“This isn’t the first time you’ve had this problem. Is it, Mr. Parker?”
Peter digs his fingers into the fabric of his perfectly pressed slacks. Navy, school mandated, and horribly tight and uncomfortable. Father Beck watches him with a quiet intensity, blue eyes boring into him and setting him on edge. It’s not altogether unpleasant; at least, not in the way that it’s probably meant to be.
It’s not the first time, and it probably won’t be the last, despite the heartbreak this will cause his aunt. The unfortunate truth of attending an all-boys Catholic school when you’re much more attuned to science rather than religion.
Beck unlaces his fingers and pulls out a manila file, thick with disheveled papers. In the corner, he sees his name in faded marker, and Peter cranes his neck to make any of the text out. There’s a record in there, he knows, that he desperately doesn’t want to be seen. One that details a specific incident regarding a questionable magazine under his mattress. May had brought it to the old priest's attention in good faith, seeking guidance, unknowing that it'd be added to his very embarrassing file.
“You’re a good kid,” Beck comments, flipping through the papers. He lowers his eyes, and then his voice. “But, blasphemy?”
“More so just—asking questions?” Peter licks his lips, and he momentarily forgets about his utterly embarrassing ledger. These conversations never go well, but Father Beck is new and at least twenty years younger than their last principal, who had one foot over the threshold of death’s door. Maybe he will understand. “We get a greater understanding of things if we challenge them. Right?”
Beck nods, a much tamer reaction than he was expecting. He’s still plucking old pages from the folder to scrutinize over them, and Peter’s palms are so clammy they’re leaving damp spots on his knees.
It’s not that he’s naïve enough to think any of the adults on campus are too dense not to know that a bunch of teenage boys keep a little fodder hidden for rare moments alone at home. It more has to do with, well, the content of said fodder. And the fact that the magazine confiscated last year had featured less-than-feminine bodies. Ones broader, and muscled, and manly.
A magazine that would give away how painfully, and shamefully, Father Beck fits his exact type.
Peter watches in horror as the evidence is pulled from the folder.
Father Beck trails his eyes over it, a curious lift to his dark brow. It seems so cheesy now, just an out-of-date skin mag with a beefy dude nearly naked sprawled on top, only a sheet artfully covering the more explicit parts. Of course, if he decides to flip through there are definitely raunchier photos to be found. Peter should know, he’s the one who spent many awkward nights with his flashlight and an inconspicuous hand down his pants.
“That was last year!” Peter blurts, reaching out like he might snag it away. He’d burn the thing if he could.
Father Beck tucks the magazine away and closes the folder. Evidently, he’s seen enough. “I’m not here to judge, Peter.”
Peter swallows. It doesn’t really seem like it. Those eyes are on him again, this time darker. He knows that look and its pure judgment. Who cares that he already atoned with an awkward confession in a cramped booth? It never really washed away the shame or erased the way his teachers looked at him. Stupid to think Father Beck would be any different.
“However,” he continues, and Peter’s head snaps up, “I am here to punish you.”
“What? No, I can’t—Sir, I can’t be expelled.”
Peter stands in his panic, he’s not sure why. Even if hurdling himself through the stained-glass window seems like a pretty decent option at this point. Beck doesn’t react, only opens a drawer and pulls out a flat paddle— which stops Peter’s frenzy in an instant. His heart seizes and drops straight to the floor.
“Don’t worry,” Father Beck says with an eerie calm. “I was thinking of something more corporal.”
Peter can’t help but take a step back, nearly tripping over the rug and stumbling into the old bookcase lined along the wall. His eyes dart to the door, but what is he to do? He can’t run. Corporal punishment is still perfectly within boundaries, even if it’s archaic and hasn’t been practiced on campus since the fifties. Father Beck is within his rights, and he knows it.
“Please,” Peter whimpers. It’s not the pain he’s worried about, but the embarrassment and the shame. More importantly, the horrible gut feeling that this is punishment for something more than talking out of turn. “I’m sorry.”
Beck stands and rounds the desk; he points with the paddle. “Hands on the edge.”
Terror, fear, whatever it is, ebbs away into anger. Beck watches him with pinched brows and pulled frown, and Peter knows what this is really about. Anger always makes him bold, even if that confidence is often misplaced.
Beck’s jaw ticks, and quicker than Peter can react, he’s got a hold on his shoulder, ushering him toward the desk. One thing becomes very clear, very quickly. No isn’t an option.
Peter grits his teeth and braces himself along the ledge, careful not to disrupt any of the meticulously placed items and stacks of paper. It’s all for nothing because Beck comes to stand behind him and gets a hand on the back of his head, pushing him down until his cheek is pressed against the cold mahogany.
“Disobedience will only earn you more, Peter.” That voice is so close to his ear, hot and fanning along his cheek, and already his eyes prickle with tears. “I don’t want to punish you any more than I have to. Do you?”
That sounds like a lie, but Peter is smart enough not to call the bluff. He just closes his eyes and tries to nod the best he can. It mustn’t be good enough, because Beck’s hand twists painfully in his hair.
Peter sighs in relief when the hand in his hair slackens and turns into a strange, soothing pet. He hates that he craves more of whatever that is, encouragement and reward, and hates even more that he’s willing to obey to get it.
It’s absolutely insane, he’s coherent enough to recognize just how messed up this all is.
Father Beck will give him one or two smacks with the paddle, and he’ll either lock this whole encounter in a box never to be opened, or he’ll whip it out in desperate times when he’s feeling particularly on edge. Who is really to say? He’s an asshole, but Beck is still pretty hot and the unfortunate embodiment of his saucier fantasies.
And—maybe he’s just a horny teenager, but it feels wildly sexual.
“Twenty lashes should teach you a lesson.”
Peter tries to scramble up in a panic, only to be pushed back down. His cheek aches where it’s ground into the hard desk surface, and a dull pain starts to form in the back of his head, but his adrenaline is way too amped up to focus on any of that. There’s something much worse to come.
“Try that again and I’ll double it.”
Peter lets out a low whine, and the paddle comes softly to his ass. Not a strike, but a gentle caress. It’s somehow worse.
“Pull your pants down.”
This time, Beck’s heavy hand keeps him held down, despite his desperate attempt to squirm away.
“What?” Peter barely gets it choked out before he hears the paddle slam against the desk. The noise makes him flinch, but the hand that wraps around his waist makes him shudder. “Sir, what?”
Father Beck fumbles at his button, and then his zipper, and Peter thinks he feels his soul leave his body. Floating somewhere above Queens, if he had a guess. Maybe descending to hell, if he had another. For all the fear coursing through him, and all the anger welling up in his chest, the feeling of Beck’s hand pushing his slacks over his ass leaves him breathless and half-hard.
“For what it’s worth. I don’t want to have to do this.”
Peter tries to turn his head just enough to catch a glimpse, just enough to plead and beg. He doesn’t have to do this, that’s the thing. None of this is necessary, none of this is even mildly appropriate. Not with Peter’s pants around his ankles and his bare skin on display for a man twice his age wielding a paddle.
His bargain is cut short by a hard smack to his ass. The noise that escapes him is embarrassing enough on its own, but the sting that’s left behind and the throbbing of his cock is another matter entirely. There must be something wrong with him, he thinks, he must be broken. Father Beck took one look at him and knew the truth.
Tears well in Peter’s eyes with each downward strike, until they spill over and he lets out a sob on the fourth or fifth painful lash. He’s lost count, and he closes his eyes and waits for it to be over. But Beck doesn’t go easy on his tender flesh, in fact, every strangled, choked sound that Peter lets out only spurs him further, making his hand grow heavier and heavier.
“Quiet,” he says and brings the paddle down again. Peter tries to bite his lip and muffle himself, but it’s no use. “Someone will hear you.”
Part of him wants that; they’d surely put a stop to it. But, another part, a darker part, wants to do what Father Beck asks of him. To keep this a secret, something he’ll take to his grave. He can’t help it though; it hurts so bad. Peter knows his ass is going to be black and blue, he can already feel the bruises forming and he aches at every hard, unforgiving strike.
Then he’s bracing himself for a smack that never comes. Beck’s hand leaves the small of his back, and Peter uses that small slip of an advantage to turn twist around the best he can—until there is a hand in his hair, holding him still, and something being shoved in his mouth.
Peter does what he’s told, because what other option is there? His teeth clamp into the cross of the rosary. It’s not the easiest thing to do, but it does the trick. He can barely even grunt when the paddle comes down again.
Something warm trails over his hot, aching backside. Beck’s hand, stroking and soft, and so close to the edge of gentle that Peter nearly sobs. He can’t help how good it feels, or how he arches back into it, craving more. Beck cups him and squeezing, and Peter’s mind can’t distinguish the pain from pleasure.
“Good,” Beck purrs. “Just a few more.”
Peter holds the rosary between his teeth and nods. His face is wet with tears and drool, but he doesn’t care, and he highly doubts Beck does either. He’s so embarrassingly hard, his cock trapped against the desk that even the uncomfortable surface of the desk is enough to relive the slightest bit of pressure. Not too much, not enough to get off.
“You’re doing so well.”
He might die, or maybe he’s already dead. The bad part is—he can’t tell if this is heaven or hell. Purgatory, maybe. Some kind of weird crossroad where his fate is determined by how well he performs for Father Beck.
Peter is so numb, he barely registers the last strike, and only barely recognizes that the paddle had been traded for a large calloused hand until its rubbing and kneading his abused, tender skin.
Beck reaches around and tugs at the rosary until Peter lets it go with a gasp. He tries to control his labored breaths, panting like he's just run a marathon. A hand grabs his shoulder and manhandles him around, and he’s helpless but to allow it, body limp like a ragdoll.
Peter’s head snaps up, eyes wide. “What?”
It’s not that he’s necessarily forgotten how hard he is, but he was more than happy to ignore it. And it’s a more-than-horrifying thought to realize Beck has noticed, and worse yet, that knows he’s the one that caused it.
“It’s okay,” Beck says softly, a jarring contrast to the man that had just been spanking him within an inch of his life just moments ago. He sounds gentle, sincere, inclining his head toward Peter’s cock. He stands back with his arms folded across his chest and watches. “Go on.”
“Okay,” Peter breathes out, sniffing back his tears. He can do this. It’s not any worse than crying like a baby. “Alright.”
He takes himself in hand, and the relief is enough to make his mouth fall open in a wordless gasp. Closing his eyes is easiest because Beck watching so earnestly gives him some confusing and mixed emotions. He should be angry, he knows that. But holy shit— this feels good.
“Look at you,” Beck says. Peter keeps his eyes closed; he doesn’t look. “Beautiful.”
A strangled sound escapes him, and he would say his orgasm takes him by surprise, but he’s honestly surprised he’s lasted this long. Peter spills over his hand, and onto the dark hardwood, and collapses against the desk with heaving breaths.
When he opens his eyes, Father Beck looks near feral. He doesn’t move to pin Peter, or hurt him, or touch him at all. He just bites at the end of thumbnail and stares like he’s trying to figure out exactly how to destroy him.
Peter could tell him he already has, but what good would that do?
He barely flinches when Beck takes two strides toward him, taking his chin in hand and tilting his face up to meet his gaze. “Are you going to behave from now on?”
Peter’s heart skips a beat. He nods almost frantically, despite being desperately curious about what would happen if he isn’t.