Wesley/ Mr. Giles- fic - Mistakes

This is the result of several prompts. First my Watcherlove minificathon word prompt which was "misspell". Then the news that ASH has been confirmed as a guest star on the next series of Doctor Who - I'm not sure, but I read somewhere he was going to be a headmaster...

Then I saw these pictures over at alexisdaily and the image of Wes in braces was too tempting to ignore..

The result is smut. Kink smut. Possibly almost NC17 kink smut. The real Watcherlove minificathon piece will be posted tomorrow. This is unbetaed and I probably shouldn't have written it.

TITLE: Mistakes
RATING: R/NC17
PARING: Wesley/Mr. Giles
NOTES: Set BtVS Season 3 - I don't think I need to add AU, do I? Here be spanking.



“Come in.”

Wesley pauses uncertainly, his hand poised to knock upon the smooth wood of the door, but not yet having made contact. He adjusts his tie and runs his hand over his hair, determined to present a pristine appearance.

He opens the door. Mr. Giles is standing behind his desk, glasses dangling from his fingers, his other hand shoved into his trouser pocket. He looks up at Wesley, and replaces his glasses.

“Wesley.”

Wesley steps further into the room, approaches the desk tentatively.

“I assume you know why I’ve asked to see you?” Mr. Giles looks at him sternly over the top of his spectacles, then down at his desk.

Wesley follows his gaze, and sees his translation open on the desk, a telltale circle of red ink around a word halfway down the page. He manages a wordless nod.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

He feels his cheeks flush, shame and anticipation warming them equally. “Yes, Mr. Giles,” he whispers. “I made a mistake.”

Mr. Giles nods, an approving smile spreading across his face. “I appreciate your candour, Wesley. That may go some way in alleviating your situation.”

He removes his jacket as he speaks, arranging it carefully on the back of his chair. Wesley resists the urge to point out the damage the chair back might do to the shoulders of the jacket. He’s already in enough trouble as it is.

“I fear I may have to inform the Council of this unforgivable lapse.” Mr. Giles taps the page with his index finger, shaking his head sadly, as if more in sorrow than in anger.

Wesley feels the breath catch in his throat. “P-Please – Mr. Giles, I assure you it was a one-off. If you could possibly see your way to not telling the Council, I’d be extremely grateful.”

Mr. Giles looks up at him again, as if in deep contemplation. “I suppose I could deal with the matter myself. It does seem rather pointless to burden the Council with such trivialities.” His voice drips with sarcasm, and Wesley suddenly finds his shoes incredibly absorbing.

“Very well, Wesley. You are aware, no doubt, of the rhetoric? I find the whole preamble rather boring.”

Wesley nods, and Mr. Giles smiles. “Good. Consider yourself lectured.”

Wesley looks up in astonishment. This is all he’s going to get? The smile on the other man’s face seems suddenly steely.

“Oh no. We’re not finished yet.” Mr. Giles moves to unbutton his shirt cuff, folding it back neatly to expose a lightly tanned and surprisingly well-toned forearm. “Go to the cupboard and open it. “ He indicates the direction with a dismissive wave of his head.

Wesley obeys. He opens the cupboard, sees books, a tea set, a couple of magical-looking figurines, a ruler and a slipper. He grips the cupboard door rather hard.

“You may choose.” Mr. Giles’ voice is pleasant and calm, as if he has just offered him the choice of Lapsang Souchong or Russian Caravan.

Wesley reaches out and his fingers touch the ruler first. It’s a light wood, possibly beech, and fairly thin, and he imagines it will sting dreadfully. The slipper is leather, soft and supple, worn with age and use. It feels almost warm to the touch.

It’s a difficult choice, but in the end he decides upon the slipper. He lifts it almost reverently and takes it back to Mr. Giles.

“Interesting choice, Wesley. Perhaps we attended the same prep school?” Mr. Giles’ eyesbrows quirk up with amusement, and Wesley feels the blush spread to the very roots of his hair.

Then the hint of a smile is gone. “Very well.” Mr. Giles gestures to the desk, which has been obviously been cleared for this purpose. “Assume the position.”

Wesley moves to obey, the blood pounding in his ears, desire and humiliation warring within him. He bends at the waist, has to reach forward to grip the opposite edge of the desk, and feels the strain in the back of his thighs. He moves his feet apart to ease the pain a little.

There is a patient sigh from Mr. Giles. “No, I’m afraid this will not do.”

Wesley looks behind him, sees Mr. Giles holding the slipper firmly, shaking his head.

“I fear the lesson needs to be a little more stringent.” The voice hardens again. “Take down your trousers.”

Wesley stands up, and slips his braces off his shoulders, so that they hang limply at his thighs. Then he fumbles with the button of his trousers, unzipping them and pushing them down to his knees. He feels the hairs on the back of his legs rise as cool air hits them.

“Now your shorts. Do not remove them.” The command is stern, a tone that brooks no argument.

Wesley pushes his shorts down to his knees, his muscles tensing as he waits for the next order. He’s painfully aroused and equally ashamed, but he’s determined to obey.

“Bend over again.” The voice is clipped and firm. “That’s it. Now lift up your shirt tail.”

It’s difficult to reach round in this position, and the desk edge bites painfully into his naked thigh, but Wesley manages to carry out the order, exposing his backside fully.

“Very good.” Wesley almost squirms at the approval in Mr. Giles’ voice, but he stops himself.

“Now, spread your legs as wide as you can.”

He manages to move them about a foot apart, before the elastic of his short cuts into his knees, holding him in place.

“Now then, Wesley.” Mr. Giles’ tone is once again pleasantly conversational. “You will not move from this position. You will make no sound other than tallying the blows. Do you understand?”

Wesley’s face is burning. He grips the desk edge tighter, his nails digging into the wood. His erection is trapped between his stomach and the smooth surface of the desk. He takes a breath, and it shudders in his chest.

“Answer me, Wesley. Do you understand?”

And it feels right. “Yes, sir.”

The slipper is placed against his backside; then he feels the air behind him move, a cool shift that ends in a hot shock of pain across his arse. He can’t help the yelp that he tries desperately to turn into ‘One’.

“I’m afraid not, Wesley. Let’s try that again.”

This time he’s ready and when the slipper connects, he’s able to make the count.

“One.”

Both cheeks are already stinging, and he grips the desk so tightly his knuckles turn white.

“Two!” The flat slap of leather meeting flesh is shockingly loud, and he uses that as his excuse to almost shout the number.

The next blow catches him on the curve where ass meets thigh, and he jerks involuntarily. “Aah! - three!”

“You broke position, Wesley.” Mr. Giles sounds disappointed. “One for flinching, and spread your legs wider.”

The elastic bites hard into his knees, as Mr. Giles nudges his legs apart with his own foot. “There. That’s much better. Now let’s try number three again.”

He swings again, and connects squarely with his left cheek.

“Three!”

Wesley isn’t going to make it to ten, or even six, at this rate. He’s painfully aware of his erection now, wants desperately to touch himself, ease the ache in his cock that’s matched in his backside.

The smack of the slipper across his burning arse sends another jolt of desire through him, but he gulps a breath and composes himself. “Four.”

“I’m going to hit you six more times.” Wesley bites his lip to stifle his gasp. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, sir.” Wesley feels the elastic dig into his thigh as he widens his stance, raising his hips to receive whatever Mr. Giles thinks he deserves.

The next three blows fall in such quick succession that he’s unable to count them individually, but waits till he’s sure Mr. Giles is finished.

“Five, six, seven!” He’s breathing heavily now.

“Good boy. “ Mr. Giles is panting a little, too. “Lift your hips for me, Wesley.”

Wesley pushes up as high as he can, not allowing his cock the luxury of friction against the desk. Mr. Giles must be able to see how aroused he is in this position.

The next blow falls dangerously close to his inner thigh, and he hisses through clenched teeth. “Eight!”

Then the hot smarting sting is eased by application of a cool palm, rubbing over his tender backside. Mr. Giles soothes the punished flesh, then his hand slides forward, wrapping around Wesley’s cock firmly.

“You seem to be enjoying this far too much, Wesley. Control yourself.”

And expert fingers pinch him; hold him in place as the slipper falls again, landing on Wesley’s upper thigh.

“Nine!”

Mr. Giles maintains his vice-like grip, and leans forward.

“You may come, but not until I’ve finished spanking you.” His voice is low and rough, and Wesley feels the tight hardness of Mr. Giles’ erection pressing against his inner thigh.

Then it is gone, abruptly; Mr. Giles is on his feet, and his hand is gone, and he brings the slipper down hard.

“Ten!” Wesley howls the number, and fights the orgasm that is building inside him. Then Mr. Giles is bending over him, and whispering in his ear.

“You may come now.”

Wesley does.

*~*~*~*

“Wesley?” Mr. Giles sounds slightly concerned.

“Wesley?” His voice is louder now.

“Yes, sir?” Wesley blinks, and opens his eyes.

“What did you say?” Mr. Giles is hovering over him, looking worried and exasperated in equal measure.

"Wha-what?"

“You fell asleep over your translation of the Huspin Codex.” Giles waves a careless finger at the page under Wesley’s cheek.

“Um – right. Perhaps it’s time to call it a night.” Wesley yawns to hide his embarrassment. Giles leans a little closer and peers at the page he’d been writing.

“Definitely time.” Giles points to the page. “See here, you’ve misspelled the name of the demon.” He tuts in mock exasperation.

“Shame on you, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.”