(No warnings -- you know why you're here.

If you just jumped right in here to part three, and skipped one and two, you missed a couple of decent wanks, as well as a good deal of plot and character development. Shame on you, thankless pervert!

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The River

Part Three

Mr. Wilder wanted to lick my little nipples a bit first thing in the morning, but then his duties called, and we had to put off further pleasures for a while. I ran back to the cabin I shared with Charles to tell him about my lovely experience, and share my happiness with a shower of kisses.

I found Charles belly down on our bunk, with a wet rag inserted between his naked bum cheeks. I could tell he'd been crying. I sat as gently as I could on the edge of the bunk, and kissed him softly on his tearstained face. "What happened?" I asked.

"The Captain," he said. "The bloody fucking drunk fucked the shit out of me with that fucking giant cock of his, and never even bothered to use no grease nor nothing. And it hurt like bloody hell, and it still does."

"Are you torn?" I asked.

"Don't know," he told me. "Can't see my own bloody arsehole, now, can I?"

I could see it, though. I gently removed the wet rag, and there was a spot of blood on it, but not a great deal. His hole, though, still looked enormous, all stretched out and reddened. "Oh, Charles," I said, unable to restrain my tears, "I'm so sorry. I'm going to tell Mr. Wilder, and see if he has some balm to make it feel better."

"No!" Charles insisted. "It were Wilder give me to Captain James when he tired of me. Grew a couple of hairs on my cock, and he was right off to the orphanage to find himself a new boy. You."

It came as a great shock to me. Ten minutes earlier, I was certain I loved Mr. Wilder, and that he loved me, but I suppose Charles felt loved as well in earlier times. Then poor Charles was pushed aside, and given into the hands of a hairy drunkard with no self control and no compassion. How long would it be before I shared the same fate?

..........

Charles stayed behind in our little cabin while I went to breakfast. The Captain, clearly, was feeling the effects of the drink he'd imbibed the night before, but Mr. Wilder was as charming as ever. I mostly stayed quiet, and went back to Charles as soon as I could. Cooky, who somehow seemed to know everything that happened aboard the Kingston Queen, gave me an egg sandwich to take to Charles and a little jar of ointment. "Should ease him right up," he told me. "Don't say nothing to the boss 'bout me giving you this."

Back in our cabin, Charles had been crying again. I offered him the sandwich, but he said he wasn't hungry. Then I showed him Cooky's ointment, and he let me rub it gently on his inflamed hole, which was not looking quite so wide as it had earlier. "How does it feel?" I asked.

"Stings a bit," he said, "but it's taking away the burn. I'll have to tell Cooky thanks."

Then he said, "Thomas, I think I have to run away. I can't let him do me like that again."

"But where would you go?" I asked.

"Out west, maybe. If I learnt to ride a horse, maybe I could be a cowboy. Or get me a job on one of those Mississippi paddleboats, but one where the Captain won't ram his horsecock up my arse."

..........

The trip downriver was faster than the trip upriver, partly because of the current, I guess, but also because we made fewer stops along the way. We arrived at the broad expanse of the Tappan Zee by dusk, and Mr. Wilder decided to continue on to the West Side docks of Manhattan so he could spend the night in the comfort of his town house. The cargo could be unloaded first thing in the morning.

I don't know where the Captain spent that night, but there are plenty of taverns near the docks, and a great many more further south in the Five Points district. Charles was hoping Captain James would get on the wrong side of one of the gangs that ran Five Points, and end up with a knife in his chest. It was a happy thought, but it didn't happen, because the Captain was there the next morning directing the deckhands and longshoremen as they unloaded our cargo. Much of it was packed in barrels, and I couldn't tell if they held whiskey or gunpowder or salt fish, or whatever.

That night, though, Charles and I were undisturbed onboard, and we spent a good part of the night holding each other and kissing. It was a little tight in our small bunk doing the pointing in opposite directions trick so we could suck each other at the same time, but by bending our knees, we managed. In fact, I quite liked the feeling of his head between my thighs as he sucked and licked my little willy, and the feeling of his thighs around my face as I did my best, with my lips and my tongue, to make him forget all about the night before.

Finally, the time came for him to put Birdie in my bottom. The previous time, he had put it in from behind me, and reached his hand around to diddle me whilst he thrust up inside me. This time, though, he thought it would be nice if we could kiss whilst he fucked me, so he had me lay on my back with my legs pushed up near my shoulders. Birdie entered my boyhole with the help of a dab of butter saved from dinner, and Charles's tongue entered my mouth. I wondered when Mr. Wilder would want to use me in that way, and if his grown-up cock would hurt.

Well, it really wasn't that much larger than Charles's. I didn't even want to think about what the Captain had between his legs, after seeing what it had done to poor Charles, but I determined that as soon as my first hair sprouted down there, I would pluck it out and plot my getaway. Maybe I could be a cowboy too. Or even an Indian.

Those thoughts passed as Charles buggered me heroically, and I was transported to that better place where thoughts don't really matter, and sensation is everything. I clasped my arms around his neck as he pushed my knees up against my shoulders, and massaged that special spot up inside me with every thrust of that sweet, stiff Birdie I loved so well. His belly was making enough friction against my willy that I was feeling very good all over. At last I felt him throbbing inside me, and knew his boycream was squirting into me, and heaven had come down to earth.

..........

It seemed we were not scheduled to embark for another day, and I was meant to spend that afternoon and the following night with Mr. Wilder. Charles, I know, ducked off the Kingston Queen both to avoid the Captain and to acquire some more funds to facilitate his escape. It occurred to me that the men and women he would find in the dockside taverns might be no better than Captain James, but he told me not to worry, and that he would be very careful.

Mr. Wilder's town house was not very far from the docks, in a part of the City they called Chelsea. It was set near the middle of a row of similar houses, three levels high, with a tan or sandy colored facade. Inside, it was the most impressive place I ever could have imagined. The furnishings all were ornately carved dark wood, and thick carpets were spread across the floors. On the first level there was a lush sitting room, a formal dining room, and a large kitchen, as well as one of those new water closets a boy of my class never would have seen before. Certainly, I never had seen one.

Most of the second level was occupied by Mr. Wilder's vast bedroom and sitting room. There were smaller bedrooms up on the third level, and the servants' quarters, where Quentin was lodged. Quentin, Mr. Wilder's manservant, was one of the oddest persons I ever had encountered. He looked like a man, but walked and talked much more like a woman. I had heard of people like Quentin, but never met one before.

Quentin served us a lovely beef roast with mashed potatoes and carrots, followed by a treacle tart. I even was allowed a small glass of wine, which I dutifully finished even though it was more than a little sour tasting. When dinner was over, Mr. Wilder said, "You'll go with Quentin, now, Thomas, so he can make you especially pretty for me." I obeyed.

The first part of my preparation was not very pleasant. Quentin had a red rubber pouch hanging from a hook in the water closet, from which a long rubber tube extended. I had to kneel against the porcelain bowl while the nozzle at the end of that tube was inserted into my bottom. He was gentle, and it didn't hurt, but then the water came. Soon I felt full to bursting, and said, "Please, sir, no more!"

"Don't call me sir," he replied. "My name is Quentin, and I'm not your better. And there's just a little more water left in the bag, so be strong."

Indeed, it was less than a minute later when he extracted the nozzle from my bottom, but I was not allowed to void myself yet. I felt a churning inside me, and terrible pressure, but it was at least a minute before I was allowed to sit on the porcelain fixture and squirt out all that water. I must admit, I was amazed when Quentin pulled a chain attached to a tank mounted up on the wall, and all that stinky stuff swirled away.

It was not over for me yet, though. I had to undergo the whole procedure again to make sure, as Quentin put it, that I was extra clean. After that, he led me through a door to a room with a large tub standing up on lion's feet, and I was obliged to remove all my clothing. Quentin tested the water's temperature with his hand, proclaimed it "just right," and then lifted me up and plunged me in. He was quite strong for a small man. I thought the water a bit too hot at first, but I quickly got used to it.

Then he scrubbed me, with soap and course cloths. He massaged my hair with soap and rinsed it over and over with water from a pitcher until it squeaked when he ran his fingers along it. He took a brush to my feet, which still had ingrained dirt from all the years I had no shoes nor stockings, but eventually he tasted my toes and proclaimed them clean enough. He scrubbed my fingernails and my elbows and my knees, then had me stand up so he could pull back the skin on my willy and wash underneath it. He finished with a soapy finger up my boyhole, but I don't think he got any pleasure from it, and neither did I.

He lifted me from the tub, dried me with a soft towel, and had me turn around so he could admire his work. Satisfied, he marched me naked into the kitchen, where he combed out my hair, trimmed it up with a little pair of scissors, and added some curls with an odd looking tool he heated on the stove. He stood back, nodded, and smiled. "Lovely," he said. He took up an atomizer, and puffed some sweet smelling stuff on my neck and shoulders.

Then, from a cardboard box, he produced a pale yellow garment made of silk so thin the light shone right through it. It was a shift, of sorts, with a scooped neck embroidered with tiny yellow flowers and no sleeves. When I lifted my arms so he could slip it on me, it felt almost weightless. The matching pants were so little and tight they left nothing to the imagination. Then he took my hand and led me through to the dining room, where there was a large mirror. I stood up on a chair, so I could see myself entire.

Standing there in the mirror, a very pretty little girl was looking back at me.

"Just so precious!" exclaimed Quentin. "Every bit as precious as I was, seventeen years ago."

(More to come from heedon@tormail.org )