Mr Hale was probably the most handsome teacher in school. His firm hands looked amazing even though the thick, white fabric of his shirt and his tie always looked perfect; making Stiles want to pull at it and bring him closer, only to never let go.
Obviously, it didn't happen.
Because right now, the boy was busy burying his head in a pile of books and notes, eager to finish his essay already, as Mr Hale took a sip from his coffee.
"You know," he stated, "If you didn't cause me trouble every day, and came late to class every day in the past two weeks, we wouldn't have to be here," he teacher informed, taking another sip.
"I told you," Stiles said, looking a little annoyed, "My jeep has been causing me trouble lately. It wasn't my fault."
Mr Hale simply sighed, and focused his gaze back on the book he was holding.
Stiles rolled his eyes, knowing it wasn't going to end in any other way, and focused his eyes back on his essay, really wishing he could just make a magic trick and get it over with.
He tried to get a look at what Mr. Hale was reading because it seemed to keep the teacher very curious, but he failed.
Eventually, Stiles sighed and rested his hand on the table, not really in a mood of keep writing anymore.
The teacher rolled his eyes and got up. He ran a hand through his black, short, thick hair, and fixed it a bit before his hands reached for his glasses to fix them as well.
His tight, dark pants looked a little tight on his body as he bent over a bit, to get a better look at the page on the table, and turned it so he could read it. His eyes scanned the page, and he hummed from one moment to another as he read.
Stiles refused to notice it. Instead, he focused on his big palms, on his fingers running along the lines of the essay, humming and nodding, as his green - or were they brown? - eyes kept reading.
But that book - oh, crap. It kept \screaming\ at him to take a look, to notice it, to check what's written there.
But he couldn't.
Oh, well, maybe he could.
The hunter ran his fingers down the prisoner's back, slowly reaching his ass, stroking, softly, rubbing and grabbing... he prisoner leant back, towards the slim, long fingers, as the other stroked around his used hole, that's been opened so many times before...
The prisoner gasped and leant back, trying to get a little more friction, a little more touch - a little deeper. He shivered and leant back again, with a needy whimper.
"Please," he breathed out, spreading his cheeks a bit as he pressed his ass back, begging for more touch, "Please-" he begged again, "Please, Sir, I'm begging, more, I want you--"
Mr Hale straighten his standing and stood up again, then reached for his book. H fixed his large glasses and gave Stiles a curious look.
"Fix the third paragraph," he told him, "You didn't mix between the two texts I I gave and the notes I said in class. If you manage to finish it by this hour, we won't have to meet tomorrow again," he told him, and Stiles swallowed and nodded. He could feel his cock hardening, eager for a bit of attention, for a reaction - but he knew it couldn't happen.
Or maybe it could.