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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: NC-17. Mild bondage. School uniforms. Taunting.
Pairing: Arthur/Lancelot/Guinevere
Feedback: Good lines, bad ones, etc.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: ‘Pants’ is Britspeak for ‘underwear.’
Summary: Occasionally Arthur has fun with his academic side.
***
Arthur rounded the corner. Then he stopped. Stared.
His memories of the British school system were never going to be the same.
Humming softly, Lancelot finished doing up the wide navy-blue tie, his fingers elegantly twisted around it to follow its narrow red stripes. He hadn’t gotten to the jacket and vest, which was carelessly thrown over the chair, but the dark slacks and light blue shirt were enough. Cotton that was crisp enough to beg for fingers to wrinkle it, yet soft enough to flow nicely over the spare lines of his body. Slightly bedraggled cuffs, still bearing faint stains around the edges. Inexpertly starched collar that stood crooked and thus drew attention to the curve of his neck and the black of his hair against his pale skin.
“Still fits. I’ll be damned,” he muttered. He quit fussing with his tie and stepped back so he could do a slow pivot before the floor-length mirror Guinevere had insisted on installing in the bedroom. Vain thing that he was, he admired his own arse.
Admittedly, it did look exceptionally good in those slacks. They weren’t tight but were clinging, rounding over the top and then sloping away to draw eyes into the…
Arthur shook his head and muttered to himself, and Lancelot finally got around to looking at the door. Whereupon Lancelot did something Guinevere had once characterized as ‘jazzy-hands on speed’ and nearly flung himself into the mirror. When he finally subsided, he was half-hanging off the chair back, eyes wide and hair a mess. It seemed he’d showered recently and hadn’t bothered dousing his hair with the maximum-strength gel he usually used, so now it was in rumpled curls all around his face.
All he needed was a damned pen to suck on, and he’d look exactly like October from the ‘Naughty British Schoolboys’ calendar Kitty perversely kept tacked to her message-board.
“Christ! Stop doing that,” Lancelot gasped. He distractedly pulled at his hair, then tugged at his collar so his tie loosened. The top collar of his shirt wasn’t buttoned, Arthur saw. “What are you doing here?”
I’m trying to decide between killing you for perverting cherished memories and bending you over my desk, suggested a voice in Arthur’s head. He smacked it away and told his prick that was not funny, damn it. “Merlin got an emergency call from one of the film studies professors, so the meeting ended early. What…ah…is that your…”
Lancelot blinked. Then he looked himself over, grinning. His hand smoothed down his tie, shifting and pulling at his shirt so it stretched tight over his shoulders and belly, and Arthur remembered just in time to remind himself never to mention who’d initiated him into sex at Oxford. God knew where Percy had gotten off to now, but if he was alive, Guinevere and Lancelot could find him and…damn it, but he’d never been as provoking as Lancelot. And Lancelot wasn’t even trying right now. “Oh, right. Guin is in one of her cleaning spasms and insisted we clear out some of those boxes we just dropped in your attic. Found our old uniforms and thought…”
“It fits!” Guinevere trilled, whirling in from the bathroom. Her face was already a bit flushed and her eyes were dancing with the simple, undiluted pleasure of victory. “Isolde can go eat her knickers, that cunt. ‘Haven’t changed dress sizes in three years.’ Well, it’s been a lot long—oh! Arthur.”
‘Fit’ wasn’t the precise term for it. Actually, Arthur could think of several better words, but they were all filthy slang from the days when he’d been able to get drunk without worrying about letting secrets loose. Guinevere’s skirt was dark blue, but tending more towards gray than Lancelot’s slacks, and it was snug around the waist while flaring voluptuously about her thighs. And it was a bit short—they certainly hadn’t gotten away with skirts that high in Arthur’s day, and British schools being what they were, that probably hadn’t changed—so her legs looked endless, long, and in serious need of…Arthur pulled his eyes upward. But not to safer ground, unfortunately, for her white buttondown was hanging loose so the tails dangled nearly to the hem of her skirt. The rest of the shirt was enticing in its looseness, its folds echoing the curves of Guinevere’s breasts and the dip of her waist. As for her tie, it was merely draped around her neck so its ends could go flying off where someone really should be catching them and twining them around their…
Either that was a headache beginning to form behind Arthur’s eyes, or he was about to damage someone. He idly wondered if Tristan knew a cheaper place to buy chairs. They were running through an awful lot of them these days.
A few years of covert intelligence had left Arthur with a very, very good sense of when he was being watched, and right now he was. Lancelot had gotten over his surprise and now speculatively eying Arthur, one knee up on the chair so he could rest his elbow on its back and thus his chin on his hand. “Guin. Stop prancing for a moment.”
“I don’t prance. You do.” But she did stop twitching her skirt about to look first at Lancelot and then at Arthur, who was beginning to feel a bit panicky. It was usually a bad sign when they stopped bickering and started thinking simultaneously.
After a moment, Lancelot pushed off the chair. He glanced over his shoulder, saw that Arthur’s desk was clear—because he’d had to do all his work in his college office in order to not get interrupted quite so often—and promptly sprawled himself on it. His legs dangled wide, his head lolled not-so-innocently against the wall, and he started playing with that damned tie. “Nice to see you back early, professor,” he purred, eyes half-lidded.
“I have to start teaching again in two months. This is going to make that difficult.” But in an American college where they don’t have uniforms that taunt you with rumples, whined that irritating voice. It’d shown up about a week ago and it sounded like a mishmash of post-coital Lancelot and Guinevere. An utter monster.
“You’re teaching in America. Where so much flesh is on display that it’s revolting. I’m sure this won’t affect your professionalism concerning that.” Lip curling, Guinevere daintily made her way to stand in front of Lancelot, her back to him. She normally walked with a brisk grace that blew over people as much as it mesmerized, but now she was purposely slowing it down. Letting her pleats spread and tighten around her in lewd metaphor, if Arthur happened to make the connection. “Nothing for it like a good school uniform, is there? Professor Pendragon?”
And she literally oozed up to cuddle against Lancelot’s chest, one hand reaching back to slowly unfurl his tie from its knot. She tugged experimentally on it a few times, but apparently him nibbling her ear and easing a hand beneath her shirt-tails wasn’t exactly what she wanted. Pouting, she turned her head and nipped resentfully at the ends of his tie. Though one eye rolled a little to watch Arthur’s reaction.
“Want to proofread my latest report?” Lancelot snickered. He lazily pushed the chair out of the way with his toes. His hand spent some time wandering just beneath Guinevere’s shirt before it slid out and down, down the pleats so they were crushed to show the outline of Guinevere’s thigh to ease up the skirt-hem. Her breath hitched and she did a convincing imitation of a teenage girl just swishing her foot in the water. “Or, well, we could skip to the part where you decide to forcefully improve my…application to grammar.”
“I’m terrified to think of what you were like in upper sixth. Thank God we went to schools halfway across the country to each other.” Though Guinevere didn’t sound at all terrified. More like she’d just had a bowl of cream and it’d been lovely, thank you, but now the bowl was empty. And oh, yes, Lancelot’s shirt did have buttons. She undid one, then twirled both their ties over the bared skin. He murmured low in his throat and pushed her skirt up another inch so Arthur could see nearly to her…was she wearing underwear?
Oh, for God’s sake. And they looked so smug.
There’d been a bloody reason the British government had started trying to recruit him when he’d just gotten into university, and it didn’t involve his tendency to stammer uncomfortably at shameless teasing. And there was also a reason he’d survived this long, which was why he shut the door and checked the window latches before finally coming over. “I hope you two aren’t terribly attached to those uniforms.”
“Why—” Guinevere started to say, but then her lips made a pink ‘o’ that was perfect for Arthur’s tongue. Because he had her by the hair, and he was thoroughly enjoying how slack her mouth was when she was off-guard.
His other hand had bypassed the teasing and twisted behind her to find that Lancelot already had a considerable erection nestling her back. Not surprising, as her arse was just as good as his. But for Arthur’s money—not that he’d ever tell him because they’d quarrel incessantly and they already did that without incentive—Lancelot made the more delicious squeaking sounds.
One thing operative training was good for was teaching one how to multitask. Another thing was how to manipulate things in dark and cramped places. So he had Lancelot’s slacks open in a trice without ever losing his grip on Guinevere’s mouth. When her tongue finally squirmed to life, he left off her and moved to biting at a glassy-eyed Lancelot’s jaw. “Because frankly, at this point I think I’m going to rip them off you.”
“That sounds—ohgod.” Lancelot squirmed, but between Guinevere’s weight and Arthur’s firm hold, he was pinned. Good. If he was going to ask for a ravishing, then he’d damn well expect to get one.
“Clearly your school records didn’t do you justice. They made you out to be a model student,” Guinevere panted. Her palms pressed against Arthur’s chest, clutched at his shirt because he’d gotten his hand out of her hair and beneath her skirt. All the way up, instead of just loitering around like Lancelot had been doing. No, no pants, and Arthur had to wonder for a moment if that’d been Lancelot’s influence or whether it’d been the other way around.
Then Lancelot made a feeble bid to meet Arthur, head twisting roughly about to snatch a kiss from Arthur’s mouth, and Arthur’s focus snapped back. He let Lancelot kiss him, and then he kissed him back to within an inch of his life. Cracked open his mouth and raped it till Lancelot was grinding his own head into the wall and his hand was clawing wildly at Arthur’s back. By all rights, Guinevere should have been complaining about being trapped between them, but she seemed to be having problems with thinking around Arthur’s thumb rubbing her clit. He could already feel the moistness of her cunt change, thicken and he knew if he were to back off Lancelot, drop to his knees and take a long lick, it’d be sweet as honey now.
“I thought I was a professor? At least, that’s what the frames on my office wall say,” Arthur said. He admitted to being amused at the way the two of them first looked stunned, then indulgent and then outraged. No, he didn’t do this often. If he did, he’d never get out of the damned bedroom. And one of his past errors probably would have caught up with him by now.
That sobered him for a moment. Almost long enough for Lancelot to yank him down and tip the balance. Bless the man for always knowing when to remind Arthur he was annoyed at him.
It was too late to avoid getting pulled in, but Arthur could duck at the last moment, tilt and go for the soft flesh of Lancelot’s throat. His lips closed over silk and he sucked around the tie while his index finger snaked up into Guinevere’s warm body. Her clit was growing hot, firmer, and her breathing on his neck was quite ragged. She’d given up on holding his shoulders and seemed to be clinging to the edge of the desk.
It was a bit of a shame to take his hands from them. And she certainly protested—a soft, whining noise that made Lancelot look at her twice. “I can’t tie a knot one-handed in this position,” Arthur told her, reasonably enough.
“And there is a position where you can—hey!” Lancelot twisted, but not fast enough to avoid having his hands pulled behind his head. Arthur kissed him again, hard and messy and full of sliding teeth, while tightening the tie around his wrists, and then while Lancelot was still gasping Arthur slipped the free end over his mouth. Fastened the gag and then ran his tongue over the silk till between him and Lancelot, it was quite sodden. And Lancelot was limp against the wall, his shirt sticking to his sweaty skin so there was a tempting stretch of throat smoothing into chest.
“And now that you’ve gotten him to shut up, can we—” Whatever else Guinevere had been about to say was cut off by a string of Welsh curses.
Ignoring that, Arthur put his hands back. Only three fingers this time, and her knees jumped open, her skirt hiked high and crushed to her belly. Some of the pleats weren’t springing back into shape, Arthur noted. She was suddenly melting into him, hands hungry all over his back and mouth pinned to a certain spot beneath his jaw that temporarily altered the rhythm of his breath. Her hips ground relentlessly backward and he could see they were taking their toll on Lancelot, who hadn’t even managed to jerk his hands once before he was moaning and trying just as hard as Guinevere to force Arthur to go faster.
Unfortunately for them, he wasn’t yet in the mood for that. Instead he let Guinevere ride his fingers, only thrusting and twisting them enough to meet her own movements, and with their constrained space that wasn’t nearly adequate. The cotton of Lancelot’s shirt had turned translucent with all the sweat that had soaked into it and plastered to him, pointing up how his nipples had hardened. Arthur addressed that matter at some length with his tongue—wrung out an entirely new whimper when he added teeth—and teased the jumping muscles of Lancelot’s side. Found out exactly what kind of handful their arses made through heavy slacks and rumpled skirt. And finally, when Guinevere began to slow from exhaustion, moved his hand behind her to deal with the prick he’d left unattended.
It was smearing all over the back of her shirt and it took a few moments for Arthur to fight away the folds and get a decent fistful of Lancelot’s cock. “On second thought, I suppose I should leave the clothes on you. Ruins the effect otherwise.”
And his fingers clawed a scream out of Guinevere, and they squeezed Lancelot into whipping himself so his head cracked with an audible thump against the wall.
“The effect was what you were going for, I believe?” Arthur took his time removing his hands. He thought about wiping them clean before he untied Lancelot, but a certain look in the other man’s eyes convinced him otherwise.
Just as well, for as soon as the tie was out of his mouth, Lancelot was bringing his hands around front without even waiting for Arthur to undo that knot. He had Arthur’s middle finger sucked between his lips in a heartbeat and his tongue working beneath the nail, over the cuticle, into every damned wrinkle like his life depended on it.
Guinevere was slightly more languid, preferring to bite Arthur’s neck where either he’d have to risk Kitty’s smiling inquiries tomorrow or work from home. “I’d say…more like we were investigating a cause, but the effect of it is certainly desirable. I wonder if I can pinch some of my cousins’ uniforms next time I have to visit the brats.”
Lancelot spat out Arthur’s finger, took a lick at the come smeared over Arthur’s other hand, and then made a mock-pitiful face. “I had fond memories of this tie,” he said, dangling the wrenched, wet ends before Arthur’s face. He held the pose for a moment, then grinned and nipped savagely at Arthur’s lip. “But I guess it’s an honorable way for a tie to die. Professor.”
“My sympathies to your old ones,” Arthur muttered. “You’ve no respect for the title at all, do you?”
“Respect hardly gets me flipped over and fucked into next semester, does it?” Arched eyebrow, liquid chocolate voice that obscenely rounded the vowels and drew out every ‘s.’ As he licked the rest of Arthur’s hands clean, Lancelot neither moved his gaze from Arthur nor blinked. “By the way, if one of those googly-eyes from your lectures ever—”
Arthur licked gently at the darkened corner of Lancelot’s mouth where the pressure of the tie had bruised. “There’s a reason I hold my office hours in the library. And what makes you so sure that you’re going to be ‘flipped over and fucked into next semester’?”
“Well, we’re sticky, but all still dressed. That isn’t usually how we end things.” Guinevere was busily remedying that, starting with Arthur’s belt. “And we’re certainly too smug to have learned our lesson yet, aren’t we?”
“I should brush up on my Machiavelli, clearly,” Arthur snorted.
Lancelot stretched and smiled again. His mouth was wet and red and bruised, his clothes were thoroughly disheveled—Arthur had seen pornographic engravings that looked less debauched—and yet he somehow managed to resemble an urchin. “Private tutoring session. Everyone benefits.”
***