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Javert was not one to disrespect tradition. Not even traditions that might look, at first glance, rather unorthodox. After all, the very fact that a custom was adopted by the Parisian police force, that bastion of steadfastness, should speak for its respectability.

Nevertheless, the need for discretion was obvious. That the general public could not be expected to understand the inner workings of the great machinery of the Law, came as no surprise. But this particular tradition, of which Javert had only heard recently, seemed not to be known outside the Prefecture in Paris, not even among the police's own ranks.

Be that as it may, tradition was tradition, and Javert would not dream of not adhering to it.

So here he was, standing in front of M. Gisquet, the Prefect himself, as he slowly opened the letter Javert had brought with him from M. Chabouillet; as he unfolded it, read, and read again, before moving his cool, steady gaze to Javert.

"This concerns the Christmas party last night, doesn't it."

"Yes, sir."

Pinned in place by the Prefect's pale eyes, Javert felt undeniably nervous, but the feeling was almost pleasant: anticipation rather than dread. "Monsieur Chabouillet said I was to deliver this letter to you myself – that doing so was part of the tradition, sir."

"Did he now."

M. Gisquet placed the letter down on the desktop in front of him. Javert did not lean forward to look at it, nor was he tempted to. The letter was for the Prefect, not for him, as much as the contents concerned him. M. Chabouillet had written to the Prefect on Javert's behalf before, years ago. He owed them both a great deal, Javert thought, a strangely delicious shiver going down his spine.

"He says you dropped your bread into the fondue," M. Gisquet said, still not taking his eyes off him. "Three times."

"Yes, sir," Javert confirmed, looking straight ahead, despite the way the Prefect's eyes were now moving down his torso.

"And did you know what the consequences of doing that would be, according to tradition?"

"I had an inkling, sir."

"You had an inkling," M. Gisquet repeated. Javert swallowed discreetly.

"You had an inkling, and yet you were careless. You allowed yourself to drop the bread – not only once, but three times."

"By complete accident, sir," Javert said, worrying for a split second whether he was lying to the Prefect. But it had been an accident, hadn't it? At least that first time, before someone had started crowing about the cane.

"Ah, an accident, was it?" The Prefect's smile was cold. "So you are clumsy and careless. I'm disappointed in you, Javert. From what little I knew of you, I always considered you to be reliable."

Javert bowed his head, ashamed. And yet there was a tinge of excitement to his shame, an edge of vague but heady expectations. The Prefect was disappointed in him. Surely that meant the Prefect would see to it that he was chastised in the manner tradition prescribed.

"Seven o'clock tonight, Javert." He looked back up, startled, and M. Gisquet gave a hard smile. "Here in my office. Don't be late."

"No, sir." From the way the Prefect's smile widened, Javert worried he had spoken too quickly. At least M. Gisquet did not truly seem displeased with him, though if he had known about that curious anticipation setting Javert's nerves on edge, he very well might have been.

 

~

 

At precisely seven o'clock, Javert knocked on the door to the Prefect's office, as M. Gisquet's secretary had left for the day. It was just as well. The thought of having someone right outside the door possibly overhearing – or worse, being invited to watch – his chastisement was too shameful to bear, and all the more arousing for it.

He was left to wait for possibly five minutes until a voice bade him enter. Doing so, he found himself face to face with M. Chabouillet as well as with the Prefect himself. M. Gisquet was seated behind his desk, M. Chabouillet standing next to him. Apart from them, there was no one else in the room.

"So there he is," M. Gisquet said to M. Chabouillet as Javert took his place in front of the desk. "Your most diligent and dutiful man, isn't that so? Who was still sloppy enough to drop his piece of bread into the fondue last night – not only once, but three times. Does that seem dutiful to you?"

"Certainly not," M. Chabouillet said. His voice, slightly hoarse, sent another tingle down Javert's spine. "I have to say, Javert, I'm disappointed in you."

"My deepest apologies, sir." Javert tried not to look at either of them as he spoke, worried they would discern the growing excitement coursing through his blood. "I am ready for you to punish me as you see fit."

The Prefect and M. Chabouillet exchanged what seemed like a knowing look. "It is not up to us, but to tradition", M. Chabouillet said. "And as you learned last night, tradition demands that anyone who drops his bread into the fondue three times at the Christmas party receive a certain kind of treatment. Naturally, most men are not so careless as to let his bread drop once, let alone three times. We hadn't expected it from you, our most conscientious man – but perhaps we should have."

"Yes," the Prefect agreed. "I think we should have."

He rose to his feet and went around the desk. Although he was shorter than Javert by almost a head, his presence was imposing. Javert had to force himself not to shiver as M. Gisquet's hand came to rest on his backside, then slid around to his groin to cup the bulge there.

"Well, then," M. Gisquet said, voice still cool and even. "He does not seem very sorry at all."

M. Chabouillet laughed at that, a low raspy sound. "Who would have thought."

"What do you say, Chabouillet?" M. Gisquet's hand gave a hard squeeze; Javert strangled a moan through clenched teeth. "What should we do with him?"

Chabouillet's mouth curved into a small smile. "I say we teach him the lesson he's come for, sir."

"Very well."

The Prefect's hand disappeared, and Javert again had to force himself to stay silent lest he let out a whine of impatience. M. Gisquet walked back around the desk, and now M. Chabouillet got to his feet.

"Trousers down, Javert," he said genially. "And bend over."

Javert hastily obeyed, losening his trousers and moving into position. His cock was heavy and aching, and he spread his legs a little, for some reason hoping that M. Chabouillet would take notice. Bending over like this, it would have been more comfortable to rest his head on his arms, but he did not dare look away from M. Gisquet, who was seated right in front of him, holding Javert's gaze with his cold, pale eyes.

"M. Chabouillet, as your closest superior, is going to have you first," he said. "Traditionally, one might bring in all of the offender's superiors, if one so chooses, but I do not have the whole evening to spare." Javert could not help groaning softly at his words, and M. Gisquet cocked an eyebrow. "Does that disappoint you?"

"Ah, sir, I..." Javert resisted arching his back as M. Chabouillet's finger, slick with oil, traced down his cleft, slowly circling the rim of his hole. "I am happy for you to take care of my chastisement as you see fit. Sir."

"True, you do seem happy." The prefect shifted his gaze, looking over Javert's shoulder. "What does he feel like, Chabouillet? Tight?"

"Very tight." M. Chabouillet's finger was inside him now, and oh, it felt good, probably too good. "I will make sure to open him for you, sir."

"Please," Javert moaned, forgetting himself. He was in no position to beg for anything, just to take what they chose to give, but still – he pushed back against M. Chabouillet, wanting that probing finger deeper inside him. "Please."

"Look at him, so eager for you." The Prefect laughed, but Javert could see his right hand move under the desk. "So greedy. I'll say you can get on with it – he looks like he can take it."

M. Chabouillet slipped another finger inside, crooking them both just a little. Javert felt himself relax around the intrusion, wanting still more, but not hazarding another plea in case the Prefect should change his mind. Instead, he kept himself still, breathing hard and deep as M. Chabouillet worked him open. M. Gisquet was starting to breathe heavily himself, his hand moving slowly but rhythmically under the table.

At length, the fingers withdrew. Javert let out a hiss that was less relief than disappointment, but before he could forget his resolve not to beg, something harder and softer pressed against his hole – no fingers this time, but M. Chabouillet's cock. The thought made him dizzy for a moment; he felt himself go cross-eyed, and M. Gisquet laughed.

"Take him, Chabouillet," he said, "he's good and ready, all but panting for you. Warm him up well, and then we shall see how much he enjoys what his own carelessness has brought upon him!"

"Very well, sir," M. Chabouillet said, his voice slightly hoarser than usual. Slowly and inexorably he slid inside Javert, hard cock pressing into him inch by inch, and Javert felt himself ease up, give way, until at last M. Chabouillet was buried inside him, hands on Javert's hips, and Javert was panting in truth, clenching his hands so as not to claw at M. Gisquet's desk.

"Still tight?" M. Gisquet said, voice low, and M. Chabouillet let out a grunt, pulling out a little and then pushing back in, hard enough to make Javert's knees buckle. "Still tight, sir."

"Not after you're done with him, I'll wager." M. Gisquet got to his feet again, letting his trousers fall down, revealing his own erection. Javert stared at it, unable to refrain from licking his lips, and the Prefect gave a cold smile.

"So you are greedy," he said silkily. "Getting pounded isn't enough for you. Well, let's see how you will acquit yourself in this task. You will at least get my cock good and wet before I take you."

Javert raised his head, straining to reach the Prefect's prick. He drew the tip between his lips, licking at the head tentatively, and felt a warm rush of pride at M. Gisquet's groan.

M. Chabouillet had stilled his movements. Now he recommenced, withdrawing and pushing back in, every thrust sending sparks of pleasure through Javert, who moaned around the Prefect's cock, unable to stop himself. "Good man," M. Chabouillet was muttering, "good man, Javert," and the praise was almost enough to overcome him, but he had not been told to – he had not been allowed –

A groan, a flood of warmth inside him, and M. Chabouillet stilled, breathing heavily. Javert squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, forcing back his own climax, even as he felt the Prefect pull out of his mouth. "Good man," M. Chabouillet whispered again, so low that Javert thought it must be meant for him alone, and his heart swelled with pride.

He obediently remained in place as M. Chabouillet pulled out of him, forcing himself not to shiver with nervous anticipation as M. Gisquet came to take his place. He spread his legs as much as he dared, thinking again of the Prefect's cock in his mouth. His own prick was full and aching, his orgasm still terribly close, but he would not dream of moving, no, he knew well what was being expected of him...

"Not so tight now," M. Gisquet whispered as he pushed inside Javert with one single movement. Javert let out another helpless groan, bucking his hips, and M. Gisquet laughed. "I can tell Chabouillet has worked you good and hard. But not hard enough, it seems." He reached around and drew a finger along Javert's shaft, and Javert panted, staring in front of him still, although he could no longer hold the Prefect's gaze.

"If you don't mind, sir," came M. Chabouillet's voice from somewhere to Javert's left, "I should like to get home before it's too late. My wife has invited guests for dinner."

M. Gisquet pinched one of Javert's balls, drawing forth a yelp, and then laughed again. "Good point."

He did not waste much time after that, but began fucking Javert in earnest, thrust following brutal thrust until Javert could not think anymore, but was pushing back, stammering forth helpless pleas: "Sir, harder, sir, yes, yes, that's it, more..."

"Were you careless?" M. Gisquet hissed in his ear, shoving into him so hard that Javert's swollen prick rubbed against the desk with each thrust. "Were you sloppy? Clumsy? Go on, let me hear it from your own lips."

"I was – oh God, sir, harder – clumsy, yes," Javert gasped, clawing desperately at the desk. "Clumsy and careless and – oh God – sloppy too – yes, sir, punish me harder..."

With a long groan M. Gisquet spent himself inside him, as M. Chabouillet had done earlier, and Javert closed his eyes for the first time, willing himself not to come – not here, not in the Prefect's office, not on the Prefect's desk! As M. Gisquet pulled out of him, he kept repeating it to himself, all too aware of his weak knees and the trickle of spend running down his leg. After a moment, he was rewarded as M. Chabouillet's hand landed on his shoulder.

"That's all, Javert," M. Chabouillet said, calmly now, though his voice was still a little rough. "Tradition doesn't demand anything more. You can go home now."

Go home – like this, with his prick still desperately hard, with his hole sore and wet with his superiors' seed. Javert slowly pushed himself upwards, grimacing at his creaking joints. He buttoned his trousers and tried not to wince at the way the fabric chafed against his aching flesh.

Yes, he would go home like this. That must be part of it. Surely if tradition had allowed his release, he would have been granted it – would he not?

"Thank you, sir," he said, pulling on his greatcoat with more awkwardness than usual. Then he turned to M. Gisquet, who had buttoned up his trousers and seated himself behind the desk once more, and managed a bow. "Monsieur le Préfet."

The Prefect waved him off. M. Chabouillet smiled. Javert bowed again, then stiffly made his way out of the office.

He would not dream of criticising a superior, he thought as he closed the door behind him, but in one respect M. Gisquet was wrong: Javert was not careless. If he was, he would never have attempted the damn fondue to begin with. Everyone knew what trouble one could get into for the sake of a mouthful of bread.