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Nathan's head drones with a persistent, throbbing ache when he wakes, his mouth dry like cotton, his tongue fat and numb between his teeth. What the everloving fuck happened?
He stretches his cool fingers buzzing with pins-and needles, encouraging circulation, before reaching to wipe the dewy sweat from his forehead, the motion stopped short in its tracks.
Turning to the cause, he notes the brown piece of rope tying his wrists behind his back. Oh.
The coarse material digs deep gouges into the skin already rubbed raw by the unconscious friction, heat emanating from the dull sting.
Then, the distinctive click and the unmistakable bright flash seeps into Nathan's awareness still teetering the liminal space between awake and asleep.
Nathan blinks the stars from his blurry vision, craning his neck to find the source of the sound and coming face-to-face with a nicely-dressed tall figure hunched over him, surely embracing the immediate accusations of responsibility for his current condition.
The man lowers the camera from his face, revealing a well-groomed stubble and a pair of characteristic black-rimmed glasses. And the realisation hits Nathan harder than a fist to the chest, all breath punched from his lungs.
“I know what you've done. With Amber.” The low voice forced into a pointed whisper reverberates in his skull, knocking loose that all-too familiar rush of pleasure that bursts along his spine. Mr. Jefferson doesn't sound pleased at all.
And yet, despite that, he still chose Nathan as a muse for his art. Choosing him for his gratification.
That has to mean something, right? Nathan's chest swells with a weird twinge of hope.
“Please,” Nathan mumbles through an unmoving tongue and the smush of his face against the cold, smooth ground — the stage for Jefferson's craft, his passion projects. One he's now part of.
The other kneels to his level, one firm hand grasping his jaw, forcing their eyes to meet, to make Nathan witness the undiluted turmoil of emotions warring in his gaze without wasting his breath on the details.
Still, as if that's not enough, surely judging Nathan to be too simple-minded to grasp the complexity, he graces him with his rough growl of a voice that seeps way down to Nathan's groin. “You made a mockery of my art, do you know that, Nathan? A honed craft of skill and mastery reduced to the drunken rage of a Junior aching for some simple satisfaction of baser urges… some form of accomplishment.” His grip hardens, nails printing crescents into his skin. “An overdose, pah. Pathetic.”
Mr. Jefferson leans closer, his hot breath carrying a tinge of whiskey fanning across his face and his all too exposed neck. “If you're unable to follow simple instructions, you should refrain from experimenting for God's sake. People will notice if you target the wrong person one too many times. No matter how often I clean up your annoying messes and sloppy evidence photos then, it'll all come back to you and me.”
Mr. Jefferson jabs his index finger into his sternum to emphasise his point. “You'll be a liability. And you should know what that entails even if you don't use that pretty little brain of yours all too often.”
Nathan shudders with a sob, his limbs trembling. “I wanted to impress you. See that I can do this too. That I've learned,” he says between hiccoughed breaths, explaining his vision. “Make you proud…” Confess his intentions.
Nathan shrinks in on himself, shying away as the broad arms come closer with a low shush, loosely wrapping around his torso. His breath hitches as Mr. Jefferson pulls him to his chest, offering him some reprieve, a steady, warm thud of a heart beat, the sound hypnotic, lulling. The calm waters awaiting the storm.
Because Mr. Jefferson leans to his ear, lips and teeth hovering dangerously close, grazing, teasing, playing, eliciting a sharp shiver. “Proud?” Mr. Jefferson whispers, dark and foreboding. “I'm ashamed of you.”
Drawn in by the hidden temptation, Nathan buries his face in the crook of the other's stubbled neck, hiding his tears, muffling the sobs. Dodging the consequences of his actions, his fate sealed long ago by the guaranteed wrath of Mr. Jefferson who never does things only half-way, just a mere second longer.
He'll kill him and leave no trace. As if he never existed at all.
Leaning into the loose embrace, Nathan breathes in Mr. Jefferson's cologne, processes the words, the sheer disappointment in them, and shifts his thighs to rearrange his budding boner, the scent sharp and calming, a warm spice that settles at the base of his skull, prompting more than a few unsightly thoughts to pop into his head. Flash behind his eyelids. Morph with reality.
“Just like Dad…” Nathan speaks the hidden parts aloud, daring to let his eyes meet Mr. Jefferson's at last.
And Mr. Jefferson hums at the image Nathan poses — the wet lashes of his clinging onto a few tears, the desperation in them — the sound resounding in his whole chest cavity, setting everything in the quiet room buzzing with the fluorescent lights to a perfect stand-still.
“He wouldn't do this now, though, would he?” Mr. Jefferson finally says after a moment of sizing Nathan up, a voracious idea in the deep brown depth of his stare as his nimble fingers slip off Nathan's oversized shirt past the rope that binds his wrists together and tear open the zipper of his jeans, undressing him in one forceful tug that shouldn't get his cock as hard as it currently is.
Mostly bare to the undiluted lust shining in Mr. Jefferson's gaze, the man's palm finds Nathan's black boxer briefs, groping the small bulge that obscenely tents the elastic. “Daddy dearest never touched you in those private places no one else has touched before, did he? Some officer showing you a doll and asking you to point to the places he ravaged?”
“What are you doing? He'd never— fuck. Don't touch me there, I—” Nathan curls in on himself, the dull pressure on his groin milking a spurt of pre-come that instantly wets the thin fabric.
“Did he?” Mr. Jefferson tightens his grasp, the forceful action emphasising his tone.
“No, never! He despised me. Said I wasn't worth his time,” Nathan manages between laboured breaths, whimpering when the pressure lets off, leaving him hard and leaking in the wake.
“Good, you're still clean then. Still perfect.” The hand that held his dick reaches up to cradle Nathan's face, gently thumbing his cheeks with tender circles as his ravenous eyes map out Nathan's current predicament. “Oh, look at you. All wet and aching. You're a pathetic waste of space, do you know that, Nathan? But captured in the right light...”
He stands to retrieve his camera, taking multiple shots of Nathan with his chest and face flushed red, feeling both disgusted and elated, wanting and needing in a way that blocks his airways and makes his skin crawl with it.
So Nathan stands perfectly still, keeping his pose and inhaling the electric tension in the air until Mr. Jefferson hums to himself, clicking through the pictures with a faint smile stretching his lips. “You're not a lost cause. Not yet.”
Nathan's eyes involuntarily slide lower at the tone of his voice, the suggestion interwoven with it, catching on Mr. Jefferson's chest hidden behind the white button-up and, finally, Jefferson's crotch, where his cock stirs in interest, tenting the slacks.
Nathan swallows hard, breath caught in his throat. Mr. Jefferson wants him.
A smug smirk crosses Mark's face as he notices Nathan's rapture and the sudden shift in interest, the sparkle that must surely shine in his eyes.
“Checking out the prize, hm?”
Nathan can feel his face flush, heating with both the embarrassment of getting caught red-handed, and the prickle of excitement that builds in his abdomen at the low hint of seduction colouring the other man's voice.
“I've always wondered,” Nathan admits meekly, ducking his head. Not ready to present the full extent of his daydreams yet. And Mr. Jefferson seeing straight through him regardless.
“No doubt about that, guessing by your own rather unlucky endowment,” Jefferson says, placing his camera on the stand in front of the small space he decorated to capture the likeness of his victims in the wake of the drugs. (To capture Nathan's likeness.)
“It's nice, fits in one hand.” Nathan tilts his jaw to show more of his throat and chest, his eyes drawing a pointed line from Jefferson's huge hand to his own erection. Inviting him to try.
Jefferson crouches to his level, raking his stare over the form of his half-naked and bound body. “You know how to sell yourself don't you, Prescott? God, if you weren't already such a fuck-up of a student on the way to graduation, you might've become a well-paid slut instead. A whore with a great body and a loose mouth...”
Nathan blinks up at him, at the shape of his cock barely disguised by the tight material, mustering his best impression of puppy dog eyes. “Please.”
Nathan's not quite sure what exactly he's asking for, but Jefferson's hand finally follows the temptation, taking the offer to wrap his palm around his small bulge, gentler this time, and squeezes, milking a spurt of pre-come from his sensitive dick.
Leaning closer, their mouths stop just inches apart, their breaths mingling, the moment stretchinh, Nathan's heart in his throat, shaking his whole frame.
So when Mr. Jefferson rubs his thumb in small circles over the tip, teasing his slit through his boxers, Nathan arches further into the touch, the familiar pull on his abdomen prompting another dribble of pre and a low whimper.
He might just come right then and there. Soil his boxers. Circumstances be damned.
Because the voracious way Mr, Jefferson studies his every reaction — the bite of his lip, the scrunch of his brows — could easily be summed up to the cat that got the cream while still plotting to bring the whole cabinet falling down. “Mhm, Let's see what beautiful faces you make while choking on my cock. Still desperate and wanting despite the lack of control. At my mercy for that precious oxygen. You'll be the perfect subject.”
Just before Jefferson can pull away to stand and weave fantasies into reality, Nathan surges forward with a rush of adrenaline, catching the other in a small, hesitant kiss, a brief touch of lips.
And Mr. Jefferson stalls an agonising second before reciprocating with an unmatched eagerness.
Using the momentum, Mr. Jefferson propels Nathan to the ground, his mouth an insistent force keen on taking everything in reach, pinning him into place, his beard scratching his skin, causing a wonderful burn that fires through all of his nerves, setting him alight.
Their crotches rut together in a delicious dance of friction that stokes at Nathan's shamefully building climax, bringing him to the brink of no-return before Jefferson pulls away, staring, eyes glazed, pupils blown, a smirk darting across his lips.
He puts his mouth back to his ear and says, “Not bad for a virgin.”
And a strange sense of pride and heat blooms in Nathan's chest, blood pounding in his ears as Mr. Jefferson inches closer and swipes his tongue across his cheeks, collecting the tears he didn't know had gathered there in one flourish of a motion.
It's over in the blink of an eye and Jefferson gets to his feet, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his rolled-up shirt.
And no matter how hard Nathan tries to find words that describe that unexpectedly erotic display, his dick aching between his thighs practically bursting, none come to mind.
So he just sits there, utterly speechless as Mr. Jefferson fiddles with the angle of the light, rearranging the big lamps and moving the camera stand so its lens points at Nathan splayed across the ground, the full picture of his certain demise in frame.
Seemingly content with his adjustments, Jefferson faces him and makes a deliberate show out of removing his belt, instantly capturing every ounce of attention from Nathan's pleading eyes, his body still bound and forced to the ground, utterly at the whim of the other.
The zipper finally down, Jefferson pulls his cock past the elastic of his boxers, presenting it to him, an appetiser, a teaser, before heaving Nathan into a kneel, his wrists prickling with the pain and the pure twisted ecstasy of his situation.
“I usually don't engage until they're legal...” Mr. Jefferson returns his hand to Nathan's face, nudging at his still-buzzing lips with the nail of his thumb, trailing across his teeth and smearing the saliva down his chin. “But you're just too pretty to pass up.”
Jefferson spares a small glance at the camera, checking his position before nodding to himself and redirecting his full attention to Nathan's mouth where his tongue chases the warmth of the inquiring digit. “If we go to Hell, might as well do it right, hm? In for a penny…”
Nathan's Adam's apple bobs with the implication of what's to come.
“Time to make yourself useful. Open up.” Without much fanfare, Mr. Jefferson places the wet tip of his cock to Nathan's opened lips and slides into the warm channel so willingly offered to him.
Nathan chokes half-way, unused to the feeling, untrained, tears pricking his eyes, beading from his lashes, running down to his collar bones. But he persists, willing himself to relax, to keep his lips wrapped tight around the heavenly cock sheathing itself inside of his throat. Filling him with his pre-come.
Mr. Jefferson hums as Nathan reaches the base, his hand running tender shapes along his cheeks, wiping his tears as they appear and licking them from his fingers.
“You really did it, huh? Not bad, Prescott. Not bad,” Jefferson mutters to himself, his fingers tangling in his hair and intertwining with the roots, his iron grip manoeuvring Nathan's face to his every whim, repeatedly pulling and pushing him along the length of his cock.
And Nathan merely offers himself to be used, his cheeks smushing against Mr. Jefferson's hair-dusted abdomen as his knees shuffle for balance, stopping when Nathan's crotch unintentionally rubs against Mr. Jefferson's leg.
The pleasure surges through him like sparks of electricity and Nathan can't help himself but rut his hips forward again in tight circles, practically milking himself when the drawn-out, inconspicuous grind of his clothed crotch against the other's shin turn into short, erratic bursts reminiscent of a hare in heat, all of his blood down south, his brain a bloodless heap of mush chasing that cresting high of a climax.
Almost there, his high-pitched whimpers vibrating along the other's cock down his throat, each muscle tensing for release, Mr. Jefferson slows his thrusts to a complete stand-still and Nathan freezes into place, daring a glance upward.
“I thought the rope on your hands was enough for you to refrain from pleasuring yourself, but I guess I was wrong seeing how you hump against my leg like some pathetic animal,” Mr. Jefferson spits, raising a shoe to rub the tip against the drenched material of his briefs, feeling for his straining dick begging for release. “Teenage libido…”
Mr. Jefferson draws a long breath in through his nose and exhales shakily through his mouth as if musing on what to do with Nathan's heap of youthful desperation. “Keep going then if you can't help yourself like the whore you are. Never satisfied with how much I give.” His hand grasps a good fistful of hair, yanking it forward to slide his cock to the base with a wet, satisfying squelch. “The only rule is that I come first. Otherwise, you might need to relearn what it means to respect authority.”
Nathan in- and exhales through his nose to the best of his abilities as Mr. Jefferson resumes his gradual movements, the threat, a promise really, lingering in the back of his mind, making him harder than he thought possible. Quite opposite the intended effect, surely. Or exactly what Mr. Jefferson planned.
Involuntarily, Nathan clenches and unclenches his thighs to stop the pleasure from pooling any further, to prevent his tenuous thread on reality from bursting the moment he loses focus.
“Do you understand?” Mr. Jefferson grunts between thrusts and Nathan only manages a weak nod, ropes of spit and pre-come spewing from the corner of his lips and down his chin as he lets out a gargled groan in answer.
“Good. Then we shouldn't waste this precious load, now should we?” Mr. Jefferson ponders out loud, coming to a halt and mindlessly tracing his nails across Nathan's sensitive scalp, prompting another wave of shivers to wrack his frame.
“I for one can think of a place even more deserving than this.” The erection leaving his lips coaxes a protesting whine before it's replaced by a gasp when he's shoved to the ground again, the elastic of his boxer briefs pulled past his ass while he attempts to balance on his chest and shoulders.
The tips of two fingers tease the spot just below his hole, pressing and prodding before testing the tightness of his entrance. “Right down here.”
Mr. Jefferson groans, taking multiple shuddering breaths as he sinks his digits deeper, the thick fingers spreading Nathan open, the image they must pose quite the eye-catcher to a trained professional if his reaction is anything to go by.
So Nathan takes the burn of the dry stretch with great pride as that cock presses against the rounded swell of his ass, sliding to poke against the lovely pink sphincter he could never quite reach as well as Mr. Jefferson does right now.
And fuck, whatever it is, Nathan wants it too. Needs it more than he ever needed anything else.
“Please. Put it inside,” he pleads as those godly digits scrape along his insides, spreading him for the inevitable. The grand finale.
A long sigh of anticipation and victory leaves Nathan's lips when the wet tip of Mr. Jefferson's cock lines up with his rim, a mouthful of spit accompanying it before it finally breaches him. And Nathan takes and takes him as it carves and stretches his virgin walls, the burn as he accommodates to the size both the best thing in his pathetically miserable life and tearing him apart by the seams, his erection continuously leaking into his drenched briefs speaking more than his words ever could.
When Mr. Jefferson finally bottoms out, Nathan practically screams, face smushed against the floor, shoulders aching, his slick, feverish walls holding onto the shape of him like a vice, unused to the sensation, unfamiliar with the intrusion, his abdomen surely showing its shape.
“Not even 18 yet and you're tempting me so. Gripping my cock so hard to keep me inside, hm?” Mr. Jefferson muses in a moment of mercy and Nathan ruts back against him, wanting, needing it deeper. To split him apart. Fuck him into oblivion. Pain and embarrassment of his desperation be damned.
And the other takes him up on the offer, his palms pressing possessive bruises into the crest of his hips and the roundness of his ass, greedy nails etching his signature into the supple flesh bending to his every whim.
“Good boy,” Mr. Jefferson praises, branding the words straight into the skin of his nape where his lips are pressed against and Nathan might've come right then and there if it weren't for the looming threat.
“So tight.” A low, guttural groan vibrates through Mr. Jefferson's chest, surprisingly loud in the soundproofed room.
And Nathan feels himself slipping, arguing that a whole night of this — of being able to take and please and serve without thinking and planning and just being needed as a warm hole to fuck and fill, to have a purpose… That might just be heaven instead of punishment.
The thrusts speed up, slick and lewd, straight out of his fantasies, taken from the deepest recesses of Nathan's memories when he snuck into the graffitti-sprayed bathroom stalls between periods to shove a hand past his underwear and grind against his erection to the sound of Mr. Jefferson's voice ringing in his ears. Critiquing and praising, lifting and destroying. And the sheer youthful wanting lust, the everlasting burning need to get Mr. Jefferson to snap, thrumming under his skin. To get him to react. To finally shove him against the table, the wall, spank his ass, mark his throat, rip his hair, do something when he misbehaves other than reason with him like an adult. Cool and collected. Untouchable.
These crafted scenes of rough punishment flickering behind his eyelids when he spills.
Sometimes twice. Thrice. Unable to get enough. Sore when he gets back to class, afterimages still floating in his peripheral. A reminder of an unlikely future now a reality as those perfect, calloused hands from years of practical experience wrap around his neck, his throat, thumbing for his pulse before setting his mouth to it, beard pricking, teeth nipping, tongue swirling, sucking, claiming.
Surely revelling when Mr. Jefferson tightens his grasp, Nathan's heart rabbiting in his chest, thumping against those hands burrowing their nails into the fragile column of his throat, barely cutting off his air supply and still darkening the edges of his vision, dancing as dark spots along the corner of his consciousness.
Nathan doesn't know where one begins and the other ends anymore when Jefferson manages to press even farther, his motions unrelenting, his pace determined, scraping against his prostate again and again, only one goal in sight.
The stream of pleasure it coaxes stokes the bright, all-consuming fire setting Nathan's whole self ablaze, numb limbs and nerves singed by the flames, his brain a muddled mess reduced to the most basic, carnal thoughts and emotions expressed as this muttered, unstoppable string of curses and moans.
And when it all finally builds and builds, cresting on too-much and inevitably toppling, Nathan shakes with the sheer intensity of it all, his raw wrists straining against their rope as his walls involuntarily clench around the other's cock, dedicated to keep the other as close as possible, fucking against his most sensitive point in his rush of ecstasy.
Mr. Jefferson follows on the heel of his orgasm, letting out a violent, guttural groan from the furthest pit of his stomach and stilling as he spills rope after rope of hot come into his insides.
It's quiet when the dust settles, revealing the damage of the storm. And Mr. Jefferson clicks his tongue when the realisation hits.
“Misbehaving already, Nathan?” Mr. Jefferson pushes past his clenched teeth, still struggling for oxygen, one hand immediately reaching down to Nathan's groin, his palm meeting his softening cock lying in the cooling puddle of watery seed. “I thought I made my rules clear.”
Mr. Jefferson shakes his head with a dry chuckle that bodes to make due on his promise, and lifts his soiled hand to Nathan's heating face, wiping the viscid fluid across his cheeks, nose and mouth before he can get his tongue far enough out.
Still eager, Nathan licks at it regardless, gaining a clipped snort from the other as the taste of his come covers his tongue. “Shameless too, what a sight.”
“I'm sorry,” Nathan mouths, his hoarse, apologetic voice cracking halfway through, fucked and screamed raw and only adding to his debauched, tear-streaked and snotty appearance.
“You just earned yourself a very long night down here. Hope you didn't have any plans,” Jefferson says, ever a man of his word, his fingertips ghosting across his scalp before grabbing a fistful of hair and yanking his head into his neck, lips ghosting next to his ear. “I wonder how many loads I can put inside you before you pass out and anyone starts missing your sorry self down here.”
Mr. Jefferson grinds his hips forward as if highlighting his point, a wave of shivers erupting across Nathan's skin when a thick glob of come escapes his rim, catching on his taint and dripping to the ground.
And Nathan merely takes it, his teeth gritted with another groan that barely masks the soft metallic clatter from behind.
Immediately, all of his scattered attention gathers and zeroes in on the current moment where a cold, smooth barrel slides up his spine, stopping just between his shoulder blades. The dangerous weight of it keeps him pinned into place, his breaths kept to short puffs of necessary oxygen between the afterquakes of his orgasm still wracking his frame. Fucking hell, is that—?
“Don't worry, I won't shoot. It's just here as a negotiator. To make sure that my following words are clear, understood and agreed to by both parties, alright?” Jefferson starts, trailing the tip of his tongue up his flushed neck and to his ear, teeth grazing the burning shell. “But I might just think this is turning you on, Prescott, huh? Fuck, you clench my cock so nicely.”
He chuckles and bites into the lobe, tugging at it before continuing, the warming metal of the gun shifting slightly. “You won't utter a word of this to anyone, yes? Not about Rachel, about the drugs, or your involvement with me. Outside of these four walls, I'm just a teacher at your school and you're a shitty excuse of a student actually trying to get his grades up, so we occasionally meet for tutoring lessons. Nothing more. Do you understand?”
Mr. Jefferson grinds his cock deeper, rubbing against his prostate and fucking the come further into his guts, the metal zipper of his slacks digging into the meat of his ass and Nathan frantically nods, his mouth opening with a shuddered groan as the gun drifts up and down his back, burning where it touches, branding itself into his nerves, teasing the curve of his hips and threatening the side of his face, digging into his temple. “Wouldn't want the word getting out that you're such a good cock whore, now would we, Prescott? That you'd sell your body like the impatient little slut you are for the next high?”
“No, Sir,” Nathan replies, his dignity long crushed beneath Mr. Jefferson's comforting weight, his words trickling deep into his skull, knocking loose another wave of bright-hot pleasure that cascades and coaxes another spurt of pre from his oversensitive dick giving a valiant twitch against the slick, come-smeared ground. He whimpers.
Not quite how he expected his night (morning?) to go. But what else would be out there waiting for him? When he could be of use right now where he is?
“Mhm, perfect reply, pretty boy.” Mr. Jefferson turns Nathan's jaw to the side, offering him access to his mouth covered in the thin sheen of his drying seed to catch him in another kiss.
A faint aftertaste of tacky come spreads between them, Mr. Jefferson's stubble etching itself into Nathan's skin as their tongues sloppily slide against one another, Nathan trying and gloriously failing at matching the other's ravenous motions as he licks into the depths of his mouth. Not yet satisfied, Mr. Jefferson bites at his bottom lip, tugging, tearing, sharp teeth slicing clean, blood welling, shared between them, running down their chins in dribbles of vivid crimson, staining, marking, the tang of copper heady, permeating the heated air.
Mr. Jefferson casts a wistful glance to the camera when they part, finishing on a pose where he points the gun at Nathan's jaw — the grip against his throat, pushing against his quivering Adam's apple, the muzzle to the underside of his chin, Nathan's spine forming a taut arch. “You're mine, Nathan. Remember that.” He kisses the arc of his cheek, blood-stained stubble surely leaving another mark. “My sad, pathetic little, attention-hungry muse.”
And Nathan just peers at him from under his wet lashes, mind spinning, his world fucked from its original axis and properly rearranged, housing Mr. Jefferson — Mark — as the centre of his being.
The name lingers in the deepest pit of his chest, ringing in his vocal cords. But Nathan doesn't dare utter it, think of it, entertain the man behind it as anything lesser than extraordinary.
It's an honour to know it at all. To feel its presence in his mind. And be able to bask in his presence.
Nathan's lips pleasantly buzz when he mouths his next words. Simple yet carefully picked. “Yes, Sir.”
How could he possibly forget?
He's fucked forward by the next thrust, sweaty hair framing his forehead.
“Good boy.”