Schooled

When Charles tells Erik to occupy himself, he will remember forever the exact moment that it's a mistake.

Erik is not a still person. He paces; fingers all of Charles' desk supplies and plucks books off of his shelves, touches their spines and scans bits of an errant page before carefully replacing them, trying not to disturb even the dust (Charles wonders idly if he can exchange the free tuition and room-and-board of the up-and-coming Xavier Academy for his pupils doing minor bits of housework just to help him manage the considerable upkeep; probably, he thinks). Charles cannot help but be fascinated by how fascinated Erik is by all of his stuff, to say nothing of feeling Erik's eyes sweep over him every so often as he works tirelessly at his research and meticulous note-taking to increase the efficiency of Cerebro and their training.

Eventually, Erik starts going through one of his closets. Charles hears a muffled sneeze, and writes "Housework" on the page he has been writing on, underlining it twice. "All right, then, Erik?" he calls, and that's when he realizes that he should have plunked the other man down with some aluminum foil or something.

There's a snuffle and then Erik emerges, hair a bit mussed, but grinning triumphantly all the same. Charles quickly sees why when he notices the hangered garments that Erik lets dangle in the air a few inches above his head. "You had a school uniform," Erik says, with far too much mirth.

Charles stares at the familiar pieces warily. Then he shrugs at the jacket that Erik is smirking at, the vest and tie and undershirt, the long pants; the hat (he'd always rather disliked how it made his ears stick out). "Standard issue," he replies. "I have multiple pieces, even." He winces when Erik shows him the hat, still grinning mischievously. "Well, just one of those."

Erik proffers the ensemble like a gift. "Put it on," he instructs, and Charles raises an eyebrow.

"I've far too much to be doing here, Erik." He turns back to his work, but then, rather like a child, Erik floats the outfit closer to him until it's directly in front of him, obstructing his view of the papers on his desk. "Erik," he says, warningly/laughingly, batting it away, but it comes back, of course. 'Really?' he sends telepathically.

'Really.' Erik's arms cross over his chest. "Put it on," he says again out loud. "The hat, too." He looks around. "Did you have shorts for when it got warmer?"

"None of the upperclassmen wore the shorts," Charles says automatically, and then realizes his mistake as Erik stares ravenously around the room, ready to tear every nook and cranny apart to find Charles' old school shorts. Quickly, he stands and grabs up the hanger, eyeing Erik unhappily as he crosses the room to the adjoining bathroom suite. "I'll go put this on," he sighs.

Charles takes his time, undressing and then leaving his shed clothing in a neatly-folded pile on the marble countertop in his (private; it relieves him to know that Erik has already dead-bolted the main door to the suite, ensuring that Raven or whomever won't come upon this horrific spectacle) bathroom. For the sake of convenience, he leaves his underwear on, as well as the socks he's already wearing, and then slips into his loafers anew after buttoning up the pants that are a touch too short on him, and rather tight in places. With a long-suffering sigh, he knots the tie comfortably around his neck, and adds the hat as the piece de resistance. He blanches at himself in the bathroom mirror, and then, taking a deep breath, slowly opens the door, resigned to his fate, such that it is.

When he re-enters the room, the first thing he notices is that Erik has taken up residence in his desk chair, one leg crossed atop the other in a way that is both casual and ridiculously graceful. The second thing he notices is Erik's expression, the devious smile, the abject delight in his gaze as he drinks in Charles. "Well, look at you," Erik rumbles. Charles moves to cross his arms, but Erik 'tsks' at him. "Don't sulk. Just let me see."

"I'm not sure what you're looking for," Charles says, feeling hideously embarrassed. Briefly, the phrase 'naughty little school boy' flits through Erik's brain and his own, and he flushes. "These pants are too tight," he mutters, and Erik's voice sing-songs through his head: 'I see London, I see France --'

"Can I take this off now?" Charles sighs, but Erik just makes a negating noise in the back of his throat, and he purses his lips. 'Erik, honestly ...'

"So what happened to the boys and girls at your school when they were bad?" The question is almost filthy falling from Erik's lips, but Charles tries to ignore that.

"No girls," he clarified. "I went to an all-boys' preparatory school until Oxford." Erik's raised eyebrow reminds him that he has not answered the question: "It was an old-fashioned sort of place. They used corporal punishment."

'Spanking,' Erik intones mentally, gleefully, and Charles rolls his eyes.

'Quite.'

Erik's mouth parts in a cocksure grin, teeth and all, eyes squinty. "And what did the young Charles Xavier do to get himself spanked?" he asks out loud.

Charles huffs. "I'll have you know that I stayed out of trouble for the most part," he says. He hears Erik snort and narrows his eyes. "What's so funny?"

"You," Erik says immediately. "Nobody's going to take your Ph.D. away, Charles." When Charles still looks prickly, he arranges his face into an almost placid smile. "All right, then. Really, though? Not one time when you were a bad little boy, Charles?"

Charles frowns. "There was one time," he finally relents, and he can't quite look Erik in the face while he quickly retells the story. "I let a batch of frogs loose before they were to be dissected; snuck into the laboratory while the professor was away."

"And you were spanked for it?" Erik asks. "Was it kinky?"

"Not really, no," Charles says honestly. "The woman who administered it was a rather stocky, buxom, matronly type. I don't suppose either of us got much out of it."

Erik mulls this over. "Were you ever in trouble for doing any sneaky mind tricks on people?" He waves his fingers in a mock-up of Charles' own gesture when he reads someone. "Did you ever erase someone's memory? On purpose, even?"

Charles looks a bit pained. "No. I was very careful about that sort of thing, Erik." He hears Erik sigh in his mind: 'Come on, Charles, work with me a little here.' "Sorry?" he asks.

Erik continues to study him. "So when you were caught stealing the frogs," he says, "how did you plead your case?"

"My professor took me aside and asked me if I'd done it, and I said that I had," Charles shrugs. He watches Erik rise from the chair curiously.

"All right. Pretend I'm your professor. Tell me you've done it."

Charles outright giggles. "My professor certainly didn't look like you, Erik." He is careful not to add how much more fun corporal punishment would have been if he had, but is fairly certain that Erik already knows this.

Erik's mouth quirks. "That's why this is better." His face then hardens, jaw tightening, eyebrows raising aristocratically, and Charles would be remiss not to admit that it goes straight to his cock. "Now, Mr. Xavier," Erik intones softly, sounding out the syllables of his family name with care, "I've heard a pretty incredible story about you releasing the frogs while I was out having a brandy between periods."

"Teachers didn't drink between classes, Erik," Charles laughs, but it fades into a giddy sort of grin as Erik invades his personal space. "Erik," he says again, more quietly. The other man is intoxicatingly close. His breath catches.

Erik's expression is still hard. "I don't believe that's how I should be addressed, Mr. Xavier." Erik is close enough that Charles can smell his aftershave. He shivers.

"I'm sorry ... Mr. Lehnsherr," he says slowly. 'Stupendous,' Erik remarks silently to him, and when their eyes meet, mutual arousal is evident. He's not positive that he's breathing when Erik reaches out with long fingers and tugs gently on the knot of his tie.

"That's better," Erik murmurs. His fingers move up to cup Charles' chin. "Can you corroborate the incredible tale that I've heard, Mr. Xavier?" he breathes.

Charles feels himself smiling a little. "I'm sorry, Mr. Lehnsherr," he says again. "I'm afraid the story you've heard is correct." He decides to go for broke: "I felt terrible about the senseless destruction of life that the frogs' dissection would have encouraged."

'How maudlin,' Erik snorts in his head. "I see," he says out loud, his eyes blazing. "In that case, I believe the only thing left is for you to take your punishment, Mr. Xavier." He steps back a bit, his grip on Charles' face gone, and Charles finds himself disappointed by the loss of intimacy, and then appalled when Erik points at his pants and says, "Pants down."

'What?' he squawks to Erik. 'Why?'

Charles' zipper begins to move of its own accord. "I gave you an instruction, Mr. Xavier," Erik reminds him, and he sighs and gingerly moves them off of his waist. "To your knees. Your underwear, too."

"Erik, really," Charles complains out loud, and then Erik has him by the tie again, his other hand gripping the back of Charles' neck, their faces inches apart.

"Do as I ask," Erik commands him softly, and he pets Charles' face a bit. The last bit is spoken directly into his ear: "Be a good boy, and I'll make it very worth your while, Charles."

Charles takes a quivering breath. He wets his lips, and then shoves his underwear down with his pants, both now past his knees. Instinctively, he reaches down to cover his crotch, but Erik is already turning him around and maneuvering him towards his own desk. "Bend over," Erik instructs him, and then he winces when Erik helps by shoving him half on top of a stack of his important papers, probably intentionally, he decides. He cranes his neck to see Erik grabbing up a long, wooden pole that he keeps by his desk as a sort of presentation pointer. He gulps. "Eri -- Mr. Lehnsherr," he begins, but he is interrupted by Erik placing a hand on the small of his back and pressing down slightly.

"Onto your stomach. Hold onto the sides of the desk," Erik instructs, and Charles can hear the smile in his voice even though he can't quite see it now. "Good boy." Charles feels his legs being kicked apart, and he lets out a small whimper. Erik's voice, on the other hand, sounds remarkably unfazed. "I think one-hundred lashes will do, Mr. Xavier. Count them for me, if you would. Out loud, please." Charles hears a couple of practice swings of the pointer, and gasps.

"One-hundred? Erik, you can't be seriou -- aaahh! One," he cries. The bite is much harder than he anticipates, and if the mental image that Erik sends to him is remotely accurate, it's left quite a mark. The next swing hits its mark before the sting from the first has completely gone away, albeit on the opposite buttock. "Two," he murmurs, and the air dances with excitement, both his and Erik's. "Three," he counts as another bite of the makeshift switch leaves a 'glorious' (Erik's choice of words) welt on his ass. "F-four ..."

'God, you're pretty like this, Charles.' Erik's voice is wondrous, but it doesn't stop him from beating Charles' ass mercilessly. After Charles recites "ten," his legs shaking a bit, he bites his lip to keep from moaning when Erik's hand runs over his burning cheeks. Then he continues without fanfare: "Eleven ... ah, t-twelve ..."

By twenty, Charles realizes that the palpable arousal hanging between himself and Erik is mutual; by thirty, he is embarrassingly aware of the erection that makes him rut against the desk after each swat from Erik. "T-thirty-five," he gasps, forehead resting against the desk, his chest heaving.

He feels a hand on the back of his head. "Look at me," Erik tells him, and he turns so that his cheek is lightly pressed against the oak. Erik looks extremely pleased. "You look so fuckable like this, Charles," he tells him. "You should see yourself: Your eyes, your lips that you keep biting ..."

"Yes, your mental projection is quite good, I should say," Charles replies lightly, and then it is all business again, and he grips the edges of the desk anew as Erik brings them through the forties and then to fifty. "God," Charles chokes out. "Fuck, Erik."

Erik delivers a particularly harsh "fifty-one" and Charles keens. "That's Mr. Lehnsherr," Erik tells him. "And do we need to add lashes onto your punishment for that mouth of yours, Mr. Xavier?"

"No, Mr. Lehnsherr, please," Charles says quickly. Erik seems pleased enough with this, because he adds "fifty-two" through "fifty-seven" shortly after, alternating between Charles' already-well-abused cheeks. "Would you like me to use my hand for the rest, Charles?" he husks.

Charles shivers. "I would like that very much, Mr. Lehnsherr." He feels himself being hauled upwards by strong hands on his waist, and comes face-to-face with Erik, whose own face is flushed, his pupils large. Erik saunters back towards Charles' desk chair and he resumes perching in it like a king.

"Let's have you lay over my lap, Charles."

Charles shuffles forward as best his pants and underwear being bunched at his knees will allow. The movement makes his beaten ass chafe a little, and then he squirms when Erik upends him a tad roughly to get him into place. "Ready?" Erik asks him, and his fingers brush Charles' ass gently, sending tiny bursts of pleasure up his spine.

"Y-yes," Charles tells him, and it begins again. It's much harder to hide his arousal like this, and if he's not mistaken, the bulk at the front of Erik's trousers tells a similar tale. 'Are you enjoying this, Charles?' Erik thinks to him.

'I was going to ask you the same question,' Charles returns swiftly, and then yelps, "Sixty-four!"

'Don't get cheeky,' Erik warns him. His hand lingers longer than the switch did, mixing the smacks with an array of additional textures and sensations. When Erik brings his hand down for "seventy-six" and then allows his fingers to curl between Charles' cheeks, probing the opening there, they both feel Charles' cock jump. He pulls his hand away, and continues administering the slaps. Some of the marks from the switch landed on the backs of Charles' thighs, but his hand is much more exact.

Charles' own hands dangle a bit uselessly in front of him as they round the final fifteen lashes. He still counts each hit out loud in a quivering voice ("Eighty-two" ... "Eighty-four ..."), but the accompanying moans and whines and desperately thought 'please, Erik, please'-s complicate the recitation. By "ninety," he is pretty sure he has bitten his lower lip off. By "ninety-five," at which point Erik reaches between his lap and beneath Charles trickily and fists Charles' cock, he outright sobs. "Mr. Lehnsherr," he caterwauls. Ninety-six. Ninety-seven. Ninety-eight. "Oh, oh, Mr. Lehnsherr ..."

Upon delivering the one-hundredth lash, Erik finally decides to take his pleading seriously. "Do you need me to help you with this, Charles?" he asks, and his hand finds Charles' cock again and pumps it a few times. When he releases it again, Charles' disappointed groan makes him laugh. "Touch yourself, Charles," he decides, and then he shows Charles how he will assist by slipping two fingers back into his ass hole. Squirming, Charles does as he's bade, reaching for his own cock, slicking his hand with his own pre-come, shivering when Erik's fingers hit a particularly sensitive spot. "Ask me permission to come," Erik instructs, and Charles does so almost automatically: 'Please, Erik. Pleasepleaseplease.'

Once he ejaculates, he sags with relief against Erik, still sprawled decorously across the other man's lap. Once his sense of dignity returns, he realizes that he's even drooling a bit, and groans. It's easy enough to plop onto his knees on the ground, and he does so, not bothering to refasten his pants. He realizes that the damned hat has fallen off when he feels Erik's fingers winding in his hair. The other man is chuckling, and Charles is tempted to ask him what he finds so amusing, but he suddenly has another idea.

"Mr. Lehnsherr," he breathes, blinking doe eyes up at Erik as he maneuvers himself carefully until he's kneeling between Erik's long legs. Immediately, he has Erik's attention, in more ways than one. He licks his lips, much better at getting into character now. "I feel dreadful about disappointing you. There is nobody in this school that I respect more," he continues, laying it on thickly. He moves his hands to Erik's knees, massaging them a bit. "Is there anything I can do to restore the decorum in our teacher-pupil relationship, Mr. Lehnsherr?" he finishes.

Erik's smile is crooked. "I believe an arrangement of some sort can be made, Mr. Xavier. You are, after all, my most exceptional student." He lets his legs fall open and then lets Charles tug his cock and balls free. The suction from Charles' mouth is delightful, to say nothing of the portrait of the other man's red lips taking in his considerable length. Charles' hand cups and rolls his ball sac, and he hums a little when he feels Erik needily press on the back of his head. A short time later, Erik lets out a staggered "Charles --" and comes down his throat.

Swallowing carefully, Charles wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Erik motions for him to stand, and he's barely upright before he fairly topples forward into Erik's lap. The kisses they exchange are sticky and salty. Charles feels a little overheated, still wearing his old school jacket and sweater vest and the shirt underneath, and says as much.

Erik grins and fingers his tie. "I'll have to find some way to use this. Maybe I'll gag you."

Charles raises an eyebrow. "I would still be able to talk to you," he reminds Erik. Then he blanches at the image Erik sends to him of what he would look like.

"So," Erik says colloquially. "Do you have any old Halloween costumes, then?"