The first day of term was always a bind: boys and trunks spilling everywhere, parents sniffing around with housemasters nervously hovering behind. Glastonbury stood amid the chaos, gently smiling, safe in the knowledge that come teatime the parents will have returned blurry-eyed to their homes in the country or in London, and the housemaster will have retreated to behind the study door. For he was largely irrelevant in the running of Field House; as house captain Glastonbury wielded far greater power. He was master in the eyes of the young things now running around, usually taking care to avoid the older and obviously more important boy. Occasionally one would bump into Glassers, as his chums called him, causing him to fix his steely gaze upon the unfortunate underling, memorising the face for later attention with Cato, his cane.

The bell rang for tea. There was the usual mad scrum to the dining room, followed by stuffing of faces. Then the bell tinkled, and silence fell over the dining room. Glassers rose. "Welcome back to all of you, and in the case of the new boys, welcome. My name is Glastonbury and I'm your house captain. I want to see all of you new boys in your common room straight after we finish here. Rise." Shuffling of feet, muttering of prayer, and the room emptied. Glassers went to the juniors' common room via his own study to pick up Cato, should he need to demonstrate his abilities.

Glastonbury had not had a chance to really look at the new boys, so he was keen to eye them over. As he walked into the common room twenty pairs of eyes shot a glance in his direction, and the boys stood up. Well brought up, Glassers smiled to himself. As he walked across the room he studied them all, looking smart in their uniforms. They all wore the same red blazer (with blue edging), tie and shirt as the other pupils but instead of long grey trousers they wore shorts, with grey stockings with red bands on the turnovers.

"Sit".

At that point the door creaked open and a dishevelled looking boy sidled in. Must be from another house with a message, the house captain thought. He'd better not bloody well be one of mine. His shirt hung out, his hair was a mess.

"S-s-sorry I'm late sir".

You will be sorry in a minute, thought Glastonbury. Ah well, he sighed, term really has started. He picked up Cato, and then said in very measured way,

"Come here boy. Now"

The unfortunate child walked to the middle of the room where Glastonbury was standing, in front of the house prefects who sat attentively.

"Number one. You do not call me sir, you call me Glastonbury. Number two, I do not abide lateness. Number three, I most certainly do not abide sloppy dress, and number four, I am going to beat you. Bend over and touch your toes". Glastonbury was pissed off. Every year, there's one. Lets the side down and has to be constantly beaten. It's good aiming practice, but the boy is still a wretched specimen and a disgrace to the house.

With that the boy, whose name was Perkins, slowly bent over, reaching out with his fingers for his feet. The material over his shorts stretched, showing the outline of the boy's bottom. Glastonbury drew back the cane, and...

CRACK. Perkins took in breath sharply. CRACK. A squeal of pain. CRACK. He was starting to cry. CRACK.

"Get up". Perkins slowly straightened up, with one hand wiping the tears from his face, the other rubbing his bottom.

Glastonbury began his lecture. "You boys are all now members of Field House. You will be expected to maintain the high standard of work, sportsmanship, discipline and behaviour that has been the hallmark of this house. It is my job to ensure that no-one lets the side down. Perkins here has already discovered the perils of not obeying these simple rules."

Perkins indeed was standing at the rear of the room, clutching his bottom. All the other boys turned to stare at him.

"You will all be fagging this year. Should you get through this year with a suitable standard of behaviour, you will progress to the intermediate dormitory, and be allowed to wear long trousers. Now, I'm sure no-one wants to spend their second year fagging in short trousers and sleeping in the junior dorm, do they?"

At that moment there was a knock at the door and the other seniors came in.

"Right then. You are now going to be chosen by your fagmasters. As there is one more boy than usual, I will be having the pleasure of two fags this year."

The other seniors sighed. That meant the two best looking boys would be gone. Glassers would be sure to take the most beautiful.

"Right. All of you line up against that wall. When you are called out, give your full name, the prep school you were at, what teams you were in, and other interests."

Glas began calling out names. Seniors scribbled down notes, along the lines of "a)...stunner, lovely voice: Glassers' for sure. b)....a bit dull, nice face, a poss."

Glastonbury picked out his two easily. Macfarlane was an incredibly beautiful blonde lad, small and slight but in no way puny - he had been a 1st XV scrum half and winger. From the look in his eye Glas knew he was no stranger to _s_e_x_ual adventure, indeed he was sure to become a tart in time. Gallagher was different; more reserved, a freckled, brown haired boy who had only been in the cricket team - a bit delicate, perhaps. That'll change for sure. One thing was certain - he had never been taken.

to be continued...