Work Text:
Today is off to a rotten start.
Foolish was Stede to believe his peers sought to befriend him; it was not so. They instead framed him for their misdeeds and landed Stede in detention for the first and, ideally, last time.
It hasn’t been more than an hour—Stede knows this because of the clock on the wall, one of the few that ostensibly works and also one of the few that is an analog clock rather than a digital. Stede isn’t sure many of his classmates know how to read an analog clock, but that just makes it all the more fitting, for Stede is not in an ordinary classroom. Rather, Stede is in the classroom of the strict, no-nonsense Mr. Hands, who’s in charge of detention.
By some odds, Stede is the only one in all his boarding school in detention today. Perhaps there are other teachers for it that simply lack the infamy of Mr. Hands and therefore are not known by Stede, but either way—he’s in the room alone with this severe-looking man.
It’s sort of intimidating, so Stede keeps his head ducked and pores over the word search he received when he reported that he’d finished his classwork. He was hoping he might be permitted to read. Alas! Here he sits, scouring over every line and circling every C with his eyes to see if it continues into the right word in any direction. He luckily enjoys word searches. He has a drink from his water—he’s heard Mr. Hands confiscates drinks, but Stede must be lucky to not have been questioned regarding his opaque cup with nebulous contents. It’s unfortunately the last of his water, but that’s just as well; he has to pee.
However…
Stede flushes.
He can simply… not. He can see how long he can hold it. That might be more interesting than word searches, he tells himself.
What might be even more exciting…
“Mr. Hands?” he pipes up, confidence building with how benevolent Mr. Hands has been so far. He was said to be horrible, but Stede’s peers are no star students themselves and are truly very vile, so their opinions are not to be trusted.
“What?” Mr. Hands doesn’t sound delighted, but that’s fine. Stede doesn’t need delighted. He just needs… lenient, which is likely one of the last words anyone has ever used to describe this man, but Stede could perhaps bring it out of him.
“May I please refill my water, Sir?” he asks, pulling out all the mannerly stops and even softening his voice into something placating yet dulcet.
“No,” says Mr. Hands. He doesn’t look up from whatever he’s working on over there that put a permanent furrow in his brow. He says nothing more. Stede is inundated with frustration but says nothing until he composes himself.
“Why not?” he asks meekly.
“You can wait until lunch.” Mr. Hands does not carry the conversation any further.
With no idea what more to say, Stede abandons it, leaving only a murmured, “Thank you,” in his wake.
A glance at the clock tells Stede he has much waiting to do—two more hours, to be precise. He swallows a groan. This will be a long day.
When Stede finishes his word search, Mr. Hands, frustratingly, conjures up another one out of thin air and presents it to him with a flat-lipped, crooked smile. Stede feels like he’s taking a contract from the devil to sign his soul away. Mr. Hands doesn’t even offer Stede’s other word search for him to keep as a trophy for persevering through an entire boring hour; Stede supposes he must keep them himself in some sort of shrine of student suffering.
Already, Stede’s bladder has gotten to him, something pressing he can no longer outrun by swirling around letters starting to blend together in shapeless smears. He hadn’t any luck before, but maybe Mr. Hands will understand that needing to relieve oneself is much different than the desire to refill a water bottle—one being much more necessary and time-sensitive than the other. He sticks around by the desk and says, “Mr. Hands?”
“What?” Mr. Hands sounds even more annoyed than last time. Bugger!
“May I, um—may I please use the restroom?” Stede tries, lacing his fingers in front of himself—just short of throwing himself down and prostrating at Mr. Hands’ feet.
“If you didn’t drink all your fucking water in half an hour, you might not have this problem,” Mr. Hands reprimands, and Stede is still reeling from his vulgar language when he adds on, “So sit down and shut up. Do your work.”
“Yes, Sir,” Stede says, sullen, and returns to his desk, his heart twinging in disappointment in sync with his bladder.
For another thirty minutes, Stede does his work, but he doesn’t even make it through one column of words before it becomes impossible to focus on the letters on the page, every P making his head spin. He’s hot all over, his heart is pounding, and he can’t hold it anymore!
So, summoning all his courage, he harrumphs and says, not asking, “It’s something of an emergency, Mr. Hands.”
“Oh,” says Mr. Hands, and just when Stede starts holding his breath, he finishes, “That’s too bad.”
“I really don’t think I can hold it,” Stede stresses—he’s already rocking against his hand in a gesture that feels quite lewd, and he isn’t sure what more he can do to emphasize how urgent it is; he wonders if he’d simply asked earlier, might Mr. Hands have let him go, but he thinks it unlikely, given his reaction to Stede wanting to refill his water. Stede, indeed, should not have had that much water—of that much, he’s well aware—but he wasn’t conscious of it!
“It’s thirty minutes. If you can drink it in that much time, you can hold on for that long, Bonnet,” Mr. Hands dismisses.
Stede does not whine, but he does make a noise quite close to a whine, which of course does not earn the clemency of the cruel Mr. Hands.
Unfortunately, it seems his peers were actually right about him; even to Stede, who did nothing wrong, Mr. Hands is merciless. He curls into himself and grinds into his hand, minding the fine line between self-control and self-indulgence and doing his best not to cross it despite the arousal simmering in him from his predicament. He willed it away, and it would recede only to crash to the shore of the forefront of Stede’s mind even stronger than before.
Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes. Stede can do thirty minutes. He can sit here and circle more words that mean absolutely nothing to him, and then it will be time for lunch, and he can finally, blissfully, relax his muscles and let go, feel it flow out of him hot and wet—
Oh, dear! Stede cannot do thirty minutes! He whines and jams his hands into his now-damp crotch.
“Told you to wait until lunch, Bonnet,” Mr. Hands says, his voice drenched in disappointment.
Stede relocates his hands to cover his face and squeezes his legs together. “Well, I’m trying!”
“Are you even doing your work?”
Incredulity flares through Stede like a bullet, and faster than he can even think, he whips his head up and says, “My word searches?”
For the first time since Stede has sat down in his classroom, Mr. Hands looks at him, a glint in his eye that might be anger or might be something Stede should fear far, far more. He shifts in his seat, holding that stare with much struggle until Mr. Hands says, “Come here.”
Looking at his shoes is a relief; thankfully, they aren’t yet saturated with urine, but he thinks it may only be a matter of time if Mr. Hands has the intentions Stede thinks he has. He hasn’t received corporal punishment in weeks, so he hopes his rear is still somewhat—
“Over the desk,” Mr. Hands says, breaking into Stede’s thoughts with a confirmation of his suspicions. Stede swallows and obeys. He hears rustling and wonders if Mr. Hands is getting a paddle. “Good.” Heat whirls in Stede’s belly. “Seems you can listen to some of my orders.”
After the strange fwip and clack sounds are through, Stede’s trousers are tugged down. Stede shouldn’t be surprised that he isn’t permitted to keep the shred of dignity he would maintain were he allowed to pull the garment down himself. Still, it makes him squirm. He hopes Mr. Hands doesn’t see how wet he is.
If he does, there’s no indication of it. Mr. Hands doesn’t miss a beat before his palm—the one wrapped in a leather glove for reasons unknown to Stede—cracks over Stede’s rear with neither care nor concern for the integrity of Stede’s muscles and bones.
Stede wonders if anyone can even hear his yelp; detention has its own building, after all. It likely doesn’t matter either way because why on Earth would that be a brow-raising sound in a detention setting? He still finds himself curious if anyone could possibly perceive what goes on behind the automatically locked door, but his thoughts are interrupted as Mr. Hands pins his wrists far above his head, just beside a computer monitor.
Beyond the pain, the spasms that result from the increasingly brutal blows to his bottom bother his brimming bladder. He manages to hold in a torrent of pee by a hair and tries to squeak out a warning around his own pained whimpers and cries. “Please, I can’t—”
It doesn’t matter. Mr. Hands strikes again, and it’s too late.
“Oh, no!” Stede cries, and he tries to squeeze his thighs together to stop it, but pee pours out of him anyhow, a violent spurt hissing out of his privates and splattering onto the tile floor. He squirms, hoping to free his wrists so he might hold it in manually, but the moment his hands are freed, he’s also being tugged back from the desk and landing in Mr. Hands lap, both of them toppling onto the chair with harmonious grunts. His heart begins racing.
Thankfully, he tenses so much that his muscles siphon off his stream. He wants to hide, but his legs are sprawled wide, and he’s scared to move lest he disturb his bladder once again. He recalls the gleam in Mr. Hands’ eye and wonders if he assessed it correctly.
It’s cemented seconds later as a leather hand skates over Stede’s bare thigh and swims up his shirt to curl and grope Stede’s chest. He shivers, startled by how good it feels. He never bothered playing with himself there—it didn’t tend to feel like much of anything—but Mr. Hands’ thumbs, gently stroking his nipples, make Stede’s hole drool hot arousal. He knows he should speak up about this and how wrong it is, but…
It feels good. It feels like being accepted by someone who hitherto only showed him scorn, and Stede can’t begin to quantify just how long he’s craved that specific feeling. He arches his back just enough to express encouragement, feeling feverish as Mr. Hands takes the cue. His hands feel glorious squeezing Stede’s chest, but as one slides down—his bare one—and slips over Stede’s sex, Stede nearly falls off his lap. His fingers spend some time at the top, rubbing Stede where it feels best with no guidance except his instincts. Mr. Hands must be experienced, Stede gathers, and another splash of sticky want leaves his body. He imagines it staining the leather of Mr. Hands’s trousers and loses his breath.
The circling finger doesn’t linger long before sliding down between Stede’s folds and beginning to loop around Stede’s hole, coaxing out a brook of desire as if Stede isn’t already messy enough. It’s torturous, having his chest and hole teased at once. He whimpers.
For the first time since Stede entered the room, Mr. Hands shows mercy.
When his finger slips inside, Stede restrains a yelp, but it feels so good so fast that he relaxes in seconds, allowing the intrusion to wriggle its way further into his body. Mr. Hands smells lovely, he’s beginning to realize as he melts into the teacher’s sturdy frame—a strong, steel cologne with the faintest sweet undertone. Stede feels Mr. Hands’ face in his hair, breathing deeply; he hopes Mr. Hands thinks just as highly of his vanilla-and-berries-scented shampoo.
“All I had to do to get you to shut up,” Mr. Hands muses, not finishing his sentence.
Stede takes a few moments to realize he’s talking about what he’s now doing—slowly, gently opening Stede up on his finger while his other hand strokes and teases Stede’s nipple, causing more lubrication to ooze from Stede’s sex onto the single digit.
“I can keep talking,” Stede strains—forming words is much tougher than he expected. “I just… I’m choosing silence.”
“Shh.” Mr. Hands tilts his head to graze his lips against Stede’s ear. “Choose it again, then.”
Though embarrassing, Stede submits, and Mr. Hands does not speak again. Stede almost enjoys the silence, which is only broken up by the occasional gasp or grunt as Mr. Hands crooks his finger against what feels like a sweet spot. He pinches Stede’s nipple gently at the same time, and another deluge of drool gushes out of Stede’s hole. How humiliating. He arches for more. Mr. Hands provides, and Stede is beginning to see the benevolence he’d missed the first time.
A second finger is quite the stretch at first, but Stede adjusts after ten seconds of teeth-gnashing discomfort. His body helps things along by readily producing fluids for nearly every thrust of Mr. Hands’ compact digits. He feels so, so good, and so close to—to peeing. Oh, dear. He grasps for something to hold.
The arm of the chair is the closest thing he can find to an anchor. He swallows, his head spinning faster than the globe on Mr. Hands’ desk would if it were knocked off-kilter entirely. He clears his dry throat and tries to twist his tired tongue into something word-shaped.
“I’m g-going to pee.”
As though Stede has cried for more rather than uttered a warning, Mr. Hands penetrates with purpose now, bludgeoning Stede’s bladder like a battering ram in the process. Stede tries to hold on, but it creeps forth against his control, and Mr. Hands forces his way through the resistance, and—
He’s peeing.
Bursts of it jet out around Mr. Hands’ pumping fingers, glittering gold in the sunlight filtering in through the window as it spritzes through the air. Stede looks down and finds the sight almost hypnotizing—his flesh, so soft against the wizened, callused hand of Mr. Hands, his sex, yielding to pruned, soaked fingers, and his flow, sporadically spraying with every stroke. He keeps his head dropped, mesmerized by the picture they make, as Mr. Hands groans.
“Go ahead, dove. Fuck up all the papers,” Mr. Hands says. Stede is less unmoored by his potty mouth and more unmoored by the crooning permission. “You’ll only have to recreate every piece of work that you ruin while your cunt’s as full to the brim as your bladder.”
Stede yelps and tenses as tight as he can, and he pulls it off, cutting his stream short with much strain and pain, but the corollary splatters on his previous word search dishearten him nevertheless. He only hopes nothing got on anything more complicated, and he doesn’t have the time to investigate before Mr. Hands disturbs Stede’s percipience with harder, faster movements. Stede’s just short of caterwauling with the torturous pleasure of it.
Mr. Hands briefly abandons Stede’s chest to make a few swooping passes where Stede needs him the most, the throbbing point of his sex that sends delighted flutters rippling through his hole and up his belly like butterflies. He emits a noise like he’s singing his pleasure, and Mr. Hands grunts with him, shifting and nearly dislodging Stede from his lap in the process. Stede feels something hot and hard—the protrusive privates of Mr. Hands, Stede presumes—and feels himself grow all the more excited. He knows, at least somewhat, where that goes. It’s a thrilling idea, even considering Mr. Hands’ hopefully-empty threat.
His body certainly agrees, squeezing around Mr Hands’ fingers like it’s gnawing on bones and demanding more meat to sink its teeth into. He doesn’t ask for as much, but it seems Mr. Hands intuits this need anyway, or perhaps he is so experienced with intercourse that he knows what to do and when like he’s speaking a mother tongue. Stede endeavors not to squirm when the fingers are removed from his hole and he’s left empty, as Mr. Hands remedies this swiftly.
At first, Stede was, naturally, averse to detention. He hadn’t done a thing wrong—it wasn’t him who smashed all the garden gnomes to bits! He hadn’t even a bat to do so with, whereas the Badminton boys had pernicious aluminum bats they slept with like bedwarmers.
Anyway, he was averse, but he also could’ve never dreamed of this—Mr. Hands sliding his penis between Stede’s folds and slapping it against his quim, knocking out a wanton moan from the lips of his face and burbles of arousal from the ones between his legs. Stede wants to let go again, though he knows better than to succumb to that urge. He doesn’t want to remind Mr. Hands of the punishment he seems to have forgotte—
“Here,” Mr. Hands says, straining around Stede with a soft grunt before laying out a fresh copy of the word search before him. “Go on.”
“Oh, come on,” Stede mumbles, but he’s silenced by another smack to his cock. Mr. Hands grips the desk and uses their weight to roll the chair up to the sheet he’s just presented to Stede. Stede whimpers, grabbing the nearest pen. It isn’t a click pen, which is fine. Just a plain black Bic ballpoint pen. That’s fine. Stede casts a longing glance at his personal pen, but he isn’t yearning for long before he’s distracted by Mr. Hands pinning him to the desk.
That isn’t what he was expecting, but the discomfort of his hipbones against the desk becomes a faraway thing when Mr. Hands slips his tip up to Stede’s hole again. He continues teasing like this like he’s dangling candy before a baby’s stubby grasping hand.
“Do your work,” Mr. Hands whispers against Stede’s ear. Stede shudders, beyond his control, at the feeling of Mr. Hands’ breath and beard tickling his skin. Stede stares blankly at the word search. He at least has an interest in the subject matter—flora. Baby’s breath. He pores over row after row, and his strategy does not let him down, though it takes him about twice as long to execute with Mr. Hands stimulating him in such an agonizing manner. He shakily circles it.
“Good,” says Mr. Hands, and drinking in the single word feels like imbibing with the headiest of drinks, moonshine sliding through him burning hot, so Stede’s caught by surprise when Mr. Hands at last connects their privates. He yelps like an animal whose paw has been trodden on, but when he jerks away, he’s only brought back by Mr. Hands’ hands. He wriggles, panting, but eventually, he craves some action. Mr. Hands does not provide as much.
So, Stede stares at the words in hopes of finding cherry blossom. Thankfully, the lengthier words have a harder time hiding among their kindred, so Stede finds it within four sweeps through the columns. His circle is a smidge wonky, but it’s sufficient enough, seemingly, because Mr. Hands slowly begins moving his hips in mechanical, measured drags. Stede wants to tear the paper to pieces. He chews his lip before pressing them tightly together.
It’s satisfying—much better than no movement and a huge improvement from being left empty—but it isn’t enough. He doesn’t think it’s enough for Mr. Hands, either, who keeps accelerating ever so slightly before slowing himself down as though reining himself in. Stede hopes he loses his grip on those reins soon because daisy is proving to be a very elusive collection of letters, and Stede might sooner lose his mind than find it.
The moment Stede’s wobbling hand finds the correct D, Mr. Hands speeds up, which is the true tell that it’s the right one before Stede even scans the surrounding letters. Of course, Mr. Hands found it before Stede. Stede feels the urge to pee again, a depraved temptation, and does little to deny it, weakly holding on while still feeling like he’s bursting at the seams; worse, Mr. Hands begins touching his privates, destructive and just-right, and the levee breaks.
Pee gushes out of Stede before he can even determine where dahlia is, which is part of the daisy family anyway, and dandelion is no better. He feels so good suddenly, the mixture of relief and pleasure overwhelming him like a great tidal wave. Pee spills and splashes out with every downstroke, then Stede is plugged again, and then it repeats, spraying all over. He feels like an animal marking its territory, which would make Mr. Hands his. He thinks he might rather belong to Mr. Hands, for he would hardly know what to do with such power.
As Mr. Hands grips him tighter and penetrates him harder, he becomes certain that Mr. Hands would handle such power properly.
Mr. Hands treats him better than anyone, even considering his earlier scorn. Mr. Hands brings him such delectable, divine pleasure, and he makes Stede feel better about his body. Stede feels desired in a way that has him reeling, and letting go around Mr. Hands’ penis is a sensation Stede will never forget but one he wants to never cease experiencing. Alas; Stede can only store so much pee, and indeed, he can store so much pee, but his stream peters out anyhow once he’s well and truly drained. Mr. Hands’ penis still has him very, very wet and tingly, and those tingles are impossible to ignore with the touch on his privates.
After he’s peed, the pleasure is sharper somehow, unable to be drowned out in any sense, louder, and Stede can’t swim away from it.
It crashes over him, and he arches and shivers and howls with it as his hole pulses and squeezes rhythmically, wave after wave of pleasure undulating through his veins. Stede’s head has fallen onto the word search. He doesn’t even know where the pen went, and he doesn’t care because Mr. Hands is speeding up something fierce, full-throttle pounding into Stede, grunting and moaning. He sounds like an angel, Stede thinks deliriously. Gorgeous.
As though affected by the words Stede dares not utter, Mr. Hands grows louder, grabbing Stede’s chest as though grounding himself. Stede feels floaty, too, twitching with surprise shocks of pleasure that become especially apparent each time Mr. Hands adjusts his grip on Stede’s chest. There isn’t much to hold onto, thankfully, but Mr. Hands has quite small grabbers anyhow, so it seems a perfect fit, like two pieces of a puzzle slotting together.
“Fuckin’ indolent twat,” Mr. Hands grinds out, a discordant break in the heart-warming song of his fleshly delight. “Still doing fuck all.”
Despite his angry words, Mr. Hands is kissing Stede’s crown and the nape of his neck, breathing him in like oxygen in a plane crash, and thrusting wildly into the depths of him like he can’t bear for them to be separated.
When Mr. Hands spills semen, hot and thick and abundant, it surprises Stede but primarily delights him. He loves the feeling of fullness.
The feeling of emptiness, felt acutely as Mr. Hands pulls out, he could do without.
“Thank you,” Stede whispers.
“Finish your work,” Mr. Hands mumbles.
Stede ensconces in Mr. Hands’ lap. “Yes, Sir.”