Lines Drawn

"I must not be a naughty boy," Blair scrawled for the final time. His cramped, ink-splotched hand was aching fiercely.

The watching prefect seemed to sense the task of 200 lines was near completion and walked over. He studied the lines, his breath warm on the back of Blair's neck.

Ellison. Head boy. Leaving for Oxford soon.

Blair had been his fag for four terms, protected, punished, taught his manners.


Ellison put his hand beside Blair's on the desk. "Banks doesn't like it when you're cheeky, young Sandburg."

"Wasn't," Blair muttered, feeling his cheeks heat. "He translated the tag incorrectly. T'isn't fair."

There was a scrape as a chair was pulled out and then, under the cover of the desk, with the gaslight in the corner glowing softly, he let Ellison take his weary hand and rub it gently, easing the pain. Warmth soaked into tender skin and Blair sighed in heartfelt appreciation.

He'd need that hand later, when it would curve and cup eager flesh, when Ellison would be the one groaning in pleasure.

"I'll miss you." Oxford, the army; Ellison's life was mapped out for him

Ellison smiled enigmatically. "I won't lose sight of you, trust me."

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