St. Andrews' Saints

ST. ANDREWS' SAINTS 3


"Coo! A strawberry ice lolly! – I say, Master Hayes – and where might you have gotten such a thing?" Butters nodded approvingly.

"I'm not at liberty to say," answered Darren prudently, as he handed it to Butters.

"And you can do this regular-like?" Butters asked greedily.

"Probably once a month..." answered Darren cautiously, unsure of how often he could sneak away from the dorm with some small blocks of ice to keep the lolly cold in transport. "I could provide this for as long the source remains...for whom I faggot for, that is!" he clarified carefully. "I shan't be able to transport more than one without melting..."

"I should think with all that gold of yours, that you'd be able to keep your own small freezer here!" Butters laughed probingly.

//Ah yes...the fictitious gold that Master Jones committed me to providing, claiming it might save my hide at least until Christmastime...by then he might be dependent on me...even without the
gold//

"I won't have that until my father reaches port. He's in the Indian Ocean for the next two months," the fourth form-er explained pragmatically.

"Well, all good things comes to those who waits, right?" answered Butters agreeably with his impoverised grammar, lifting his brows, envisioning bars of gold from the Orient while he now slurped upon his extraordinarily tasty lolly, with his thick, wide tongue.

"An assurance could be looked favorably upon," answered Darren. "Caldicott means to show me his reins at the picnic!"

"Yes, well...we can discuss this after dinner then. I'd like to see how well you can do lab notes on my science project..."

~ ~ ~

Master Jones:

A teary-eyed, red-faced Darren returned to my room two days later. He had not attended any "picnic" that I envisioned as a proper picnic outing. Poor lad.

"I can't sit down..." Darren protested, crying sadly, looking very beaten in spirit. "How will I study, or attend classes? I can barely walk!" His look was very forlorn and sad.

"They allow boys who have been severely "chastised" to stand at the back of the class. I shan't worry about that, except that people will know. But they all know Caldicott's a bastard. They will expect it! Lay down on your stomach, Darren, and I will apply a cold towel – it will help..."

He whimpered as he went to lay down, and hissed in pain as he lowered his shorts and underwear.

His backside was very red. They had used the paddle without mercy.

"There's no way *anyone* can keep up!" Darren explained, sniffling.

"It was the point of the whole thing, Darren. You weren't meant to keep up. They wanted the excuse to hurt you, and make you fear them."

"I just HATE them!"

"Then they've won, then, haven't they? You will always be in their clutches! Hate won't let you go in peace..."

"Do you not hate them intensely?" he asked disbelievingly.

"They're bullies and they're afraid of anyone who cares too deeply. I used to hate them, but someday, you will need to do the same," I advised him charily.

He fell silent at this revelation.

"I shall stop feeling then!" he declared. "And I won't treat the lower formers like that!"

I laughed. "How do think they got that way, Darren? By saying exactly the same thing." His pout attained the depth of a chipmunk whose entire winter stash had been pirated from his tree as another tear rolled out. I meant to give him a kiss of comfort on the cheek then, but sensing
me, he jerked his head my way nervously at precisely that instant, his lips brushing clumsily against my own. Unthinkingly, as to magnets, I discovered myself pulled unerringly to them. To possess those unclaimed, plush pale cherries in entirety. And even beyond. But even as the
dizzying heat of his alive, sweet lips began to drive my senses skyward...as they almost imperceptibly began to throb back in answer, I found myself suddenly hurtling back to earth and pulling away abruptly, as my invisibly torn lips protested the retreat.

Avoiding a most forbidden fruit that I had no wish to be caned senseless over.

He whimpered again, and I would like to ever believe it was not because of his pain. I stroked his hair once comfortingly, moving it from his face, and went and soaked a towel in cold water for him. Then laid it upon his inflamed posterior. And applied a washcloth to his sun-streaked face.

He cried out in pain as the cloth of the large towel landed upon him and I pressed it flush upon him. They were skilled enough they had not broken the skin. They meant to have more fun with him yet, apparently...

"You won't speak of my comfort to you...nor take inferences..." I warned.

"No, Master Jones," he croaked piteously.

He looked such a pained, matyred, yet lovely sight before me. Why had my senses left me? I wanted to cradle him in my arms like a baby.

Perhaps I would be too soft myself, to be a proper sixth form-er when the time came.

~ ~ ~

TBC