Xavier's School Chapter One and Art by Artsy Ape

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.


“What, but—”


“—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.

Though admit it Finn, you’d like to show him your cock in another scenario, one where he’s also showing you his.


Oh my God. Shut up. Shut up brain. But for the record, okay, yeah I totally would. Xavier Harkness is hot, so fucking hot and totally my type. More than my type.


He doesn’t pay it any attention, even when it’s pressed against his thighs. Oh God, I’m going to leak on him, aren’t I? I try not to think about that. I can’t be the first dude that’s leaked on his thighs during a spanking, can I? I probably won’t even be the last dude today. He pushes my white t-shirt up my back and rubs my tender flesh. “This is a naughty red, bottom I have here, don’t I?”


“Xavier!” I say attempting to stand up.


He presses me down easily, I don’t fight him. He laughs, and it’s pleasant. I like it; my heart squeezes. “There you are, Finn. I thought I’d lost you for a moment. Why are you so tense? Did I not answer all of your questions during our meetings?”


“You did, but you’re terrifying, sir.” I give up all bravado, because what’s the point? My pants and boxers are pulled down and I’m over this guy’s lap.


He chuckles, patting me on the bum. All of it makes him more human, and the lines of authority blur just enough I can settle back into me, but not nearly enough for me to think he’s not the one in charge here. “Not much I can do about that, I’m afraid,” he says. “I will be getting on with it though. I have other appointments, and you have work to get done.”


I do?


“As much as this will feel like a punishment, it’s not. This is discipline, which you will receive from me every Friday. No exceptions. We’ll go over that in more detail the first time, which is this Friday—it’s all in your schedule.”


I hold back my groan at the sound of all that, reminding myself I wanted this, all the while very aware my ass is still out and vulnerable for him. I also remind myself why I chose him. Of all the schools I could have sent myself to, I picked this one because of Xavier. Not only are his methods more personal—which I liked—there was a feeling I got from the first meeting, one of safety and warmth despite his cool exterior.


My brother and I scraped up enough money so that I could be assigned to Xavier personally, which was hard enough. To be one of his required extensive interviews and then, a spot had to become available. When we got the call there was an opening, it was a happy day. Sam and I celebrated with beer and wings even though there was still the rigid interview process to go, but it was the next milestone after having the money in the first place.


We’re not rich, but we’re not poor either. It’s just that to come here, to Xavier’s school, it’s fucking expensive. After Dad died, we inherited his estate, which consisted of a modest, four-bedroom house and several thousand dollars, which evaporated quickly with funeral and living costs. I was still in high school, Sammy was barely an adult, but now he had teenage me to contend with, which I don’t wish on anyone. I was an asshole who missed his dad. I needed Dad. Dad was a strict, firm bastard, but it worked for me and I knew it even then.


There was never Mom, not for me. She died in a car accident not long after I was born. Sam was nine. I wish I knew her, sure, but it was harder for Sam who did. It was losing Dad that sent me over the edge.


“Finnegan? You still down there? I require a response.”


“Oh, uh. Yes, sir.”


“Do you know what you’re saying yes sir too?”


I groan. Lying is probably not a good idea at this juncture. “No, sir.”


“Then you’re not ready to chat yet. I’m going to continue. We’ll see in a minute or so, shall we?”


He doesn’t wait for an answer, since he’s not really asking for my opinion, and when the first strike lands, I know he was going easy at the beginning. This is not my first spanking by far, it’s just the first one from him and wow, he can give a good one with just his hand. It stings and my eyes pop open a little wider with every smack. It’s normal to try to get away from the thing that is hurting you, and instinctively I move to avoid the spanks when they get extra fire-y. He lets me resist some, but his strong arm across my back holds me in place.

It’s nice you can’t run away from him, isn’t it, Finnegan?


Yeah, it kinda is. I seldom agree with my inner voice, but on that, we are totally on board.

Then he stops and I melt over his lap. The pain is still there, but inside I feel better. A chunk of me has broken open, my guard comes down; I’m more connected to myself. I’m floaty like I get when Sam makes me meditate. I’ve been on a fucking journey, yet I haven’t gone anywhere. How can a simple spanking do so much?


“Let’s try again. This is not a punishment, this is discipline; soon you will know the difference. You will be disciplined every Friday regardless as to whether you have done something to earn a punishment. For maintenance; it’s extremely helpful and effective. This session is noted in your schedule, it’s non-negotiable and I wouldn’t miss it if I was you. Understood?”


“Yes, sir.” I pant and catch my breath. If this is only discipline and not a punishment I can only imagine, though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious. Yeah, yeah, curiosity killed the cat, but welcome to Finnegan Brighton. I’m complicated.


“You are here because you want someone to hold you accountable, otherwise what do you do?”


“Procrastinate any way I can, including drink the weekends away.”


“Yes. What is that costing you, Finnegan?”


That’s when the tears come. Not during the one hell of a spanking I was getting, but now and because I’ve been opened, it all floods out, releasing a knot I never knew existed as tears stream up my face—I’m still upside down—and the spanks start again. I feel the pain of it, but at the same time, thoughts stream across my mind. I want to do something with my life, but I don’t know what. Sam managed to half-raise me and put himself through law school. He’d be far more successful as a lawyer if he didn’t have me to support. And he shouldn’t have to, I’m a grown adult.


I have a hard time holding a job. Turns out, employers don’t like it when you miss shifts and show up late, but I hated every minute of my existence at any job I managed to get. Sam would be pissed at first, but even I can admit he’s got too much of a soft spot for me. Then it was looking past the fact I’d spent the week playing Fortnite rather than job-hunting instead of kicking me out of the house, which he probably should have done. He’ll never make me leave the house we grew up in though and yeah, technically it’s ours, but I haven’t paid anything into it like he has. I didn’t fork out the ten grand required when it needed a new roof and I certainly don’t pay the ever-increasing annual property taxes. If anyone should leave, it should be me, so at least Sam can start a family of his own. I’m too much of a mess to have one.


Sam’s more concerned about the good life I’ll have, and I know it’s because he feels responsible, like if I don’t succeed, it’s because he did a bad job raising me and maybe I should have gone to live with our Uncle when Dad passed. I could feel his guilt like it was another person living with us and it exacerbated the shame I was already feeling. It would build to a point where I couldn’t look at my brother. I wasn’t showing up and we both knew it. I wanted to though, and sometimes I even did. Soon after, I’d have a new job and both of us would get excited, filled with hope that this time, this time I would make it.


But it was only the beginning of a new cycle.


“I hate my life. I’m miserable. I don’t want to be this,” I say, through tears to a man I barely know. I don’t even know what this is, just that something unnamable and deficient is there and I want it removed so I can be me. I have a good life, people would kill for the life I have, yet I squander it.


The bareness of such vulnerability rises in my chest. Yeah, I know that’s rich when I am bare, bare-bottomed, and over his lap getting a spanking like a child, but these are things I don’t say to anyone. Sometimes they’ve leaked out of my mouth to Sam, but that’s a rarity. I know it burdens kind people like my brother who will take that shit on. I don’t want to be a fucking burden to anyone yet doing things on my own never turns out; I don’t know how to get out. I’m stuck in a hole I can’t climb out of—there are no ladders in my hole.


He stops spanking and rubs my tender ass. I get the sense that he wants to say something but thinks better of it. He carries on with his ‘orientation day speech’. “You procrastinate because you get overwhelmed, this leads to you not finishing anything. You won’t have time to procrastinate here, but somehow, I think you might manage. This time there will be firm and consistent consequences for you.”


I shouldn’t want or need that, I’m a grown adult, yet, I’m comforted by it all the same. The comfort doesn’t make the embarrassment go away though. Yeah, I’m already over his lap like a child, my ass bare and now red in the air, my cock pressed against his thick thighs, and crying, but that, the reminder of consequences, somehow manages to make my body heat further.


“Yes, sir.”


I sniffle and at the same time, my pants are being pulled down further, and the butterflies in my stomach become active again. “I am strict with my boys and you are one of mine now, Finnegan. I won’t allow you to waste your life away. I knew immediately how smart you were and when I’m done with you, you’ll know it too.” A warm new sensation breathes through me; his praise instantly becomes an addiction. I want more of that. “You can obey me or have a sore arse. Either is fine for me, I wonder what you’d prefer?”


I sniffle. “I don’t plan on disobeying you, sir.”


“No one ever does. All right, we’re going to finish up and then we’re going to have a chat.”

With my pants pulled down further, he’s got more surface area which he takes advantage of, focusing on my sensitive sit spots and thighs—the thighs are the worst. He didn’t say to keep quiet, but I feel like I should. Isn’t that how an adult takes a spanking? Only it’s getting harder, because it really hurts, especially when he works over the backs of my thighs. My jaw tightens, I grit my teeth and attempt to minutely move my legs to lessen the impact. It does little.


When we’ve reached a crescendo of pain, he stops and I’m grateful, boy am I grateful. I’m panting hard again, and this time the pain lingers even after he’s stopped. I try to maneuver some, to get comfortable, but there is no comfort. I guess there’s not supposed to be. “Did you read over what I sent to you, hopefully multiple times?”


He sent me a tome on the rules of the school, plus a second document with his expectations for me, specifically. I wasn’t going to read it, I mean, skim it to satisfy my curiosity yeah, but not read it. Sam made me. Sam might be a pushover with some things, but with other things, he channels Dad, I swear to Christ. I’m going to have to thank him for that one. “I did, sir.”


“Thank you. Then I assume you know the rules, expectations and consequences?”


“I don’t have them memorized, sir, but I’ve read them over a few times.”