Seeing little Ollie Peters dressed in a brassiere and silk slip was an oddly arousing sight. Not that Wesley admitted as much to his fellow sixth-formers. He suspected that such an admission would lose him the privileges of respect and safety conferred upon his lofty Head Boy position.

To put it in the demotic, they would kick the shit out of him. Not that Wesley ever would put anything in the demotic. He was a gentleman.

Wesley recalled the time he was forced to do what Peters was doing now.

Gosh. He was infinitely glad to be leaving this hellhole.