In the second part, Mr. George takes up the narrative.
Timmy and Joseph are my first new boys in many years. In fact, I had nearly persuaded myself that I finally had conquered my inclination towards pederasty after the experience with Luke. Luke was a newsie when first I encountered him, shouting his lurid headlines on Maiden Lane. He was a ginger boy, like Timmy -- the kind of boy I find it hard to resist.
Less than a year later, he was pimpled all over -- almost repulsive. Well, perhaps "almost" is too mild. For all that, he was never especially receptive to me, and never an especially good servant either. When he turned fifteen, stole the household funds, and set off for the silver mines of the Rocky Mountains, I cannot say I was terribly upset. Yes, he left a note behind, suggesting that I "never really loved him" -- impudent, but not inaccurate. Fine. May he prosper in the Wild West, and may he escape the depredations of the surviving savages. Good riddance to bad rubbish.
Luke, inadequate as he was, was only my second. My first and best, of course, was Oscar. He was raised his first nine years by decent parents who kept a dry goods store just off Spring Street. Sadly (except for me), they were taken by the yellow fever. Unlike Timmy and Joseph, he speaks a reasonable dialect of the English language, and he was a very affectionate boy in the aftermath of his loss. I might have brought him into banking were he a bit less effeminate -- well, perhaps more than a bit -- but he has done well in my service, and he will gain a substantial amount upon my demise.
It was unusual that I was on Bank Street that day. My employer, Mr. J. P. Morgan, sent me to confer on a matter of business with the manager of the Greenwich Village branch of the Bank of New York. My business concluded, I was ready to proceed to my home when I was confronted with an entirely angelic face over a tray of matches. Unable to resist, I reached out to touch that face. Not long afterward, Timmy and Joseph, from whom Timmy refuses to be separated, were being sluiced with soapy water in my kitchen.
I peeked in at their naked young bodies, and was aroused more than I had been in years -- especially when I observed how much dear Oscar appreciated his opportunity to bathe them. I don't know if they noticed the bulge in his trousers, but it was visible enough to me.
Both are of Irish ancestry, I imagine, although Joseph seems to be one of those they call "black Irish," descended from Spanish sailors who survived the destruction of the Armada. He is a very attractive boy, and his dark hair does not detract from his ivory skin and his other boyish charms.
Work was keeping me busy at the time, and one never disappoints Mr. Morgan, who is very generous to those who serve him well and soon rid of those who do not. That, along with my desire to let the boys come to me of their own volition, kept me from taking much pleasure in them in those first weeks.
It was Oscar, yet again, who took pains to see to my joy. I left it to Oscar to have livery sewn for my new servants, and naturally I was not surprised when their outfits turned out a bit more flamboyant than I might have chosen on my own. Still, the purple and lilac shades delighted my aunts, even if they were not a perfect complement to Timmy's auburn hair. Oscar had instructed them in the proper way to serve at table, my aunts commented on how very "decorative" my new footmen appeared.
Oscar truly surprised me at the next dinner with my aunts, though. As he was serving the turtle soup, he leaned in to whisper that I should reach beneath the tails of the boys' coats for a pleasant surprise. Timmy came to stand beside my chair a moment or so later, so I did as Oscar said to do, and discovered the secret of that night's livery -- his coattails were all that covered his bare bottom. Oscar and his friend the tailor had contrived a costume that allowed me to relieve the tedium of conversing with my elderly aunts without their ever knowing it. Timmy flashed a very enchanting smile, so I continued to fondle his tender young cheeks.
Happily I was seated, so my aunts could not see the stirring in my lap. I had to reach my other hand down to adjust the ramrod which had arisen in my trousers. Then I noticed the bit of unused butter at the edge of my bread dish. "Dare I?" I wondered. "How will he respond, and what will my aunts think if he responds either badly or too well?"
My appetites overruled my better judgement. Releasing my grasp on his sweet, soft globes for just a moment, I scooped up the butter on the end of my middle finger, then returned the finger to that lovely crevice and rubbed the butter all around that irresistible little anus. My aunts blathered on about a recent performance of Don Giovanni as a look of pleasure spread across Timmy's face. Throwing caution to the winds, I pushed my finger into that hot little orifice and began working it in and out.
Timmy wiggled a bit, then thrust himself back onto my invading digit, closing his eyes and releasing a long, shuddering breath. My aunts were oblivious, and went on extolling the virtues of the baritone Antonio Scotti as I delved the depths of my beautiful boy. The ring of muscle at his entranceway flexed around my second knuckle as I pushed in and out. From his look, I had no doubt I was pleasuring him. Indeed, I was taking so much pleasure in his pleasure that my own breathing was rapid and my face must have gone quite red. When I felt his passageway grasp at my finger and a shudder move through his body, a shudder moved through my own, and I knew my coat must be closed when I escorted my aunts to their carriage, because my own release certainly left a telltale dark circle on my pale gray trousers.
The meal lasted far too long. Following the soup came green salad, then roast goose on a bed of saffron rice with mushrooms and green peas, then a trifle of custard, cake, and stewed apples, accompanied by India tea. My aunts moved from opera to their late husbands to some acquaintance's outrageous hat, to I know not what. I sniffed my finger and sighed, but finally it was over. The boys cleared the table as I escorted my aunts to their carriage. Cook already had left for her home, somewhere on the lower east side.
I looked into the kitchen when I returned from the door. When Oscar set eyes on me, he put a hand over his mouth, feigning an attempt to stifle hilarious laughter. The boys had removed their coats and were washing up the dishes, their pert little bottoms entirely exposed. Although neither turned from his task, Timmy clearly knew I had come by because he graced me with an enticing little wiggle.
"If you'd care to," I said, "all of you are invited to visit me in my suite once the chores are done."
"Oh," said Oscar, in that mincing tone of his, "a foursome, then! What fun! Shall I bring the butter?"
It has been many years since Oscar and I were physically intimate. After his parents were taken, my attorney learned of his availability for adoption from a colleague who administered their small estate. The lad was mentioned to me in passing, with some regret that a boy of decent parentage must be assigned to a Catholic orphanage for want of another place. What seemed to bother my attorney most was that the boy was not of Roman parentage, and he despised the thought of a proper Episcopalian boy raised by Papists.
The priests, I have no doubt, would have found Oscar delightful -- but since my attorney was so very perturbed, I had him arrange for me to meet with the boy with the notion that he might be taken into my service. As soon as I lay eyes upon him, I knew he must be mine.
Oscar must have been born a Sodomite, because it is impossible that Episcopalian shopkeepers could have raised him to be as entrancing as he was. The posturing and flirtation he displayed at our first meeting exceeded my wildest fantasies -- albeit, except for a bit of schoolboy fumbling, fantasies were all I had known at that time. I had to have him.
I shall never forget that morning. He fairly leapt across the room to my side and covered my face with boyish kisses. Well, perhaps they were not so boyish, for they were upon my neck and there was a bit of his tongue in each of them, and they were very many. A priest had brought him, along with Mr. Plover, my attorney. I managed to pull the little devil down to my lap and constrain him in an embrace.
"Oh, what a loving boy," I stuttered, holding his thrusting mouth somewhat away from my face and neck. "Constrain yourself, youngster, and show respect for your new master."
Even though I was new to Mr. Morgan's bank, and scarcely earning enough to support myself much less a servant, I used my scant savings to "make a contribution" to the priest's orphanage. And so, Oscar joined me in my home, a small and in no way luxurious flat over a haberdasher's shop near Bowery, albeit superior to the teeming immigrant alleys not many blocks away. His utility as a servant, in those days, was extremely limited, but I didn't care. He was beautiful, he was delicious, he was consumed with sexual hunger, and he was mine.
Truly, though, which of us was the master and which the slave in those early days was a matter of conjecture. He came to live in my small flat, was fitted with very modest livery, and did his best to make me appear the gentleman -- but had anybody known the true nature of our relationship, I doubt I might have worked for Mr. Morgan nor anybody else in the banking world not similarly inclined.
I still am not sure if he loved me in those first days, even though he could rouse me from whatever I might have been doing to erect and straining ardor with no more than a glance. There were so many nights I covered him with kisses, and he happily returned my affections -- but was it truly love? I was so young back then, and sure I had met the love of my life. As I grow older, though, I realize I never have been entirely sure about love. I know it is not at all like it is in ballads and poems.
My home had no servant's quarters, but I made him a bed in a tiny room that must might have been intended as a pantry. It made no difference because he never once slept there -- from the first night forward, he shared my bed, and I could not understand how the son of Episcopalian shopkeepers could have learned some of the erotic tricks he knew. When I asked, all he ever said was, "Why? Don't you like it?"
I loved it. His hands sent electric shocks through my body as he stroked my ribs, my nipples, the insides of my thighs; but it was his mouth, and especially his tongue, that gave me greatest delight. He liked to begin with licks and kisses on my shoulders, then went on to my neck as his hands moved over my lower body. Soon his lips would be pressed against mine, his tongue sliding against my own as one little hand grasped my hair to push my face harder against his, and the other reached to squeeze my manhood with hungry ardor.
Our first night together, that was as much as occurred. Remember, he was my first real partner, not counting two or three clumsy school chums back in my own boyhood. When he gripped my rod, years of frustrated need welled up in me and shot forth like a geyser, leaving the two of us virtually covered in my juices, and a bit more of my essence dripping from the bedpost.
Quite frankly I was drained, and as enervated as one of Doctor Krafft-Ebing's inverts after years of self-abuse. Not bothering to wipe away the mess, I just fell asleep, Oscar in my arms.
Oscar's mouth, his tongue, were magical -- so much so that I knew he had practiced on someone before he came to me, but he never would say. Once I thought about it, I decided that was good. If he refused to say anything about his previous lover or lovers, presumably he would say nothing about me.
As I came to be more accustomed to his attentions, I was better able to prolong my pleasures, even as his mouth found its way to my pizzle and near gobbled it up. His own little peg was quite tasty indeed, and, with some practice, I was able to offer him delights similar to those he offered me, although I never could hope to acquire his exquisite skill.
He liked to feel my finger up his bum while I sucked him, but nothing larger. I can recall the conversation when I broached the subject:
"You like my finger. You might like being properly buggered even more."
"No, I don't think so."
"Won't you try it just once?"
"Don't want to. Well, not unless..."
"Not unless what?"
"Unless I could do it to you too."
I thought about it, but it didn't seem proper. After all, I was the master and he the servant. Without thinking, I told him as much.
"You may be master of the house," he replied, "but you're no master of the bedroom."
A better master would have beaten him for such cheek, but I could not bring myself to do it -- especially since what he said was true. I satisfied myself with his marvelous mouth for four ecstatic years. Then, in a matter of weeks it seemed, his little peg became a log in a broad patch of moss, and he lost the best part of his charm. I kept him on as a valet, and made him my butler three years after that, when my earnings at Mr. Morgan's bank grew great enough to buy my present home.
Luke let me put it in him, but he just lay there like a lump as I thrust away. Not long after, he was ugly, and not long after that, he was gone with my money. I prefer not to think of that now -- not when perfect little Timmy will soon come to my chamber, and the very enticing Joseph as well.
If only Oscar can teach them his oral expertise, I shall be a very happy man for many nights to come.
Next: "Hail, hail, the gang's all here!"
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