
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/56408.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage, Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Doctor_Who
  Relationship:
      John_Smith/The_Master
  Character:
      John_Smith, The_Master
  Additional Tags:
      Discipline, Disguise
  Series:
      Part 1 of Farringham
  Collections:
      The_Prydonian
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-01-27 Words: 1688
****** Digging the Pit ******
by gritsinmisery
Summary
     The Master de-ages himself to his teens and travels to 1913 to mess
     with John Smith.
Notes
     Inspired by 45eugenia's brilliant_manip (srsly, I had it up on the
     screen while I wrote!) and meant as a prequel to either the
     comment!pr0n created by this inspiration_pic or boulette_sud 's
     wonderful_fic. Many thanks to betas voodoo_vibe for 'splaining some
     things, and to snowgrouse for patiently sorting my sad ass out. 
     Sorry 'bout those knickers, dear.
Digging_the_Pit
John is sitting at his desk in his quarters, marking papers and recording the
marks.  His door is open because it is his turn on discipline duty, dispensing
punishments.  Farringham School has a reputation for discipline, both military
and academic, and John is proud to uphold his part of that reputation.
He looks up at the knock at the door.  It’s the problem boy.  “Back again,
Saxon?” he asks rhetorically, as permission to enter.
 
“It would appear so, Mr. Smith.”  Just barely smiling, Harry Saxon steps into
the room and shuts the door behind him.
 
John waves him over to the desk.  “What was it this time?” he inquires with a
sigh.
 
“Mr. Johnson said I was being disrespectful to Matron, sir.” 
Oh, how much fun Harry had setting up that scenario!  Discovering that the
nurse had caught John’s eye; going up to her and making idle chit-chat; waiting
for another teacher to be within range of hearing.  Uttering in a tone of voice
so bland, “Matron, you’re such a wonderful nurse; are you just as good at
playing ‘Doctor’?”  It took the woman a full fifteen seconds, staring at him
with her mouth slightly open, before she realized just how badly she’d been
insulted.  She gave a quick, breathy gasp and bright red spots appeared high on
her cheeks.  This was immediately followed by the outraged bellow of the other
teacher who’d witnessed the encounter.  Harry is still quite surprised that the
man hadn’t dragged him up here by his ear.
 
Standing up, John walks around his desk, a rattan cane clasped in both hands
behind his back.  Harry turns to face him as John walks up to him.  John
doesn’t stop until they are just inches apart, planning to use his extra height
to intimidate the boy.  “Were you cheeking Matron, Saxon?”
 
Harry raises his chin until there is less than an inch of space between their
noses and looks John straight in the eyes.  He lets a little of his real self
leak into the glare; not all nine hundred years of experience, but a good deal
more self-assurance and challenge than a teenage boy would normally have.  “I
expect so, sir.”
 
“How many did he give you?”  Eyes locked with the boy’s, John taps the end of
the cane against the wooden floor so that there is no mistaking the question.
 
“He said, “at Mr. Smith’s discretion,” sir.  He said you had rather definite
ideas when it came to messing about with Matron.”  The double entendre is
deliberate; John can’t help but catch it.  Harry knows that whether or not John
ignores it, he will address his task with more attention and enthusiasm because
of it.
 
“He’s right; I cannot abide disrespect toward the weaker gender.  Well, you
know the drill well enough.  In fact, this is starting to be a regular
occurrence.”
In fact, if John ever bothered to look at the records, he’d discover he’s
seeing Harry every time he has discipline duty, and that he’s the only one
Harry’s been sent to.  Because there are more teachers than disciplinary hours,
no teacher has one particular weekly time.  Harry had to nick the monthly rota
sheet and plan his malfeasance accordingly.  But John will not discover this
until it’s too late; Harry’s careful to maintain his problem-student attitude
whenever John’s around, and John could never begin to think he might be pursued
in such a way.
 
“I imagine it does look that way, sir.”  Without taking his eyes off John’s,
Harry slowly unfastens his trousers.  At the last second before his trousers
and pants fall to the floor, Harry turns and leans forward to put his hands on
John’s desk.
Normally a boy would stand fairly close to the desk, close enough he could bend
his knees when he heard the cane start to whistle as it sliced through the air,
in an attempt to make the blows fall on his back instead of his arse.  And most
boys stood with their feet as close together as they were allowed to, desperate
to protect their balls. 
Harry does neither.  He stands far enough back from the desk that he nearly has
to balance on his toes, and spreads his legs as wide as the trousers around his
ankles will allow.  He knows he can handle the pain (even in this very-young
body) and it’s important – very important – that John Smith sees everything, no
matter where he stands to deliver the blows.  Because unlike most boys
anticipating a caning, Harry is growing hard, and before this session is over
he wants to be certain John is, too.
 
John takes up a position off to Harry’s left so he can see his face.  He likes
to be able judge whether the boy is handling his punishment or if it should be
lessened.  It also gives him plenty of room to swing.  “Shall we begin, then?”
he announces. 
‘Amateur,’ thinks Harry.  Half the value of the first blow comes from the
recipient not knowing exactly when the strike will land.
 
The noise Harry makes at the impact is not the usual sharp cry of pain, but a
slightly noisy gasping followed by a low, breathy moan.  Startled, John’s eyes
fly to the boy’s face to find Harry’s head turned toward him, Harry’s dark eyes
watching back with some strange knowledge and anticipation.  John’s gaze then
travels down Harry’s body, checking for signs of something amiss.  The pink
welt rising from the strike is normal, but thrusting out in front of the boy is
his cock, hard and long and beautiful.  Something inside of John tells him this
is very wrong.
An anger starts building in him; anger that the boy shows no remorse for
insulting a woman, especially that particular one; anger that Harry seems to be
enjoying what was meant as a punishment; anger that he is watching John and
expecting him to react; anger that he himself is reacting exactly as the boy
seems to expect, and he hates himself for it.  So John funnels all that anger
into a second blow, aiming for the area lower down that he knows from
experience should cause a reflex jerking reaction and an involuntary yelp of
pain.
Instead he hears a louder gasp and a beautiful moan, and the jerking comes only
from the boy’s cock.  John feels his own move inside his trousers in response
to the sound and the sight.  His self-loathing and anger grow, and he chooses
the path for his next blow to cover the most unmarked skin and intersect
prettily with the other welts, and strikes again.
 
So it continues on, spiraling ever upward: blow; gasp and moan; matching
jerking cocks, one free, one clothed; John’s loathing and anger; calculation
for the next blow.
He’s breathing hard, searching for the perfect spot for the next strike, when
it occurs to him that he hasn’t bothered to count the blows he’s been laying
on.  He’s lost himself in the rhythm.  He attempts to count the welts those
pretty round buttocks, but finds his gaze pulled away again and again to the
boy’s erection.  Giving up, he stares instead at the cane in his hand and asks
the boy, “So, what was that, Saxon?”
“Eight, sir.” 
God help him!  He has truly fallen into the experience, the sound of the cane
through the air and on the flesh, the view of arse and welt and cock. 
Shuddering once, he shakes himself completely back from his trance.  “That’s
enough then, I think,” he tells the boy.  More than enough; the lad may not sit
comfortably for several days.  Imagining Harry shifting uncomfortably in his
seat during upcoming classes causes John to shudder again.
He leans the cane up against his desk and walks around to take his chair, very
careful not to look at Harry while he pulls up his pants and trousers and
fastens them, because despite everything he knows is right, he very much wants
to.  He wants to keep watching that beautifully striped arse, and the stiff
cock that had bounced so wonderfully every time John laid another welt on,
watch until both are hidden from view inside the boy’s black trousers.  He even
wants to run his fingers over his handiwork: the warmth of the welts, the
hardness at the front.
Taking up his pen instead to mark down Harry’s punishment, John says gruffly,
“It’s not surprising you came to us at such a late age; I can easily see why
you had to leave those other schools if your current behavior is any indication
of your previous career.  Mind you don’t get sent down from here, as well.”
 
“I’ll do my best to avoid it, sir.  I’m certain Farringham is exactly where I
need to be.”  Harry leers a bit at John as he tucks his shirt into his
trousers.  He knows the older man will not dare to look up to see it.
 
John seems a little puzzled by Harry’s assertion.  “How’s that, Saxon?”
 
Harry moves around to the back of John’s desk and leans down to where his
breath is brushing John’s cheek.  If John turns his head, their lips will
meet.  Harry says lowly, “You’re here, Mr. Smith, to tutor me in exactly what I
need.  And to administer a swift, hard correction when I go wrong.”  He leaves
their faces close together just long enough to listen to the hitch in John’s
breathing, then pulls up and steps back around to the side of the desk so he
can watch the expression on John’s face.
 
John doesn’t dare look up from his paperwork to the boy.  He knows the hunger
in his eyes will give him away, and whether he finds invitation or disdain in
Harry’s face, he will be lost.  He works to control his breathing until he can
reply.  “Yes…  Well.  Off you go; I have other things I should be doing.  And
Saxon – I’d rather not see you back here.”
 
“I’m certain you wouldn’t, sir.”  But you will, John, thought the Master.  And
next time, you will fall.
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