Updated: Aug 22, 2021
I just finished looking after a 10 month old for six hours (my nephew)--he's a busy, busy boy! He's learning to walk and be an all around menace. An adorable menace of course, but a menace nonetheless. We adventured through a maze of delights, and he gave me so many ideas for Dean in some of my fan fiction works! He didn't want to leave when his dad came and I didn't want him to either. My rabbits were okay with his departure.
I already released this chapter once, before it had been edited. Now, it's edited and much different, so I'm re-releasing it WITH art by the fabulous Artsy Ape.
This is a surprise I've been hanging onto. Artsy Ape did several pieces for this book. Poor her had to read the book in its rawest form, but she was still able to create these beautiful works, because she is so talented. I hope you enjoy the art and the chapter! I'll have a release date soon.
And did I mention? This will be a series. I've begun Book Two and am 10K in!
Xavier's School Chapter One
It’s an odd-looking tree. A lonely alien, verdant in the spring with white flowers that seem only to bloom and die, richly colored in autumn until all its leaves fall away, severe and primeval in winter. Barren. Serpentine branches snaking toward the window of the attic like its begging to be invited in. I run my good hand through my thick blonde hair—the other one’s broken—and come up with an idea.
That tree. We could climb it. Brats of old put it here just for us, just for this instance.
“Look, we’re not going to get in trouble okay? Because we’re not going to get caught.”
Grayson puts a hand to his hip, doing a good impression of Ani when he’s fed up. “A brat’s famous last words, Finnegan.”
It’s one am, well past curfew. We should have been home two hours ago, that’s if we had permission to be out at all, which we didn’t. “What’s the alternative? Xavier’s going to kill us, Gray. Not just me, you and me.”
He smirks. “But mostly you.”
True. But. “What do you think Will’s going to do with you? Throw you a party?”
He winces, and I can just make out his feathery hair waving in the darkness. The moon is out, shining some light on our perilous situation, the twinkling stars mocking us. Ambient light glows from the porch window—someone’s watching TV inside. He shivers rubbing his arms, we both lost our jackets a while back. Grayson is so much smaller than I am, but it’s why he fits against me like eggs in a carton. I want to pull him to me; keep him warm. Later when you’re snug in bed, Finnegan.
“Fine. Pray tell, what do we do, Brighton?”
I look up to the conspicuous majesty, her sturdy arm outreached. “We climb.”
Belonging was a four-letter word. I came to Xavier’s school two years ago with no real expectations. I’d never fit in anywhere, why should here be any different? And yes, I know. You’ve got to believe in yourself and all that other self-help stuff Ani’s always talking about, but without people who are like you it’s harder.
For people like me, it’s near impossible.
We live in the shadows of our minds. Without others to pull us into the sunlight, we wilt.
I became Xavier’s on a fall day in September. Everyone in the house will tell you I don’t have a photographic memory, and they would be right, but I remember everything about that week in detail. Even the first few months are vivid enough. If I close my eyes, I can relive it, like it’s happening right now.
Two Years Ago
What am I doing? Am I doing this? Oh God, yeah I’m doing this.
I lean over to sign the papers, the ones I read through seven times, had my lawyer comb through and then talked over with my brother, who is the same person. Even he thought I should do this, as both my litigator and guardian. I sign with more confidence than I’m feeling, almost angry about it even though this was my idea. Like, we’re talking one hundred percent my idea.
“Thank you, Mr. Brighton,” he says, in a strong, British accent. He’s leaned against the desk with elegance, palms flat, arms extended, slightly hinged at the waist. And even though I’m all the way over here, on the other side, a whole desk span between us, I’m far too close to
him. I step back.
Xavier is tall. He towers. His shoulders are massive, spanning at least the length of the bookshelves adjacent to his desk on the left-hand side if you’re facing them, which I am—I don’t imagine I’ll ever be on the other side of his large mahogany desk. No. I’ll be standing in front of it, or if I’m invited to, I’ll sit in one of two brown, leather chairs positioned in front of said desk at exact angles. Like, he had to have used one of those protractor thingies to get the spacing just so, and it’s the sort of man he is.
His eyes are shockingly blue. The first time I sat in his office (me in one chair, my brother Sam in the other) I stared until I gained enough sense not to. They look photoshopped. It’s hard to look anywhere else. They pierce you. If eyes are the windows to the soul like they say, he must have the soul of an archangel—one who smites and then puts you to bed with a kiss to your forehead.
He’s tidily dressed in a long-sleeved black shirt, a grey vest overlaid making his chest look that much broader and a silk green tie with a perfect knot. The only thing out of place is his dark hair, fluffed in messy waves atop his crown.
Xavier by Artsy Ape
I’m not a tiny guy, I’m five foot nine, with a sturdy build—played hockey most of my life—but standing in front of him, I might as well be an ant. He’s got to be well over six feet and I get the same staggering sensation that I do staring up at the thick-barreled trees in Stanley Park, that reach onward to the sky forever.
I run a hand through my blonde hair, pausing to rub at the fuzzy undercut, wishing I had half the composure he has. “Um, you don’t have to call me that. I go by, Finn.” I say the words and then immediately regret them. I don’t intimidate easy, but this man does something to me. I can’t look him in the eyes and my body won’t stop buzzing. The rights he has to me now play over in my head. I want to sit in one of the soft leather chairs, but he hasn’t invited me to—I think there’s a rule about that—I remain standing.
“Relax, Mr. Brighton.”
I guess we’re going with Mr. Brighton. I tighten all my muscles and force myself to meet his blue eyes, but my throat is dry, and swallowing feels too thick. “Sorry, I’ve never done this before.”
He smiles. “Lucky for you, I have. Tell me, why do you wrinkle your nose every time I call you Mr. Brighton?” He crosses his arms and that seems to say something.
I feel my nose wrinkle again. Dammit Finn. “Makes me feel like I’m in trouble.”
“Isn’t that why you’re here?”
Everything is hot. Hot, hot, hot. Fuck. Is he gonna make you say it, Finn? “Well, I mean, not exactly.”
He tilts his head in a pensive way and I already don’t like it. All of it says ‘disappointment’ and that ‘he expected more’. He ruffles his dark hair, the only wild thing about him. Everything else is tidy, but his hair cannot be tamed, or this man would have done it by now. “During your interviews you said otherwise.”
“I meant, I’m not in trouble with you,” I say. My ears are hot.
“I see. A misunderstanding. You are, as you say, ‘in trouble’ with me, young man. Sending yourself here means you are in need of swift discipline upon arrival.” He moves from behind the mahogany desk, closer to me.
“—no buts. I always establish my role in the first meeting. I want to make it clear your past behaviors will not be tolerated. A good dose of discipline should do the trick.”
My eyes follow his movements, as he unbuttons his cuffs and then rolls them to his thick mid-biceps with crisp, snappy motions. Suddenly his black slacks look too pressed and his green tie too green. He pulls a chair out, one I hadn’t noticed before, but now it’s all I can see. He places it in a spot where the red carpet is slightly worn in the same places the chair legs land, suggesting this is not the first time he’s placed the chair in that spot. In fact, I would say he does it often. Even the way the chair spins on his palm, suggests how familiar a rhythm the act is.
When the chair is in place, he sits on it. “Come here, Finnegan.”
I was wrong. Now, I feel like I’m in trouble. The way he says Finnegan is so much different than the way he says Mr. Brighton, which looking back had a hint of something softer. Finnegan, is hard and scolding.
The room is large. The back wall is a two-story library with shelves filled with books, connected by a sliding ladder. Adjacent to the library, is a stretch of blank wall with nary a painting on it. It’s no less odd seeing the wall this time, as it was when I came for my interviews. It’s red. There’s crown moulding. That’s it. Nothing special about it, yet I know it’s significant.
But behind his desk, now that’s even curiouser. A door. One, tall, heavy-looking door. I guess it could be storage, but from what I already know of Xavier, I doubt it. It’s gotta be something. I label it as mysterious.
Yeah. Definitely mysterious.
I drag myself over to him. I can guess what’s coming, and how awkward? But, ugh, I signed on for this—though now I’m regretting, oh how I regret.
What did you do Finn? What. Did. You. Do?
Xavier dwarfs the chair when he sits on it. “Over my lap, quickly. In future there will be consequences for delay.”
I look at his lap and back at him and then to his lap again. Am I really going to do this? Go over his lap for a spanking? He makes the decision for me, snatching my wrist and pulling me to him and over his lap I go. Before I know it, my torso meets his muscled thighs and I’m in a much less comfortable position than I’d like to be in. He doesn’t bother with an introduction before he’s smacking my ass with a hand that feels like a two by four.
Any hope I had of taking this spanking stoically is gone within the first thirty seconds. I have the ‘protection’ of my jeans and it still hurts. I try to grip the carpet with my hands, then the chair leg, something, anything, but nothing helps my position. All I can do is take the spanking, smack after sharp smack. Finally, he lets me breathe. That’s when he starts lecturing. “To clarify. This is what I do to naughty boys.”
We both know I’m not a ‘boy’, I’ll be twenty-eight this spring, but that’s part of this. Humiliation is an aspect of spanking. “Yeah, okay.”
He lets go a wallop on my ass that fucking hurts. “Yes, sir, not ‘yeah okay’. Show me you understand.”
“Y-Yes, sir,” I say hoping we’re done, but no such luck.
He spanks until I’m sure my ass is reddening beneath my clothes and then at long last, he stands me up. With the way he’s looking at me, I know I’m not done, but I want to be, so I try my best at charming him. “You’re in charge, sir. I understand. I get the lesson. It’s all good behavior from here.”
“I’m glad things are beginning to sink in intuitively, but we’re far from done, Mr. Brighton.” Okay, that Mr. Brighton might have had a bit of a smirk attached to it. Fucker is onto me. “You know what we discussed, it’s even in the contract. All discipline at this school is applied to a bare bottom. No exceptions. Undo your jeans. I want those and your boxers pulled down to under your balls. I’ll do the rest.”
Fuck. Did he just say balls? Unfortunately for me, even though the spanking does nothing to turn me on, the humiliating way in which this is being done, does and my cock starts to harden. I really don’t want to pull my pants down and show him my hardening cock, but I also know the punishment for refusing punishment and I’d like to get through my first day with just the one spanking thanks. I do as instructed, my face red from both the pre-spanking I’ve just received and anticipatory embarrassment over showing him my cock.