t seem to ditch the smirk.
“You’ll take what you’re given, ain’t that what you said?”
Hughie nods with what range of motion he is afforded.
“Then, stay.” Hughie makes an effort not to move a muscle, though it’s not like Butcher’s grip on his hair is loose enough to give him much of a choice.
Butcher brings his cock to brush Hughie’s lips, letting out a dark chuckle when Hughie remains obstinately obedient, refusing to move even to open his mouth. Mr. Butcher rectifies this by (finally) grinding down his heel on Hughie’s trapped erection, forcing Hughie to gasp aloud.
Butcher takes advantage of this, harshly filling Hughie’s now pliant mouth. Butcher then adjusts his hold, moving the grip in Hughie’s hair into a pseudo caress. Moving his other hand to mirror the first, he trails a thumb along Hughie’s cheekbone and stretched lips.
After taking so long messing about with his hands in Hughie’s hair, Hughie is used to the stretch of his lips and how far his jaw is pried open.
Right as Hughie dares think such a thing, Butcher pulls Hughie forward with both hands. Hughie groans around the intrusion as he’s shoved deeper, not too worried about gagging even as Butcher starts fucking right into the back of his throat.
Just like Hughie thought, he’s getting messy and his throat is getting abused but not quite on the edge of gagging. Is it conceited to wonder if Mr. Butcher is impressed?
He is making horrifically embarrassing sounds, though, but all the most enthusiastic blow jobs sound rediculous. His pride is further bolstered by Butcher seeming to notice Hughie isn’t gagging yet, Butcher fucks into him deep and doesn’t pull his head back, holding Hughie all the way against Butcher’s body. Hughie’s nose is kissing black body hair, while less pleasantly his chin seems to have met Butcher’s jean zipper.
Butcher holds Hughie steady for several counts, Hughie having to notably breathe through his nose but he doesn’t gag even then.
After a few more long, glorious seconds Butcher pulls him back, then back further than Hughie expected, distressingly off his cock. Hughie pants heavily, messy with drool.
“Do you have a gag reflex?” Butcher seems just ever so slightly interested, like talking about golf over a morning paper.
“Yes, sir.” Hughie’s voice is utterly fucked, hoarse and broken.
He hums appraisingly. Then Butcher promptly forces two fingers in Hughie’s mouth, down his throat to make Hughie gag. It is frightening, well practiced. He was already slobbery from the messy blowjob but it kind of hurt with Butcher’s dry, insistent fingers. And yet, Hughie’s cock jumps under the weight of Butcher’s shoe. Another wave of flush over takes him, Hughie lets out an utterly wanton moan. Like that was the fucking hottest thing to ever happen to Hughie. Because, well.
Butcher runs a thumb under Hughie’s mouth, smearing around spit on his face. Butcher then props his thumb in between Hughie’s teeth, propping his mouth open wide.
He slurs out “Open,” for good measure. When Butcher thrusts back, it seems that he goes impossibly deeper, all the way until Hughie gags around his cock.
As if the blowjob wasn’t messy and degrading enough. Hughie looks up through his teary eyelashes to see if that pleases Mr. Butcher. But he really doesn’t look particularly happy, he kinda looks like he’s going to hurry up and finish with this toy before throwing it away. How can a simple facial expression be the perfect amount of degradation for Hughie? He really is past sane into the lands of delusion for his teacher.
Hughie whines around Butcher at the thought, seeking a frantic rhythm against the shoe so graciously left to him.
Only a couple more full thrusts against the back of his throat and Hughie is cumming in his pants. Butcher grinds down with his foot a little extra through Hughie’s orgasm, as he attempts to shout but cannot successfully make a sound around the cock down his throat.
Bordering on overstimulated, Butcher holds him down and fucks his mouth. Though it was probably less than a minute of abuse, he’s so sensitive it seemed like forever, each hit to his throat flitting between torture and good-degradating-yes-please and back again.
Butcher’s thrusts start to lose their rhythm, hopefully on the edge of orgasm. Butcher thrusts deep one last time, holding his head still before filling Hughie’s throat. He comes so deep that Hughie can’t help but swallow, bemoaning the fact he doesn’t get to taste. When Butcher pulls out Hughie attempts to lick him clean, but of course Butcher pulls him away rudely.
Even though he just came in his pants, Hughie can’t help but be difficult.
“Is that all?” Hughie attempts to snark, though his battered voice betrays how well fucked he was. He’s back in the familiar position of Mr. Butcher’s hand tight in his hair while he grins up at him maliciously.
Maybe Butcher will play with him after all.
—
At lunch the next day Hughie reaches out his hand. Frenchie slaps 30 bucks into it while tutting in apparent disapproval. Hughie can’t help but smile.