Oliver Twist's tenth birthday found him a pale thin child, somewhat diminutive in stature, and decidedly small in circumference. But nature or inheritance had implanted a good sturdy spirit in Oliver's breast. It had had plenty of room to expand, thanks to the spare diet of the establishment; and perhaps to this circumstance may be attributed his having any tenth birthday at all. Be this as it may, however, it was his tenth birthday; and he was keeping it in the coal cellar with a select party of two other young gentleman, who, after participating with him in a sound thrashing, had been locked up for atrociously presuming to be hungry, when Mrs. Mann, the good lady of the house, was unexpectedly startled by the apparition of Mr. Bumble, the beadle, striving to undo the wicket of the garden-gate.
'Goodness gracious! Is that you, Mr. Bumble, sir?' said Mrs. Mann, thrusting her head out of the window in well-affected ecstasies of joy. 'Susan, take Oliver and them two brats upstairs, and wash 'em directly. My heart alive! Mr. Bumble, how glad I am to see you, surely!'
Now, Mr. Bumble was a fat man, and a choleric; so, instead of responding to this open-hearted salutation in a kindred spirit, he gave the little wicket a tremendous shake, and then bestowed upon it a kick which could have emanated from no leg but a beadle's.
'Lord, only think,' said Mrs. Mann, running out,--for the three boys had been removed by this time,-'only think of that! That I should have forgotten that the gate was bolted on the inside, on account of them dear children! Walk in sir; walk in, pray, Mr. Bumble, do, sir.'
Mrs. Mann ushered the beadle into a small parlour with a brick floor; placed a seat for him; and officiously deposited his cocked hat and cane on the table before him. Mr. Bumble wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his walk had engendered, glanced complacently at the cocked hat, and smiled.
'And now about business,' said the beadle, taking out a leathern pocket book. 'The child that was half-baptized Oliver Twist is ten year old today. Being now too old to remain here, the board have determined to have him back into the workhouse. I have come out myself to take him there. So let me see him at once.'
'I'll fetch him directly,' said Mrs. Mann, leaving the room for that purpose. Oliver, having had by this time as much of the outer coat of dirt which encrusted his face and hands, removed, as could be scrubbed off in one washing, was led into the room by his benevolent protectress.
'Make a bow to the gentleman, Oliver,' said Mrs. Mann.
Oliver made a bow, which was divided between the beadle on the chair, and the cocked hat on the table.
'Will you go along with me, Oliver?' said Mr. Bumble, in a majestic voice.
Oliver was about to say that he would go along with anybody with great readiness, when, glancing upward, he caught sight of Mrs. Mann, who had got behind the beadle's chair, and was shaking her fist at him with a furious countenance. He took the hint at once, for the fist had been too often impressed upon his body not to be deeply impressed upon his recollection.
'Will she go with me?' inquired poor Oliver.
'No, she can't,' replied Mr. Bumble. 'But she'll come and see you sometimes.'
This was no very great consolation to the child. Young as he was, however, he had sense enough to make a feint of feeling great regret at going away. It was no very difficult matter for the boy to call tears into his eyes. Hunger and recent ill-usage are great assistants if you want to cry; and Oliver cried very naturally indeed. Mrs. Mann gave him a thousand embraces, and what Oliver wanted a great deal more, a piece of bread and butter, less he should seem too hungry when he got to the workhouse. With the slice of bread in his hand, and the little brown-cloth parish cap on his head, Oliver was then led away by Mr. Bumble from the wretched home where one kind word or look had never lighted the gloom of his infant years. And yet he burst into an agony of childish grief, as the cottage gate closed after him. Wretched as were the little companions in misery he was leaving behind, they were the only friends he had ever known; and a sense of his loneliness in the great wide world, sank into the child's heart for the first time.
Mr. Bumble walked on with long strides; little Oliver, firmly grasping his gold-laced cuff, trotted beside him, inquiring at the end of every quarter of a mile whether they were 'nearly there.' To these interrogations Mr. Bumble returned very brief and snappish replies; for he was a beadle.
During the walk Mr Bumble had observed the boy's spirit and was concerned by it; in his view a spirited boy was a troublesome boy. The parish paid the beadle to ensure that there was no trouble in the workhouse and no-one could ever accuse Mr Bumble of failing to take his parochial duties seriously. Most similar establishments tried to beat the spirit out of boys but in Mr Bumble's experience – and he had plenty of that – beatings did not work. Spirited, troublesome boys wore the bruises of a beating like a badge of honour and would boast to their fellows of the number of strokes they had taken. No, Mr Bumble had a far better method of taking away a boy's spirit; one which no normal boy would boast of nor wish to experience again.
On arrival at the workhouse Mr Bumble took Oliver to the small cottage that the parish provided as part of the beadle's remuneration. They entered through the front door into a narrow passageway and the beadle then directed Oliver through another door to his right into what was clearly the bedroom.
`Right Oliver, take your clothes off and climb onto the bed,' Mr Bumble said sternly.
Oliver thought he must have misheard and stood staring at the beadle with a questioning look on his face.
`Do what you're told boy!' said Mr Bumble as he cuffed the boy round the head to emphasise the point.
`Yes sir,' said Oliver scrambling to remove his ragged clothing as he realised that he had not misheard and that the beadle was serious.
As the boy stripped Mr Bumble began to remove his own clothing, putting his cocked hat and cane on the table by the window, hanging his coat on the back of the chair that stood in front of it and then folding his remaining garments and placing them on the seat of the chair. When he had finished he turned to find a naked Oliver sitting on the edge of the bed. The boy's skin was white and flawless; his tiny nipples were no bigger than sixpences and his little 2" cocklet was standing rigidly to attention as he stared at the first adult penis he had ever seen. Although Mr Bumble was slightly below average, 5½" fully erect and fairly thin, to a ten year old boy he seemed to be enormous.
`Lie in the middle of the bed, face down,' Mr Bumble ordered and Oliver, having learned that the beadle expected to be obeyed immediately, moved quickly to comply. Stopping only to pick up a bottle of oil from the bedside table, Mr Bumble heaved his bulky frame onto the bed and took up position behind the prone boy. `Spread your legs,' he said and again Oliver obeyed with alacrity.
Mr Bumble oiled the forefinger of his right hand and grasped Oliver's left arse cheek with his left hand, exposing the small, brown pucker. Unceremoniously he pushed the oiled finger into the boy's virgin hole; an action which elicited an outraged squeal from the unsuspecting child. The beadle moved his finger in and out of the tight orifice, twisting it at the same time as he attempted to stretch the narrow passage. After about a minute he withdrew the finger, oiled both his fore and middle fingers and then thrust both digits into the boy's anus. He repeated the previous motion but now added a scissoring action as he widened the channel as quickly as he could; after all this was being done for practical reasons, not for Oliver's benefit.
`Stop it! Stop it! Please stop, it hurts!' Oliver yelled. The first finger had burned but the two were agony, more pain than he could ever remember. He tried to get up but Mr Bumble pushed his left hand in the middle of Oliver's back and held him down on the bed. Tears streamed from his eyes and he prayed that it would all be over soon. The prayer was not answered.
Mr Bumble pulled his fingers out of Oliver and quickly oiled his, by now, fully hard and dripping cock. He grabbed one of the pillows from the head of the bed, raised the boy's hips and placed the pillow under him presenting his arse at the perfect angle for buggery. Grasping Oliver by the hips Mr Bumble pushed his glans against the boy's poorly prepared anus and without further ado pushed roughly through his protesting sphincter.
Oliver had thought that two fingers had been agony but that was nothing compared with the pain he felt now. He tried desperately to pull away from the monstrous thing that was forcing its way into his hole but Mr Bumble had a vise-like grip on him and far from getting away from it, the beadle's cock was gradually moving further and further into his tight channel. Oliver gripped the bed cover tightly with both hands and pushed his face into the pillow that remained in front of him in a vain attempt to ease the searing pain.
Mr Bumble felt his pubic area make contact with Oliver's buttocks. He smiled to himself, not only was he taking away the boy's spirit, he was thoroughly enjoying the experience into the bargain. He pulled out until just the head remained inside and then pushed firmly back in; repeating the action over and over as he ploughed the tight, no longer virgin arse. After a few minutes he realised that he was getting close and he wanted the boy to see his face as he bred him; eye contact at the critical moment was a vital part of the dispiriting process. The beadle pulled out completely and turned Oliver onto his back, tossing the pillow aside as he did so. He grabbed the boy's legs and pushed them up until the knees were almost on the shoulders.
`Hold them there,' he growled and Oliver, too far gone to protest any more, obeyed immediately.
Mr Bumble put his cock head back against the boy's entrance and pushed his length fully home in one thrust. Oliver screamed in agony again but the beadle ignored him, grasped the back of his knees and started to pound his way toward his climax.
Oliver now started to feel a new sensation. The pain hadn't gone away but it had lessened and now, on every stroke, the beadle's glans was rubbing against something inside him that felt good; in fact it felt very good indeed!
Mr Bumble noticed a change in the noises emanating from the boy. The `ows' and `arghs' had become `oohs' and `ahs' and he hadn't screamed `stop' for a while now. He looked at Oliver's face and saw that although his eyes were moist and his cheeks wet, he was no longer crying. He looked further down and was amazed to see that the boy's 2" cocklet was fully erect and bouncing up and down. The beadle knew he was very close now and redoubled his efforts as he pounded his 5½" cock into the small, ten year old child below him.
Suddenly Mr Bumble saw Oliver's eyes roll up, he looked down and saw the little cocklet pulsing and simultaneously felt the already tight arse clamp down even more tightly on his penis. He barely had time to register that the boy was having an orgasm, albeit a dry one, when he came himself; spurting four, five, six times into the narrow confines of Oliver's orifice.
As he came down from his orgasmic high, the beadle saw that Oliver seemed to have passed out. He pulled his softening penis out of the boy's anus and watched as a mixture of semen, arse juices and a few flecks of blood oozed out of the gaping hole. Oliver started to come round and Mr Bumble moved him into position with his face next to the beadle's dirty cock.
`Clean it,' Mr Bumble ordered. Oliver looked around for something to clean it with. The beadle grabbed the boy by the hair and pulled his face back to his penis. `Use your mouth,' he said.
This was the final humiliation; the act that Mr Bumble knew from experience would break the remaining spirit in any boy. Oliver leaned forward reluctantly, stuck his tongue out and licked the cockhead tentatively. It wasn't nearly as bad as he'd feared and he was soon licking and sucking away on the beadle's penis, removing all the fluid that remained from his first buggering.
Mr Bumble grabbed Oliver by the hair once again and pulled him away, somewhat disconcerted by the boy's apparent eagerness to taste a dirty cock. Oliver opened his mouth as if to speak but then stopped.
`Have you got something to say?' the beadle asked.
Oliver nodded in affirmative.
`What is it?' Mr Bumble asked curiously.
`Please sir, may I have some more!'
The End – unless you think Oliver should get his wish!
Constructive comments welcome at firstname.lastname@example.org. Flames will be ignored.