Also readable on Medium.

It’s nearly seven o’clock, and Michael is distantly aware that in half an hour the bell is going to ring for dinner and he’s going to have to pull himself together and go up there, settle at the staff table and eat and just… feel everybody’s eyes on him.

He’s so tired of it, of having people’s eyes on him.

His skin is crawling with it under his clothes, the knowledge that all day long, people have been looking at him, the boys, that they’re always… He shifts in his seat, pulling down the sleeves of his cardigan as he looks down at the in-class tests he’s meant to be marking, scrawled lines of neat text swimming in front of his eyes.

He knows he should be grateful.

Just out of the worst fucking work experience teaching six months at the grottiest, shittiest school in England, getting chairs thrown at his head every other day, getting snapped at as if it was his fault when kids wrote on the textbooks and he didn’t have any that were usable left, the time his fucking desk got stuck on fire, and then —

His father hadn’t even told him he was pushing his CV on the board, hadn’t even warned him before he got a nice fancy letter with a nice fancy letterhead saying he was accepted to teach at Saint Michael’s and that he’d be assisting in the English department, and he can’t believe that it’s somehow worse.

Going from one of the poorest schools to one of the richest, and suddenly every day is quiet and smooth and he has text books galore and he can order whatever he wants, except he’s living here and his flat is two hours’ drive away and all the teenagers here know they’re better than him and spend all day, every day, getting under his skin.

And —

Looking at him.

Some of the girls looked at him at Green Trees, made little whooping noises when he bent to pull something off of a shelf, and one or two of the openly gay students flirted, but here, it’s just something else.

Green Trees most of the kids never had the fucking time to read the texts in front of them, didn’t always know how to read it — classes were slower, more of a slog, but here? Of course they’ve all ready the text. Of course, they all know it inside out, they’re all making complex, high-level analysis.

They’re all pointing out the homoerotic undertones and the constant presence of male intimacy contrasted with themes of isolation and imprisonment and making horribly evocative parallels between homosexuality and vampirism and saying, “Sir, do you think Bram Stoker ever sucked Oscar Wilde off, or do you think he just wanted to?”

Let alone when they laughed and said things like, “Dracula does seem the sort to say Domine non sum dignus while someone’s gobbling his cock, to be fair,” the Latin as easy to them as breathing, and he hadn’t even known what the fuck that meant, had had to look it up to know it was Gospels, let alone to know that Oscar Wilde had apparently thought it should be the motto of anyone receiving a blowjob.

Most of the little cunts aren’t even gay, couldn’t possibly all be, but they all look at him with a sort of hunger he simply isn’t accustomed to, a keen awareness of the movements of his body, the way he talks, the way he holds himself, any possible slip of the tongue or revelation, anything that can show through.

They know everything about him just by looking at him, he can’t help but think. Kids are horrifically good judges of character, like nothing better than to see through whoever’s in front of them and lunge straight for wherever the weak spots are — it seems like every class he’s ever been in front of, they’ve been able to tell he’s gay, been able to tell he used to have his ears pierced, and even at Green Trees one or two of them had pointed out that he’d gone to a middle-of-the-road university, no matter that he’d done so well on his degree.

But here?

Here, it’s a thousand times worse.

It’s not just the quality of the private education, but the fact that all these children’s parents are predators for their living and their instincts are keenly honed.

It’s one thing for one of the little fuckers to look at him and to know he’s gay — these ones will clap eyes on him and know that he’s gay, left-handed, sleeps on the righthand side of the bed on his belly, prefers to bottom, and what brand of fucking lube he prefers. He wouldn’t be surprised if one day he gives one of them a demerit and they respond by quoting his national insurance number that they paid a fucking PI to dig up for them.

There’s a knock on the door and he jumps at the noise, exhales because he’s so certain it’s Timothy Pearson about to ask him another thinly-veiled question about how he can make up additional marks, implying he’d offer sexual favours while also condescending to him and making him feel filthy, feel like he’s the one bringing sex into it even though it’s Pearson that throws out innuendo after innuendo with his friends all snickering in the corridor, or Jon Dunn, who keeps threatening to have his mother come in and dress him down again, or Iolo Farnham, who’s shy and soft-spoken and just has a crush on him, and it’s excruciating partly because Michael is fairly certain he doesn’t mean any harm, and at this point he’s just not used to it.

“Long day?” asks God, who’s head of maintenance.

His name is Godfrey, but all the boys call him God — he keeps the lights on, he has domain over the animals on the earth (the boys), and on Sunday, he rests.

Michael fucking hates these boys.

Michael doesn’t know what exactly it is about God that has the boys eating out of his hand, what it is that makes them actually clike him or respect him or… He doesn’t know what to call it exactly, but God is a big, broad man with a booming voice and a pronounced Somerset accent that does manual work all day long, and they don’t spend all day ripping him to shreds.

“I’m going to encourage them to take Dracula off the syllabus,” mutters Michael, unable to keep the misery out of his voice. “They don’t need any encouragement to suck the lifeblood out of someone.”

God carries the keys to the whole school on his belt — he turns one in the lock now, and Michael swallows, his mouth dry, but he doesn’t move from his seat as God comes forward and puts one of his knees against the side of his seat, making it turn around.

It’s a nice chair, wooden with a cushioned seat and arms and a high enough back that it actually supports his shoulders. It tilts as he leans back and looks up at God, at the press together of his lips and the way the light catches in the gingery-blond hair of his beard, at the serious set of his eyes and his furrowed eyebrows.

“Want me to beat one for you?” he asks.

“You’re not allowed to beat them anymore, God,” says Michael quietly, trying his best not to smile, because you’re not meant to enjoy the idea of a big strong man like God smacking a child around even if the child is eighteen and a prick. “Not since the eighties.”

“Not since the nineties, in private schools,” God corrects him mildly. “And that’s why I’d only beat one of them — enough for deniability, but enough to put off the other ones, put the fear into them.”

“The fear of God into them?” asks Michael, and God smirks down at him, his dark eyes glittering. He’s a handsome man — he’s fifty-something but he looks closer to forty, looks good for it, strong and burly. “Did you used to beat them?”

“Nah,” says God. “Not officially, anyway. “I’ve obviously slapped a few of them around, but that’s just recreational.”

Michael’s laugh comes out thin and slightly shaky, not because of the guilt he’s trying to force himself to feel at the idea of God smacking the students but because he’s currently face-to-face with God’s very comfortable-looking jeans with patches on the knees, in line with the crotch of them.

There’s a slight bulge in the denim because God, fittingly, has a massive cock.

“Are you going to fuck me now?” he asks, and God laughs, low and rich.

“I suppose that’s up to you, isn’t it?” he asks, and that’s all the invitation he needs to rush for his belt and pull it free of the buckle and shove his stupidly tight suit trousers open so fast he’s worried he’s torn the button, and God has him by the hair and is bending him over, two fingers hooking in the waistband of his boxers and pulling them down, and his other hand slides up his back underneath his shirt, and Michael exhales hard into his hands, his forearms braced on the desk surface, on top of all his marking.

“Please, please,” he whimpers, and God chuckles as he unzips himself and spits sudden and slick between his cheeks, makes Michael jump and gasp, his legs falling open as it runs between his cheeks, wet against his hole, his balls. It’s not all he gets, in any case — God’s a well-prepared man, and Michael knows even without hearing the click of the cap that he’s opened one of those little bottles he keeps in his pockets.

“What are you pleading for?” asks God, and Michael means to reply, means to say something funny or clever or just say something, and unfortunately his connection to his ability to verbalise so much as a thought is soundly severed when God lines himself up and sinks in.

He’s never actually gone bare before, pre-God.

It’s insane — he’s insane, he thinks, went a bit mad the first time God caught him by the scruff of his neck when he was trying to sneak out of the gates in the middle of the night like one of the fucking students because he knew his dad was over and drinking in the lounge with the headmaster and he hadn’t wanted to have a conversation.

God had cracked up when he’d turned him around and realised it was one of the teachers he’d caught hold of instead of the students, had playfully slapped him on the arse and told him not to creep about.

He’d arched an eyebrow at the sound Michael had let out, the way he’d shivered, and Michael couldn’t exactly remember how they’d gone from that to him pressed up against the brick of the greenhouse, fucked him until he sobbed his eyes out, and he hadn’t even snuck out in the end, but he’d felt God dripping out of him, felt the heat of him, carried it about with him.

God’s so big inside him he can barely stand it, the overwhelming stretch as he sinks in — inexorable, inescapable, utterly overwhelming.

The Unmoved Mover and all that.

Michael’s breathing heavily as he braces his forehead against his tight-clenched fists, letting out gasping little sounds as God slides forward, inch by fucking inch — it’s a stretch around his rim, fuck yeah it is, warm and invasive and a strain in the best of ways, but more than that is the feeling of being full, the way God makes it feel like there’s no fucking gaps, no space, left inside him.

When he’s nearly at the end he shoves forward the last inch, makes his balls tap against the top of Michael’s like he’s trying to set off a Newton’s cradle, and Michael sobs out a sound that’s almost a laugh at the mental image.

“That’s it, that’s it, lad,” murmurs God, and both of his hands slide to grip tightly at Michael’s hips, his thumb digging into the bone, his fingers splaying over Michael’s sides — his hands are warm, strong, callouses on his fingers and on his palms, still slick from the lube. “You like that?”

“I’m so hard I might fucking die, God, yeah, I fucking like it,” Michael gasps out, and God laughs, then delivers a smack to his thigh that makes him jump and yelp, his arse clenching around the ridiculous thickness of Michael pressed inside him, spreading him wide open. His cock is hard, hard and aching just a bit at the pressure on his prostate but no friction on it, no real stimulation, just pressure, just the knowledge that God is there and the certainty of it whenever he breathes, whenever he clenches down.

“Would you rather I beat one of your boys, or beat you?” asks God mildly, and he moves his hips in a circle, shifts his cock inside him — it’s a subtle movement, not a huge shift, but it makes Michael feel dizzy at the sensation of the movement inside him, tugging at his walls and making him whine.

“I’d be, be better poised to appreciate it,” he gasps out. “Don’t know that I’d see it as a punishment.”

“Filthy little whore, aren’t you?” asks God, and it makes so much blood rush to his cheeks and his cock at the same time that he doesn’t know if he’s going to faint or come.

God pulls slowly back, and Michael moans at the drag inside him, the fucking pull of God’s insane length at his walls, at his fucking hole, and when God slams forward it kicks the wind right out of him, doesn’t give him time to catch his breath back before God does it again. It’s a punishing pace, using all the strength God has in his hips and his thick, muscled thighs, and Michael can’t even try to control some of the pace because God’s got such a vice grip on his hips that he might as well be using him as a toy, holding him.

He’s moaning, whining, letting out so much noise he can hear it bouncing off of the high walls of the ceiling, his hard cock bouncing underneath him, fucking dripping.

“Please,” he gasps out. “Please, God, please — ”

“You can come just like this, can’t you?” asks God softly, and how can he sound so fucking unbothered? How can he sound like it doesn’t even matter to him as he says that, speaks so evenly and so simply, not even sound like he’s breathing heavily as he cores Michael like a fucking apple? “You need me to touch your cock, young man, hm? Mine isn’t enough for you?”

He shifts his angle just slightly, and Michael hadn’t even realised, hadn’t known he could catch and pull at him that directly, but suddenly every other thrust is dragging directly over the bulb of it, and he’s seeing fucking stars, his vision darkening at the edges every other minute because the pleasure is just spiking so much, hitting him so hard, it’s overwhelming.

His mouth is open and he’s disgustingly aware that there’s drool on his lips, his chin, and he’s struggling to focus on anything other than the hammering thrusts inside him, the way he’s wound so tight he’s aching, and he knows it’s coming, knows it’s on the horizon.

His whole body feels more and more tense, so tightly wound he’s about ready to fucking vibrate with it, a dull ache gathering inside him, intense but so fucking good.

“God,” he whimpers, and God smacks him again as he fucks harder, slams into him, puts a bit more of his weight over Michael, and Michael crosses over that boundary and the orgasm crashes over him like a wave. He’s limp over the desk, he’s aware, sobbing uncontrollably as come just drips out of him, his whole body clenching and unclenching, the tremors running all the way to the tips of his fingers, his toes, hot and cold, drowned in pure sensation.

He doesn’t know when God came, exactly, but when God pulls back he knows that he has, feels the hot trail he’s left buried in him, feels it on the back of his legs.

Michael can’t fucking move, stays breathing heavily, collapsed over the table even as God pats his arse then pulls up his boxers and his trousers for him, leaning over to do the fastenings, buckle up his belt, tuck in his shirt.

The bell for dinner starts to ring out in the corridor, and Michael moans, “Fuck.”

“Fuck’s over now,” says God wisely, patting his arse with a big, broad hand. “Time to eat.”

“How am I supposed to eat with your fucking come dripping out of me?”

“Gratefully, I expect,” replies God, his tone quite breezy as he hauls him up and Michael stands reluctantly on wobbly knees, horribly aware that he smells of sweat and sex, and that somehow God just smells of the greenhouse and WD40. “With a good appetite worked up, and a big smile on that pretty face of yours.”

He feels better.

Despite everything, he feels better, and he’s walking on air, still feeling high from it, as he watches God unlock the door, but before he opens it, he catches Michael by the jaw and kisses him soundly, makes Michael sigh into his mouth.

“Let’s go again tonight,” murmurs God, smoothing out his clothes. “You know where my bungalow is, don’t you? Come around at ten or so. I’ll fuck you properly.”

“That wasn’t properly?” Michael asks breathlessly, and he feels even higher as he actually goes into the corridor, stumbles a bit as he hurries to the dining hall, tries to look halfway put together, tries not to look like he’s just been shagged silly.

Ten o’clock.

That’ll make dinner bearable, no matter how much he’s being looked at.

* * *

God watches Michael disappear around the corner of the corridor, and then he opens up the door of the classroom next door to his, where the little pricks had been peering in through the fucking peep holes that Michael’s never noticed dug into the bricks.

It’s an interesting look at the five of them — Pearson looks delighted, his eyes wide, and the others all look fucking variations of stunned and pleased and turned on. God doesn’t miss the way that one of them, the lad with the receding hairline he can never remember the name of, is hurriedly doing his trousers back up.

Iolo Farnham looks serious as sin, but he’s red from his chin to the tips of his ears, and there’s sweat shining on his neck.

“Well?” asks God, and Pearson’s hand trembles only a bit as he hurriedly pulls the bills out of his pocket and hands them over. “See you boys at ten,” he murmurs, smirking, and makes his way down for dinner.