On The Subject Of School
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Romance › General
Rating:
Adult +
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856
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Category:
Romance › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
856
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
On The Subject Of School
Simon wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve, looked across the room and snorted loudly. “What kind of shameless dildo do you have to be to walk into one of these places and ask for a banana-caramel frappuccino? I mean, really.”
David hummed, sighed and turned back to his book. It seemed a little unjust to him that the girl on the opposite table should be critiqued so sneeringly by someone who had just employed a faux Italian accent to order his café latte, but he didn’t say so. But he didn’t say anything else, either, so Simon stretched out so his chair was balanced on it’s back two legs and began staring vacantly out of the window.
Whoever the girl was, she didn’t seem to have heard, she was pressing a pair of little white earphones into each ear and flitting between the glossy pages of a magazine that seemed to be made up only of photographs.
After a few minutes passed, Simon let his chair rock forward with a clatter. “Come on,” he said, scratching his ear with his little finger. “Let’s go back. I’m tragically bored.”
“You go,” David replied. He took a long gulp of his coffee, which had gone cold and separated a little, and almost made him wretch. “I think I’ll stop for a bit.”
“Don’t be an arse, Davie.”
That got a raised eyebrow, but no reply. David turned the page of his book, scratched his nose and shifted his arse further back on the seat.
“Besides, you can’t,” Simon had already stood up and was pulling on his jacket. “Phillips is coming over tonight so you’ll have to dress properly for dinner.”
“Shit,” mumbled David, snapping his book shut. The hardback cracked so loudly the girl on the opposite table looked up in surprise. He stood up and donned his blazer, shoving the volume into his pocket along with the handful of change lying on his table.
As soon as they were in the street Simon whipped out a packet of cigarettes and stuck one between his teeth. He didn’t offer David one, so he got out his own. “That lass was looking at you,” said Simon out of the corner of his mouth, holding up his lighter to his mouth.
“Ah, bollocks,” said David, just because he knew that was what Simon wanted him to say. He waited for the inevitable response of ‘no rotting’ or some nonsensical phrase. He was a rare one for trying out different slangs on different people, and he seemed to think David was the ideal audience for 1920’s schoolboy slang.
It was most embarrassing; David could barely help but cringe whenever his sallow brother used the phrase ‘rum go’ in public, which he’d recently started doing with an alarming frequency. Only the week before he’d said it twice the same excruciating run-on sentence.
“No rotting! She really was!” David looked at Simon as he blew smoke out through his teeth. With his eyes half closed against the wind and his thin moustache, he looked like some sort of oriental nightmare. Lost for any response here, he shrugged and took a long drag. Then he frowned and asked why the Dean was bothering to pay a visit right in the middle of term.
“How should I know? Maybe Dad invited her so he could leer over his wife. You remember Rosie?”
David hummed. David had far from forgotten Rosalind. It seemed like an age since he had last spotted her, or thought he it was her, scurrying out of the school library late at night with her hair untidy and her buttons askew.
He’d been rather stunned at the time, and hadn’t hung around to see who she’d been with. He was rather disposed to like his headmaster’s young wife. He had not been quite been able to discern whether this was in spite of her reputation of spending so much time with he knickers around her ankles, or because of it.
To be sure, he had never tasted the delights of her bed. The furthest he’d ever got was to press one chaste kiss on her forehead outside the door to her flat. That had happened one cold October night a few months ago, when he’d stolen her away to the local vodka bar. Mr. Philips had abandoned her in a restaurant, mid-way through a meal, to go up to London, and David had just happened by and saw her through the window, looking desolate.
Playing the gallantry card, David ventured inside to join her. They’d finished off the meal together, berating Mr. Philips for his gross breach of gentlemanly conduct. David himself had felt very gentlemanly indeed as he footed the bill and then took her out for a drink afterwards. He also remembered feeling as smug as a swine in shite as he walked into the trendy little bar with Rosalind Philips on his arm, in full view of the fellow sixth-formers hanging about inside.
She proved to be something of a light-weight, getting rather giggly rather quickly, which David encouraged. They talked about romantic poetry most of the night, a subject which yielded no end of opportunity for innuendo.
They stumbled home a long time after midnight. Her bird-song laughter rang out through the dark streets and she hung off his arm, leaning on him all the way back.
Since Mr. Philips wasn’t expected back until the following afternoon, he could very easily have followed her into the cosy little flat and spend a far pleasanter night than he did most nights in his tiny room. But his conscience had given a twinge as she propositioned him on the doorstep, so all he’d done was kiss her forehead and bid her a good night.
At the time, he’d expected to regret it. He couldn’t tell anyone, not even his roommate, because having had given up his chance, he was a little embarrassed. But reflecting now, with a cold wind blowing in his face, he didn’t regret it much.
There were a few good reasons why, as well; firstly, just knowing he’d had the chance was some gratification, the evening as it had been was a very good memory. Besides that, he knew he’d got her drunk on purpose, and that had he gone through with it, his conscience would have pained him for taking advantage of her. Perhaps the most influential reason of all, his hope that one day he’s get a second chance, and stand a chance with her without the lashings of cheap vodka.
He ran over these reasons in his head as he showered, shaved and put on the clean shirt his mother had put out for him. His mother, the poor old thing, was now tearing around the kitchen trying to get dinner ready. Apparently, she had been screaming at the housemaid for most of the day. This David had from his younger sister, Claudia, whose usual response to strife in the family household was to steal the phone and lock her bedroom door, which was why she couldn’t give any more details.
She was preening her hair when David looked in her door. People don’t expect vanity from a vicar’s children, so a girl like Claudia has to be very careful. There are countless benefits available from having a family connection with the Almighty, so one wouldn’t want to mar the image. It took her hours to make sure her labours all look like a happy co-incidence.
“What?” she said to David‘s reflection in her mirror. Claudia has never been as articulate as Simon, or at least not unless she needed to be.
“What time are they coming?”
“Dunno.”
“Right.”
With that, David padded back across the corridor to the stairs. What now? A whiskey, he decided. That would do the trick. He helped himself to his father’s best, and the crystal tumblers that most families only use for show. He sat on the sofa and stared at the deep brown, waiting…as ever, waiting, this time for the doorbell to ring.
David hummed, sighed and turned back to his book. It seemed a little unjust to him that the girl on the opposite table should be critiqued so sneeringly by someone who had just employed a faux Italian accent to order his café latte, but he didn’t say so. But he didn’t say anything else, either, so Simon stretched out so his chair was balanced on it’s back two legs and began staring vacantly out of the window.
Whoever the girl was, she didn’t seem to have heard, she was pressing a pair of little white earphones into each ear and flitting between the glossy pages of a magazine that seemed to be made up only of photographs.
After a few minutes passed, Simon let his chair rock forward with a clatter. “Come on,” he said, scratching his ear with his little finger. “Let’s go back. I’m tragically bored.”
“You go,” David replied. He took a long gulp of his coffee, which had gone cold and separated a little, and almost made him wretch. “I think I’ll stop for a bit.”
“Don’t be an arse, Davie.”
That got a raised eyebrow, but no reply. David turned the page of his book, scratched his nose and shifted his arse further back on the seat.
“Besides, you can’t,” Simon had already stood up and was pulling on his jacket. “Phillips is coming over tonight so you’ll have to dress properly for dinner.”
“Shit,” mumbled David, snapping his book shut. The hardback cracked so loudly the girl on the opposite table looked up in surprise. He stood up and donned his blazer, shoving the volume into his pocket along with the handful of change lying on his table.
As soon as they were in the street Simon whipped out a packet of cigarettes and stuck one between his teeth. He didn’t offer David one, so he got out his own. “That lass was looking at you,” said Simon out of the corner of his mouth, holding up his lighter to his mouth.
“Ah, bollocks,” said David, just because he knew that was what Simon wanted him to say. He waited for the inevitable response of ‘no rotting’ or some nonsensical phrase. He was a rare one for trying out different slangs on different people, and he seemed to think David was the ideal audience for 1920’s schoolboy slang.
It was most embarrassing; David could barely help but cringe whenever his sallow brother used the phrase ‘rum go’ in public, which he’d recently started doing with an alarming frequency. Only the week before he’d said it twice the same excruciating run-on sentence.
“No rotting! She really was!” David looked at Simon as he blew smoke out through his teeth. With his eyes half closed against the wind and his thin moustache, he looked like some sort of oriental nightmare. Lost for any response here, he shrugged and took a long drag. Then he frowned and asked why the Dean was bothering to pay a visit right in the middle of term.
“How should I know? Maybe Dad invited her so he could leer over his wife. You remember Rosie?”
David hummed. David had far from forgotten Rosalind. It seemed like an age since he had last spotted her, or thought he it was her, scurrying out of the school library late at night with her hair untidy and her buttons askew.
He’d been rather stunned at the time, and hadn’t hung around to see who she’d been with. He was rather disposed to like his headmaster’s young wife. He had not been quite been able to discern whether this was in spite of her reputation of spending so much time with he knickers around her ankles, or because of it.
To be sure, he had never tasted the delights of her bed. The furthest he’d ever got was to press one chaste kiss on her forehead outside the door to her flat. That had happened one cold October night a few months ago, when he’d stolen her away to the local vodka bar. Mr. Philips had abandoned her in a restaurant, mid-way through a meal, to go up to London, and David had just happened by and saw her through the window, looking desolate.
Playing the gallantry card, David ventured inside to join her. They’d finished off the meal together, berating Mr. Philips for his gross breach of gentlemanly conduct. David himself had felt very gentlemanly indeed as he footed the bill and then took her out for a drink afterwards. He also remembered feeling as smug as a swine in shite as he walked into the trendy little bar with Rosalind Philips on his arm, in full view of the fellow sixth-formers hanging about inside.
She proved to be something of a light-weight, getting rather giggly rather quickly, which David encouraged. They talked about romantic poetry most of the night, a subject which yielded no end of opportunity for innuendo.
They stumbled home a long time after midnight. Her bird-song laughter rang out through the dark streets and she hung off his arm, leaning on him all the way back.
Since Mr. Philips wasn’t expected back until the following afternoon, he could very easily have followed her into the cosy little flat and spend a far pleasanter night than he did most nights in his tiny room. But his conscience had given a twinge as she propositioned him on the doorstep, so all he’d done was kiss her forehead and bid her a good night.
At the time, he’d expected to regret it. He couldn’t tell anyone, not even his roommate, because having had given up his chance, he was a little embarrassed. But reflecting now, with a cold wind blowing in his face, he didn’t regret it much.
There were a few good reasons why, as well; firstly, just knowing he’d had the chance was some gratification, the evening as it had been was a very good memory. Besides that, he knew he’d got her drunk on purpose, and that had he gone through with it, his conscience would have pained him for taking advantage of her. Perhaps the most influential reason of all, his hope that one day he’s get a second chance, and stand a chance with her without the lashings of cheap vodka.
He ran over these reasons in his head as he showered, shaved and put on the clean shirt his mother had put out for him. His mother, the poor old thing, was now tearing around the kitchen trying to get dinner ready. Apparently, she had been screaming at the housemaid for most of the day. This David had from his younger sister, Claudia, whose usual response to strife in the family household was to steal the phone and lock her bedroom door, which was why she couldn’t give any more details.
She was preening her hair when David looked in her door. People don’t expect vanity from a vicar’s children, so a girl like Claudia has to be very careful. There are countless benefits available from having a family connection with the Almighty, so one wouldn’t want to mar the image. It took her hours to make sure her labours all look like a happy co-incidence.
“What?” she said to David‘s reflection in her mirror. Claudia has never been as articulate as Simon, or at least not unless she needed to be.
“What time are they coming?”
“Dunno.”
“Right.”
With that, David padded back across the corridor to the stairs. What now? A whiskey, he decided. That would do the trick. He helped himself to his father’s best, and the crystal tumblers that most families only use for show. He sat on the sofa and stared at the deep brown, waiting…as ever, waiting, this time for the doorbell to ring.