Metamorphosis

Disclaimers - Meine Liebe isn't mine.

Notes - Title stolen from a Dana Gioia poem. This is an unbeta-ed fic, but I think it's relatively error-free. Let me know if you spot anything.

I'm pretty amazed and embarassed that this is the first Meine Liebe fic on aff.net. To make up for it, I'll have to write something fluffier, I think. x.x

[edit] ALSO! In response to a review... Beruze is not Camus' cousin. o.o Beruze is their creepy teacher. LUI is his cousin. :X;

... and yes, I plan on writing Lui/Orphe. I actually have, some, but it's not finished yet.

--==--

Beruze turned over the switch in his hands, smiling a thin, cool smile to himself as he inspected it. It was perfect, a straight, thin, strong length of still-green rose branch, ending in a smooth sanded handle. He raised a fingertip to test the point of one of the thorns left on the branch, nodding a little in satisfaction.

A soft, hesitant knock at his door startled him a little, and he frowned at the clock on the wall, wondering how time had gotten so far from him. He laid the switch in his desk drawer, calling for the student to come in, composing himself a bit.

Camus stepped in, his eyes lowered, to all appearances upset and nervous. As well he should be, Beruze reflected, though the boy should have no way of knowing that. It was, after all, his first time in trouble enough to be called up to Beruze’s office for punishment.

The boy shut the door behind him and came to stand in front of Beruze’s desk, waiting for him to speak. He let the silence stretch, relishing the way Camus nervously shifted his weight.

Finally, Camus couldn’t bear it any longer, slowly looking up to meet Beruze’s eyes. He nearly licked his lips at the fear he could see in them. It was almost as if the boy knew already what he was planning.

“Herr Beruze?” His voice was soft, uncertain.

“You’re punctual. Good. Come here.” Beruze kept his face perfectly composed, watching him coolly for a moment before sliding his chair back, standing and stepping back, leaving a few feet of room, indicating to Camus that he should stand before him.

The boy frowned a little, but complied, perhaps a touch slower than Beruze would have liked. He supposed that could be corrected, in time.

“Face forward, and lower your pants and underclothes, please.”

Camus’ eyes widened in shock, and he looked like he wanted to protest. Beruze cut him off with a curt, cold explanation. “I find physical punishments to be the most efficacious. Do as I say.”

He followed his directions, reluctance slowing him even more. Beruze watched him impatiently and wondered if he was trembling yet.

“Put your hands on the desk.” Once the boy had complied, he opened the drawer he had placed the switch in, drawing it out, drawing Camus’ eyes.

“What…” The panic in his student’s voice made the teacher’s heartbeat pick up a little in anticipation.

“Eyes forward, Herr Luneburg. Do not make me tell you again.”

With a soft, choked-off sound that might have been a whimper, Camus obeyed.

Beruze smirked and raised the switch, counting deliberately, coolly as he landed blows. Camus would have no idea how many were requisite in a situation such as this, so he felt free to inflict as much damage as he wanted.

Finally, he deliberately set the switch aside, raising a hand to cup his student’s ass, drawing a finger over a vicious-looking scratch, watching in fascination as blood welled up.

The boy was trembling rather violently now, with soft, muffled sobs. They sounded delicious, and only served to excite him more.

Curiously, he pressed a finger into him.

Immediately, Camus stiffened, choking out a hoarse denial. It was nearly inaudible, but the sentiment was unmistakable as the boy shuddered, suddenly squirming violently, trying to wrest himself away.

Beruze smirked, sliding his hand into Camus’ hair to grip it tightly, using it to force him down completely, so that he lay flat over the desk. Using his other hand, he freed himself from the restriction of his own trousers, letting out an involuntary moan as his fingers brushed his arousal.

Quickly, he reached to pull a vial of scented oil out of his desk, carefully sliding the stopper out before dripping the light liquid into his hand, preparing himself before thrusting into Camus.

The boy practically wailed, his body momentarily going still with shock. Satisfied, Beruze let go of his hair, shifting to instead grip the boy’s hips and lean over him, keeping him pinned to the desk with his weight.

As he began to work himself in and out of the boy, he nipped lightly at his shoulder, slowly making his way to his neck. He was careful not to leave any marks… that wouldn’t do. He was sure that Camus would say nothing of their encounter, but if Camus’ blasted cousin saw them, Beruze knew he would put the pieces together and seek revenge.

He took his time with Camus, making sure that he wrung as much pleasure as he could from this, not knowing when he would have another such opportunity. When he did allow himself completion, it was silent, soft sobs the only sound in the room.

Pulling away from Camus, Beruze straightened his clothing, glad that the dark color hid any trace of the oil on his hands.

He watched Camus, allowing the boy a moment to wallow in his misery before issuing a sharp, cold command to him, wishing to be alone.

“Stand up and fix your clothing. It’s time for you to go to dinner.”

Camus pushed himself up, shakily, and reached to pull his shorts up, hissing softly in pain as the fabric made contact with his skin. Beruze watched him impassively, as if nothing at all had happened.

The boy said nothing, simply finished with his clothing and wiped his eyes as he headed for the door, not quite running. He didn’t see the satisfied smirk Beruze couldn’t keep back any longer.