This story makes up part of an AU series which is inspired by arts I've made on Tumblr (memorieswarm). I'm attempting to post a new AU story at least once a fortnight to go with the fanart I've made. Each "Chapter" of this series will be a completely separate story so it's your choice whether you just want to read one, all or pick and choose. All are Stendan, all contain sex (a given?) and most will contain happy endings (I'll let you know if not). This is the first time I've written a series like this and I've tried to make them long and self contained so I really hope you enjoy and I'd love you feedback.

A/N: This story deals with a student and teacher relationship so if you're uncomfortable with that or the age gap then this might not be for you!

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Lessons

The first warning they'd give you in your training would have been about boys like Steven Hay. Cocky and smart mouthed with impossibly red lips the shade of his blazer. He'd swagger the corridors with that known air of confidence saying "Sir," like a half-fluttered come-on. He lifted his head with ample street-wisdom to kid yourself he was old enough to corrupt. He wore those polyester school trousers low-slung and snug. You wondered if this was a brazen show of having his worked his way through the rugby team, or was he holding out for trust and experience? You fantasised that he was - the tight virgin you'd teach to cum and break the law for.

In all your years of teaching you'd never once been tempted and you were thankful for that. But on that first day of six-month supply at Hollyoaks High – a rather tatty comp filled mostly with upper-middle Chester teens – you'd both stuck out from the rest. He'd sat at the front of the class; unusual for his sort – you'd been pre-warned about him in an email from the head: troublemaker, truant, bully, disruptive, attitude problem, aggressive. All things that had once been written in your school report. His shirt was rolled up to the elbows when he lent on them, his desk free of books. You were grateful for the excuse to speak to him to ask why he'd come to class without his stuff.

It wasn't your imagination that he was flirty. His tie was draped over the table as he sat forward, looking up at you with eyes lined dark with lashes. He wasn't supposed to look at you like that.

All the male teachers had been given that tale about girls – describing the use of their sexuality, their hormones as a weapon to blow your life apart – but in this talk, they'd never mentioned a boy so open and threatening in his homosexuality that he'd undo you. Steven Hay didn't live in fear of being the victim of homophobia at school; he'd kick someone's face in without question if there were whispers. Everyone know, but no one dared question it.

You tripped and stumbled over words and facts and basics all lesson. But that Year 11 class would think you a menace. You caught him staring, lips parted and smug with himself so you screamed at the class for quiet – throwing a textbook to the wall. They worked in fearful and shuffling silence for the rest of the hour. Steven made excuses to creep closer to the desk at the front – pencils to sharpen, equipment to borrow. You escaped him by ushering together a focus group that he wasn't a part of, even though he was failing too and it was in your nature and job to help him, but you watched him on the periphery writing notes and leaning back on his chair. He studied you more than his books. You teetered on the edge of wanting to punish him for tempting you and push him out of your eye line so he couldn't drag you down further.

Steven became impossible to avoid.

You started to wonder if you were being stalked. Or worse, if you were stalking Steven.

It was after the staff meeting on the first week when you saw him loitering outside the Head of Year's office. His shirt tails drooped untucked and his face was flushed. He straightened up when you passed, deliberately looking ahead.

"Detention again," he said, forcing you to stop a few paces ahead of him. You looked to the side to see him playing with the tip of his maroon tie.

"You wanna knuckle down, kid," you said, rocking on your soles and firing up excuses in your brain as to why you couldn't stay and chat. Technically speaking it was school policy not to engage with pupils waiting outside an office to receive their punishment – they'd see it as a privilege of some sort. As if conversing with a teacher was anyone's idea of a privilege!

"Borin' though, innit?" he looked up from his fidgeting then and stared at you with his tongue perched between his teeth. If you were to study his eyes longer than you allowed yourself, you'd think they shone blue with wickedness.

You paused, half turned to face him and thought you ought to sound like pally, less supply teacher. The friendly teacher routine was going to get you on the register whether you made it happen or he pushed you to it.

"Boring?" you said, feeling a chill wash over you. "What's boring is seeing you repeating your same mistakes over and over. Try shutting that smart mouth of yours and get smart instead." With that, you walked away and didn't see him shrink into sullenness.

After the weekend you barely saw him around school and when he'd been given a warning about his attendance (you were alerted to it by the notice pinned up in the staffroom) you were almost surprised when he turned up for maths.

He started out on the wrong foot, passing notes, throwing things, texting and calling out. When you were at the whiteboard, he was causing laughter and when you stopped to ask him a question to trip him up, he shrugged.

"Dunno. Don't see the point." His chair was rested on the desk behind, elbows too, and he chewed gum defiantly. "Why do we have to learn all this pointless shit?"

You threw the pens to your desk. Hands predictably on your hips.

"And the way you're teaching is dead confusing."

The class disrupted in sniggering agreement.

"When's Mr Landers coming back?" He has a snarl in his expression, eyes piercing right through your cool. Mr Landers (nervous breakdown) wasn't due back until September and Year 11 had you for a further two months.

"You wanna get up here and do a better job, be my guest." You took a step to the side, glaring him down. If he'd been ten years older you would have had his arm twisted behind his back for the lack of respect. But then when he shrugged and you saw the fiery rebellion in him, you wrenched open the door, jamming it open with a wedge and then picked up his bag and books and threw them out the door.

"Get out! Go on, go!"

He jumped on and over the desk to exit the room, but before he did, he was lifting the pen from your pocket. You could have sworn he did it just to touch you. "Lost mine. I'll give it back later," he said and you slammed the door behind him. Rule one was never let them see you lose your cool and he'd made you break that rule twice already. You were left wondering just how many rules he'd make you break.

When he returned the pen to you at the end of the day, it hung from his mouth like a cigarette. "You really want this back?"

You picked up the hand sanitizer and waved it in his direction.

"It's not catchin' y'know," he said looking pointedly at you, "The gay bug."

You stood unmoving in your surprise that he was so upfront with you. "It's not about that," you said, knowing how fucking PC the school policies were. "I don't want your spit on my stuff."

He grinned to make your insides curl and you looked away, hiding in the pile of books to mark.

He hung around in the doorway; you sighed. "Go bug someone else, will you?"

"You here tomorrow, Mr Brady?"

"Tomorrow and every other day until I don't have to look at your sorry face again." You didn't glance up from the books.

"Mint," he said and left.

His name was up in the staff room again. He'd been cautioned at the weekend for theft from a sports shop. The majority of teachers rolled their eyes, a minority of soft-touches had sympathy and you sat there wondering what he'd look like in just a pair of drawstring tracksuit bottoms. Steven became the focus of the Wednesday night staff meeting too, he was scraping Ds across the board and the head wanted a C minimum in his English and Maths.

"As long as he knows how to work out his cut when he's selling smack," said one of the P.E. teachers with a smug grin, tucking into the biscuits. "Well, it's where he'll end up!"

"That's exactly the direction we're trying to avoid," Patrick said. "Small tutor groups, five kids maximum. That's the plan. One hour afterschool for maths and English." He looked at you and the teachers involved. "You'll get overtime."

"Not even a please?" asked one of the English teachers in vain. She had a soft spot for Patrick.

"It's about pulling together for the students. I'm sure you can give them that," Patrick said, shuffling his papers as if ready to move onto the next agenda.

"Hang on a second!" you said, even if you were temping and should probably keep quiet, you weren't going to let this slip. "That's it? We get no say?"

Patrick fixed you with a glare that only you could match. "Unless you want me to find another supply to replace you and do the complete job then I suggest you rethink your attitude, Brendan." He looked around the glumly silent room. "That's settled then. Compulsory tutor groups start Monday at three-forty-five."

All you could think come Monday was thank god you weren't alone in the room with him. The edge of his hair that touched his skin had gone black with sweat and he was late changing for P.E., so he of course arrived to your class late, pink and a mess. You made him stand in the doorway and tuck in his shirt and he begged you for a drink and you obliged, snatching your gaze away when he sucked from a water bottle.

Being such a small group, of what they would have called in your day the thickos but now talked about "differently abled", you weren't able to ignore Steven. You had to pour over his scruffy handwriting and decipher digits, rubbing out his errors and waiting for him to pencil in corrections. His light bulb moments made him pleased and they made you flutter. But you were harsher with him, more impatient, degrading. They'd have you for mistreatment of him, but Steven took it and kept trying. And the more he tried to impress you, the worse he made it. You resented him for it – he was making you edge closer to danger every day.

::: :::

The more you were grizzly with him, the more he didn't seem to mind. His marks improved, not enough to move his grade but enough so that you noticed. You found yourself relaxing into your tutor group sessions and slowly you despised them less for eating into your free time. You slipped up and talked about yourself once or twice but Steven always pushed it with a question too many. You'd snap, making everyone but Steven jump, and sink to your desk with a coffee and mark the day's books. He'd watch you for a moment and then when your eyes met, he smiled to himself and got back to his scribbling.

One Monday the McQueen girl in the group, the one with white-blonde hair and a gob on her, dragged you reluctantly into a conversation about Big Brother. You'd vaguely flicked over it during a night of microwave lasagne for one and knew enough about it to know you'd rather watch your own faeces. Steven and she had wandered into the lesson jabbering about who was fittest and who should win.

"Sir sir sir," she said, dashing over with her arm around Steven's shoulders. He had a split lip today from a punch up in the playground, everyone knew he'd started it.

You rolled your eyes and signalled for her to continue.

"Sir, who'd you think is gonna win Big Brother?"

You were about to lecture her on TV rotting her brain, but thought better of it after counting her braincells. "The Irish one. For obvious reasons." You had no idea if there even was an Irish one.

She grimaced. "Minging." She dragged Steven to his seat before you had a chance to say anything more, but your skin prickled when you watched the two of them whispering conspiratorially. It had to be about you, didn't it?

He was always there in the corridors with his two girl friends, whispering and grinning and you were sure he hushed up whenever you got near.

You were worse to him. And when he got close in class, for innocent reasons, you flinched like he was infected.

He hung around after class after the next tutorial, Michaela wasn't there to cling onto him, and it was then, he did the worst thing possible.

He spent too long tidying up equipment and when the room was silent, just the two of you packing away, he spoke.

"Mr Brady, have I done something wrong? Cos I thought I was getting better, but it's like…you're being funny with me?"

You let the books drop back into pile with a soft thud and looked up at him. He was closer than you'd realised. Too close.

"No, no I'm not. Time to run along home, Steven." You smiled at him tightly with no teeth showing. The mask before the massacre.

"I'm tryin', I am. I'm crap at maths, me."

"You're not," you said and you let your eyes close for a second too long.

He was even closer. "Cos I think you're a well good teacher. I didn't really get it before, but…I do now. I like knowing. I like being right." You could smell him. And you could hear the cleaner's vacuum banging against the wall in the corridor and the clock ticking. You saw him step a little nearer and then he reached out, placing his hand over yours. His blazer sleeve rubbed your shirt when his stroked his fingers across the back of your hand.

Then you shoved him, hard against the wall and not the way he wanted. It was the first time you'd ever seen fear in Steven Hay's eyes.

"It's you isn't it?! Starting all those rumours about me?!"

"What?! What rumours?!"

"I know there's graffiti, Steven! I've seen it. And you and that gobshite gossiping," You were spitting these accusations behind gritted teeth.

"We wasn't! And there's always graffiti. 'Mr Blake's a paedo', Miss Gilmore's a dyke'. I've done nothing!"

You loosened your grip on him and backed off.

"What's wrong with you?" he said, picking up his stuff and straightening out his uniform. "I thought we were the same, alright?! I thought there was – oh fuck it! – don't matter!" And with that, Steven Hay crashed out of class and you spent the evening looking for a new job.

::: :::

The irony of the school needing a supply to cover you - a supply teacher - was not lost on you as you called in for a week off sick. You knew a dodgy doctor; kids weren't the only one to forge a sick note. But if you'd expected the atmosphere in class to change with your week bunking off, then you were mistaken. All it took was the hint of Steven's name before your stomach lurched again.

But he wouldn't so much look at you, let alone come near enough so that you could smooth things over. He'd once been the last to leave class, but now he couldn't get out quick enough. You spent long lunchtimes sitting apart from the other staff hoping someone would bring Steven up into conversation. It was that timid, newly-qualified English teacher who mentioned his erratic moods that gave you the idea.

"It's the head's job usually," the caretaker said with a sniff. You'd caught him at the perfect time, when he was eager to go home for his lunch. He was gathering his things and trying to push past you to the door.

"All the same," you said with a fixed grin. "Blake asked me – check with him if you like." You knew he'd never dare waste Patrick's time. "I tutor the boy, Blake hardly knows him. He thought it best for me to check." You didn't realise the hint of possession in your words until you'd said them.

The caretaker handed over the master key with a laboured sigh. "Drugs, eh?" he said. "Hardly surprising comin' from him."

You headed to the lockers. You knew without hesitation which one was his; you'd watched him lean up against it enough times. Checking the corridor was clear you opened up the locker and loaded it with a bag of pills (another favour from the dodgy doctor). Some situations just had to be engineered.

Straight after lunch, you started your Year 11 maths lesson with the announcement of locker checks – telling them that someone in the year group was seen with suspicious pills. You bullshitted with the best, doing the usual boring routine of asking if anyone had anything to confess before being publically humiliated. The lad at the back who you knew was the school's dealer was too stoned to care and you weren't going to even look in his locker. You lead the class to the lockers – Blake was in a meeting and you knew all the other teachers were too cliquey to so much as speak to you – and made a show of checking the first row.

Steven's was the sixth locker you opened and you anticipated the fallout and shut it down before it happened.

"I've been set up! I don't even do drugs! I swear, I've never seen them in my life," he said, looking to his classmates for support.

You pocketed the pills, slamming the locker and placed a finger to your mouth. "Keep the confessions and pleadings til later. After school, Steven." Then you marched the rest of them back to quadratic equations.

Steven appeared, weary at your classroom, at three thirty-five.

"You're late."

He looked like he had the whole world pressing on his shoulders. He closed the door under your instruction and sat on the desk opposite yours.

You dropped the pills on the table. "You wanna explain why I found these in your locker?"

"I already told ya! They're not mine," he said, petulant. He wouldn't even look at you these days.

"So you keep saying. What am I meant to believe, they were delivered there by the drug fairy?"

"Funny."

You stared at him and waited, until finally he made eye contact with you.

"I swear. They're not mine."

"And I want to believe you. I really do." Teaching was like acting and you pulled off earnest with Oscar intentions. You folded your hands together on the desk. "Except, I know you've been talking about me, like a little wasp. Buzz buzz buzz." You stood up now and walked the path in front of his desk. His mouth was parted, eyes shifting with embarrassment. "Wondering about me with your little girlie pals. 'Sir isn't married. Sir looks at me funny. Sir gives me attention. Sir touched my hand.' I know. So if you're lying about the rumours, then how do I know you're not lying about the pills?!"

You leant on the end of the desk he sat on, the space between you crackling.

"I'm not," he said, pouting like a child. "On my life, I'm not."

You straightened up. "I'll flush them. And I won't tell Mr Blake. Only if you promise this will never happen again."

"I promise. Cross my heart."

You touched him on the cheek briefly and smiled. "Good."

::: :::

His latest mock was three marks shy of a C. You almost wanted to doctor it so you could keep him down a little longer. You liked his dependency on you. And behaviour between you was treading those dangerous habits again. Lingering. You'd almost given up trying to fight it, you were convinced that if he came onto you again, you'd not push him away.

But he didn't. And you hated him for it. You started picking on any male he was close with, wondering if he'd given up on his pursuit of you and was getting it from one of them instead. You thundered around school in your own solitary storm cloud, barking at anyone who got in your path.

You gave him his latest test back and he glowed. Despite yourself you grinned at him. And at the end of your next tutorial he had a present for you that he'd had stashed in his rucksack all day.

He was sheepish handing it over. It had Brendan written on the card which made you feel a dizzying alarm.

"You'll see when you open it, Mr Brady. I thought it would be better if it weren't obvious it were from one of your pupils." He left your classroom with a smile you wanted to bottle.

The card was the sort that had been bought with coppers in a discount shop but when you opened it you stared at the words until you'd see them in your head for hours after.

Brendan,

Thank you for everything. I mean everything. You make it more than just about the numbers…you make it about me.

Ste x

Inside the parcel was three whiskey miniatures with the security tag on. He'd nicked you alcohol from a shop that wouldn't even serve him, for his being underage.

You drank all three that night and masturbated furiously thinking about him. You had to have him and you couldn't wait much longer.

::: :::

You didn't teach Steven on a Tuesday, he had another maths teacher – one who couldn't cope with his behaviour and one he hated and you weren't surprised to see him sat outside the class doing his work on the floor.

"We meet again young Steven," you said. You were far too casual with him when you'd been awake half the night wanking yourself dry imagining fucking him raw.

"Tell me about it," he said grumpily. "Stupid cow."

You clicked your tongue; you should scold him for that, but she was a cow.

"What are you struggling with?"

"Everything. As usual."

You sighed, sitting beside him on the floor and picking up his book. He was missing out one of the vital steps in the problem and you talked him through it. There was that blissful lightbulb moment.

"See. Now I get it. Why can't she just teach it like that?"

"Probably because you were pissing about."

"Weren't!"

You looked at him and he grinned. "I was only having a laugh."

"Ya not in there to have a laugh. You're there to work."

"I have a laugh with you, though," he said and you were aware suddenly of his knee touching yours. You didn't move it.

"Thank you for the whiskeys by the way. Hit the spot."

He had a look in his eyes which told a thousand potentials. "I hope your girlfriend didn't mind."

"You know very well I haven't got one." You pressed your knee against his and neither of you looked away.

The classroom door opened and Ms Draper paused, startled at seeing you sat there. You leapt up. "Just ironing out a few errors," you said and ignored her sour expression as she told Steven to get in, sit at the back and shut up.

At lunchtime Steven gave a Year 9 lad a black eye and a bloody nose. It was a fair scrap, but Steven was taller, faster and lankier so landed the first and brutal punch, finding himself coming out of it rather unscathed. Mr Blake was off site on a course (when was he not?) and you found yourself dragged into sorting out the mess. Steven had already had his stern talking too, his punishment delivery (a week's suspension) and now, being the twenty-first century bollocks school that they were, someone needed to teach him wrong from right and give him the positive reinforcement chat. The one where you told him how to be a good boy and gave him a sticker for being polite. You were picked for being the only teacher he hadn't called a cunt and the only one who didn't think he was one.

When he showed up at four thirty, having already served a detention for a different matter, he was expecting you to deliver the news of him being expelled. You shut the door behind him and watched as he slipped dejectedly into a seat at the front.

"Go on then, get it over with. I'm guessing they sent me to you cos Blake's out and you're the only teacher here with any real bollocks – apart from Ms Draper that is." You snorted at this and then covered it with a cough. "They're such fucking cowards. Just expel me and get it over and done with."

"I'm not going to expel you."

His face changed. "You're not?!"

"No. I'm here to be good cop."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm meant to tell you not to throw your future away on petty playground fights and leave the aggression to those goddamn computer console things."

He grinned at you. "X-Box Mr Brady, it's an X-Box."

"Whatever. All of that. Okay? Come to school, get your C grades, fuck off and do whatever you want to stay out of trouble."

"You're so caring, sir."

"I do care."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You know I do. I care about all my students." You lied. You hated most of them.

"Including me."

"Especially you."

Fuck.

He blinked. "I'll get my C in maths, but I ain't bothered about the rest. But I want to do well cos I wanna make you proud."

Fuck - you were so proud of him you wanted to scream. You nodded distantly and watched as he got up to wander up to where some of his work was displayed on the wall, in the corner. You pursued.

Steven was babbling as he looked at the display board, he wasn't even aware you were up so close that you could smell those pale hairs on the nape of his neck. You breathed him in, cigarettes and Lynx and listened to that harsh Manchester accent as it stuttered and stopped when your lips finally caressed his neck. He didn't move as you hovered there and it was as if he hadn't noticed, so this time when you kissed again, you lingered to taste him. He pulsed under your lips.

You kissed closer to his jaw, aware your breathing sounded ragged and desperate. Your hands slid across his waist, finding the bare skin under his shirt. His head arched back against yours, his mouth opening in yearning as he gave you moral compass so half-heartedly. "Don't," he said, "If someone walks in…"

It was a murmur moaned against your cheek. You pawed at his solid groin, the crotch of his trousers satisfyingly hot. He swore, voice disappearing as he turned his head to make his mouth meet your cheek, and unzipped his trousers.

You didn't take a moment because you were pushing your hands inside.

You groaned into his ear. He was harder, warmer, thicker than you'd imagined. "I want you, Steven," you said, like a dark threat. You didn't just want him. You were going to have him.

You pushed him against the wall, body to body, and sunk your teeth to his collar bone. He unknotted his tie so you had full access to lick the curve of his throat and watch him writhe. You were still groping his cock, so you wormed a hand free and stroked his arse with deliberate intent and then pressed yourself against him so he felt your cock urging through.

He turned to face you and when you saw his dishevelled uniform and the lust of a teenager in his eyes, it startled you, and you stepped back jolting the desk behind. He approached you, fingers reaching out to your checked shirt, and chewing his lip. You wondered if he'd learnt this in Teacher Seduction 101.

"No." You looked away from him. "Get out."

"But! Mr Brady – Brendan?" He was making it worse on the two of you. His blue eyes were rimmed with disappointment. His mood changed as you disappeared into the adjoined office stacked with books and your laptop. He stood in the doorway, holding onto his unfastened trousers at the hips. "You're making an idiot outta me! What's this all about?!" He gestured between you, your blatant desires.

"It's about you being a queer little cock tease," you said, snarling up into his face.

He pulled the door shut behind him, closing you in and squared up to you, scoffing. "You were just about to fuck me up the arse so what does that make you, eh?"

You stared at him for an age until he was on you, kissing the life from you, divesting himself of clothes. You wanted to take the power back and began to by kissing him hard, up against the door. He buzzed with the ferocity of his eagerness, mouth soft and hungry. He kissed sloppily, but you liked that, it lead you to believe there hadn't been many before you. You hoped you were his first taste of a man.

His boldness surprised you, even if it shouldn't have. He stuck his hand down the front of your trousers and you watched him gulp – even if subconsciously – at the size of you. You hoped he didn't want to waste any time with too much foreplay - as far as you were concerned, the last few weeks had been enough build to this climax – even though the look in his eyes made you want to treat him well. Before you could ask him and break that final taboo of hundreds you were breaking, he made you groan by kneeling in front of you.

"I ain't a cock tease, alright?" He looked almost hurt by your earlier dig and you were possessed by an urge to reach out and touch his slightly gel-spiked hair. So you did.

All of this felt so wrong.

For a novice he sucked cock well. You thought about telling him you'd give him a B+ for fellatio but knowing Steven he'd think it was an algebraic term and that he'd finally scraped higher than a D. And you rationalised that with comments as teachery as that – you deserved to rot in hell.

You tilted his chin up and wiped saliva from his lip, telling him to go slower and easing in a little deeper until his eyes blinked tears. The fact he stroked your balls without you uttering a word kicked your orgasm into life and you clawed at the back of his hair hoping he'd swallow. When he did, you leant back against the door to watch him recover.

You were both laughing as he stood to kiss you on the mouth. You were glad when he didn't seek your approval and fill you with more guilt. He unbuttoned your shirt.

"Everyone knows you're gay. If this gets out, what do you stand to lose?"

Steven paused. "No one's gonna find out." He smiled seeing your tattoos, like he hadn't bargained for you having a life outside of school, and ran his hands over your body. "Me stepdad doesn't have a clue I'm gay, nor me mam. I'd be dead."

"Okay," you said and then shook off that feeling that you were meant to ask more and worry for his safety. You were about to take his virginity, the words 'child protection' make you recoil a little. "Everything okay at home?" You asked quickly and then blinked away from him.

Steven tutted. "I thought you were meant to be shagging me not sending me to the school counsellor."

"Point. About that…" Your eyes wandered to his body, thumbs pinching into his underwear and pulling them down. You held his dick in your hand, watching his eyes gloss over as your fingers played lightly over his balls. "Nice," you said, a teasing tone with a serious face.

"Is it gonna hurt?" Steven's bravado shrunk away and it panicked you a little to see him like this. But that core of vulnerability had pulled you in from day one.

"I'll go slow," you said. You groaned into his mouth as your cocks touched, eager to claim him.

After you kissed him you retrieved the condom and lube sachet from your wallet. You hadn't put it in there for him, you were arrogant enough to, you just hoped you wouldn't give in so easily. This cupboard style office had a lock on it and you weren't stupid enough to risk it and then your mouth twitched with a lustful smile.

"Over the desk," you said, watching him ease into position, arms outstretched on the table top.

His skin was so smooth like he hadn't fallen into scrapes at all. You ran your hands down his spine, like a hot marble statue and heard him murmur when you pushed the digit of your forefinger into the crease of his buttocks.

"Trust me," you said, repeating the action with your tongue. He squirmed a little and you'd have taken a moment to laugh if you hadn't been so impatient. You separated his cheeks and licked his opening apart for the first time, hearing him bang on the desk with his fist as you pushed against his resistance and let your touch make the first fuck.

It wasn't enough for you and you drowned a finger in spit and pushed it right in. You'd half fulfilled your promise – this was slow for you – but he cried a little, so you shushed him and curled your finger. At first he made bubbling sounds of startled confusion and then your rhythm harshened and he swore like morsecode when you fingered his prostate.

You kissed his shoulders. "Y'gonna have to be quiet for me." You held your latexed cock, hard in your hand and plied his accommodating hole with lubricant. He felt hot and greased and his ring was already a satisfying dark pink where you'd toyed him. He tensed when you first entered and you stroked the flank of his body with affection until he eased up a little, getting used to your size, before you took a greedy push inside him. His yell was muffled by his mouth over his arm, but you took his hips into your possession and found a rocking pleasure which turned his discomfort into ascending mews.

Soon he was using the desk as a lever, fucking himself backwards and you were forced to slow him right down to drive deep into him. You felt around for his cock, its pre-cum oiling your grip. You knew, being a teenager he wouldn't last long, but you intended to drain every last inch of your satisfaction into him.

When he came his arm blocked out his noisy cries and you felt the hot rush of liquid over your hand. His sphincter constricted in orgasm and you convulsed against him, wrenching his hips forward and back to plunder him until you were spent.

After you were done, your body still reeling, you located a box of tissues in the desk drawer and wrapped it around the condom and slid the box to him. He wiped up, a little tender and then sat up on the desk, reclining and propped up on his elbows.

His eyes danced mischievously. "Do I have to beg?"

"What d'ya want?" You asked, already redressing.

"Well I would have asked for a dirty weekend away but I'm too young to drive and I think you'd get done for kidnap."

"I'd get done for worse," you said, cringing.

He kissed you. "That was fucking –" he turned you on with his breathlessness, "- too good to talk about." You kissed again, longer, hungrier. "I wan' a blow job," he said.

"Here? Now?"

"Yeah." He grinned. "I been thinking about it."

"Okay. Good." You said, lowering your mouth to be his first.

::: :::

You gave him a Pay As You Go phone, a brick-like Tesco one. Everyone thought he was a drug dealer anyway so two phones would hardly be a surprise. It was easy that first week when he was expelled. You made him catch a bus out of town and picked him up from there. He looked older out of uniform, or at least you told yourself that to ease your conscience. You fucked him in your car down unearthed routes. You didn't take him home and he didn't ask. You worried a little how things might be when he was back in school but your sex hungry arrangement gave you no time for anxiety. It seemed callous to say so, but you were glad his ma didn't give a fuck about his whereabouts because you could screw him until dark, in every position and no questions were asked.

It was all lust and fluid and sex, but you knew if he asked you to help him escape from his hellish living arrangement, then you would whatever the cost.

"Bren," he said, pressed against your chest. You wanted more than just the backseat with him. Persistent fucker had infected your life. "I'll wait til my last exam, only cos of you, but I wanna leave. Get out of this place."

You stilled the stroking of his thighs.

"I want you to come with me." He looked up, at you, pupils flooding his eyes wide.

You could see it in the news now. You could feel the prison sentence, the words: sex offender knelling in your head. The risk came the moment you laid eyes on him.

"We'd have to make a completely new start. New country. Everything."

"I know."

"If we got caught…you're sixteen, I'm your teacher…"

"I know all that."

::: :::

You'd held out a little longer, until the end of term, so as not to raise the alarm when you failed to turn up to the school. It was an agonising month, mostly spent apart. You had enough money to get started and you were sure you could learn how to run a bar. You already had a barman in mind.

He stood at the airport scrutinising his fake passport. "I'm not meanna be your son, am I?" He grimaced.

"You're my brother until we get over the border and then you can be whatever you want." You had just three bags between you and two non-refundable single tickets. You exchanged smiles.

"Lover?" Steven grinned and you batted him on the back of his legs with your bags. He'd left a note by his mam's fags saying: Mum, I'm gay. I'm in love and I'm happy. Don't bother coming to find me. Have a nice life. Ste. He'd left her and Terry five-hundred of his drug money (after eventually admitting to you the rumours were true and he'd dealt for a few years in his early teens) and that would be enough to keep them happy until they forgot about him.

As for you, you spent the next twenty years scanning papers for any mention of your crime, for any police that might come looking for you. And only once did you see it alluded to in print, in a certain Michaela McQueen's breakout novel, where the protagonist's gay best friend was shagging the hairy maths teacher. You were only sorry she hadn't written about you more favourably.

And Steven Hay. You'd been warned about boys like him, ending your teaching career. And he had. But for all the right reasons.