`Please sir, may I have some more?'
`MORE! YOU WANT MORE?' yelled an incredulous Mr Bumble.
`Y...yes Sir,' stammered Oliver, `I enjoyed it. It hurt a lot at first but it felt really good at the end.'
The Beadle was flabbergasted. No first timer had ever enjoyed it before. The whole purpose was that they shouldn't enjoy it, so that the threat of a repeat would keep them in line. Of course one or two boys came to enjoy it later but they were normally the quiet, docile kind; who were easily kept in line by other means. Oliver, however, was clearly a spirited lad; a potential troublemaker. If he were to prove insatiable as well, that spelled double trouble.
If Mr Bumble had been a more virile man he may well have seen Oliver as an opportunity rather than a potential problem but there was no way the fat beadle would be able to give the boy what he craved for some time. What if the other boys started asking for more? He would become a laughing stock if he couldn't keep up with demand. This boy was definitely a threat to the beadle's authority in the workhouse. There was no doubt about it; he would have to be apprenticed and Mr Bumble knew just the man to take him on. Mr Gamfield the chimney sweep would sort out the insolent young pup.
* * *
`Ooh, yes. Ooh, keep doing that,' the tall, gaunt undertaker moaned with pleasure.
The cause of his pleasure was the warm, moist mouth that was moving up and down on his hard, 7" shaft. Of course it was not Mrs Sowerberry who was fellating him; she would never countenance such `depraved' behaviour. Indeed she had made very clear on their wedding night that once a week in the missionary position was all she would allow and after fifteen years of marriage he was lucky if she allowed him once a fortnight now.
He had once made a tentative approach to Charlotte the parlour maid but she had called him a dirty old man and threatened to tell his wife; leaving Mr Sowerberry to the doubtful pleasures of his right hand. It was during one of his solitary sessions in the coffin room that fate played a hand, when he was interrupted by his young assistant Noah.
Noah Claypole was not attracted to men; indeed he had an arrangement to marry Charlotte, should his financial circumstances ever allow it. He was, however, attracted to money and immediately saw in his employer an opportunity to make some. His friend Tom, the farrier's apprentice, had told Noah that he was able to double his wages by `doing favours' for customers while their horses were being shoed. Noah had no intention of `doing favours' for several men but for Mr Sowerberry alone he was prepared to swallow his pride.
`Can I help you with that?' he had asked quietly.
`If you want to,' the undertaker had replied, when he had recovered from the shock of being discovered mid-wank.
Noah had knelt down and started to stroke the other man's hard cock; he had then plucked up the courage to ask if Mr Sowerberry would like him to suck it. Mr Sowerberry had naturally said yes and Noah had told him that it would cost a shilling. Following a brief negotiation they settled on sixpence and ever since Noah had been servicing his employer, twice a week, at sixpence a time; which gave Noah an extra £2 10s per annum, no small amount for someone who was paid so little.
That is how Mr Sowerberry came to be sitting in the coffin room of the undertaker's shop with Noah Claypole sucking his cock. Noah was no great shakes as a cock sucker; he lacked enthusiasm, couldn't deep throat and never swallowed his employer's copious cum. It was, however, infinitely better than wanking and was, to Mr Sowerberry anyway, worth sixpence a go.
Noah's head continued to bob up and down as he sucked the top half of the undertaker's uncut 7-incher while jacking the rest with his right hand. `I'm cumming Noah,' Mr Sowerberry warned the young man. Noah removed his mouth from his employer's penis and started to jack the full length, pulling the foreskin back and forth over the sensitive head with each stoke. `Oh, yes, yes,' the undertaker's jism flowed rather than spurted, down his shaft and over Noah's hand. Noah continued to stroke the cock until the flow stopped and then went to wash up while Mr Sowerberry cleaned himself.
Just as he finished tidying up he heard the bell as someone entered the front shop. `Just in time,' he smiled to himself. `See who that is, Noah,' he called.
* * *
Mr Bumble was not in the best of moods. Mr Gamfield had been keen to take on Oliver as an apprentice; he was the perfect size for climbing into narrow chimneys. The sweep was regularly in need of a new boy as the inconsiderate little sods kept growing too large or, all too often, dying on him. Oliver, not surprisingly, had been less keen on the position and the magistrates had agreed. One had even had the temerity to tell Mr Bumble to `hold his tongue' when he had attempted to intercede. That was no way to speak to a beadle! Now Mr Bumble was forced to find another employer who would take Oliver as an apprentice for the £5 on offer from the parish.
He was about to walk past the undertaker's when he changed his mind and stopped and entered. Mr Sowerberry already had young Mr Claypole as an assistant and probably didn't need an apprentice but he might know of someone else in the town that did.
`It's Mr Bumble to see you Mr Sowerberry,' Noah said, as the undertaker came through to the front shop, `and he's got some workhouse brat with him.'
`Good afternoon Mr Sowerberry,' said the beadle, `I was just passing and I wondered if you might know of anyone in the town that would be interested in taking on this here boy as an apprentice. The parish is very generously offering £5 to any that will.'
Mr Sowerberry looked at the small, pale figure that stood next to the beadle. He didn't look a day over 8 years old but if he was being apprenticed then he had to be at least 10. He had an attractive, possibly even pretty face that had a certain melancholy about it; particularly the shape of the mouth. The undertaker suddenly had a vision of the boy as a mute at a child's funeral and, almost immediately after, an altogether better one in which those sad lips were wrapped around Mr Sowerberry's cock.
`I'm not sure that I do,' he replied, `but I think I'll take the boy myself.'
* * *
`What on earth do we need a boy for?' Mrs Sowerberry asked later that afternoon. Mr Sowerberry explained his idea of using Oliver as a mute at children's funerals. `Well, it might work but £5 won't keep a growing boy long, so you'd better think of some way for him to pay his way.'
`Oh, I will dear, I will.'
`Don't forget, I'm visiting my sister tonight and it's Charlotte's night off so you'll be on your own, apart from the lad.'
`In that case I think I'll take a bath tonight,' he replied unnecessarily, as it was his usual practice bathe when his wife and Charlotte were out.
`Well let Oliver use the water after you, you know how grubby these workhouse boys are.'
`If you insist dear,' he answered.
* * *
Mr Sowerberry finished filling the tin bath with hot water and called Oliver into the parlour. `I'm going to bathe and you can do likewise when I've finished,' he told the boy.
`Thank you, Sir,' Oliver replied with a shy smile.
As Mr Sowerberry stripped off he watched Oliver out of the corner of his eye and was pleased to see the boy staring at his penis with interest. He then climbed into the bath and washed rather more quickly than normal, foregoing his usual soak. `I'm nearly finished,' he said, `why don't you strip off so you can get in when I'm done?'
Oliver jumped down from the chair he had been sitting on and quickly divested himself of his clothes. He stood stark naked with his small, hard penis standing straight up against his belly. At the sight of him, Mr Sowerberry's somewhat larger organ also rose to the occasion. As the man stood up to get out of the bath, Oliver's eyes opened wide as he saw the full 7" hard-on in front of him. `You're bigger than Mr Bumble,' he said, to the amusement and pleasure of the undertaker.
`You've seen his then?' Mr Sowerberry asked.
`Oh, yes,' the boy replied, `but yours is much nicer.'
`Would you like to touch it?'
`Yes please. If you're sure you don't mind.'
Mr Sowerberry dried himself as quickly as he could and took Oliver's place on the chair. The boy stood in front of him and grasped his cock in both hands. He was amazed to find how it seemed to be hard yet soft at the same time, like a piece of metal encased in velvet. He gently pulled the foreskin back exposing the red, glistening glans, noticed some liquid seeping out of its piss-slit and asked if it was pee.
`No, it's called pre-cum. You can taste it if you want.' He didn't really expect Oliver to want to taste it and he most certainly didn't expect what occurred next.
Oliver smiled, said `Yes, please,' and then leaned forward and licked the pre-cum from the cockhead as if it were an ice cream. Mr Sowerberry almost came right there and then.
`Oh, God!' he exclaimed, and a shudder went through his body.
`Is something wrong?' the boy asked in alarm.
`Oh no, nothing is wrong. Nothing is wrong at all.' Pre-cum was now flowing from Mr Sowerberry's cock and Oliver lapped it up happily, thoroughly enjoying the part sweet, part sour taste. `See how much of it you can get in your mouth,' he told the boy, `but be careful not to use your teeth.'
Oliver opened his mouth, taking care with his teeth as he'd been told and took the glans and the first three inches of the shaft inside before it hit the back of his throat and he gagged. He pulled back off and looked up at his employer, `Was that enough?' he asked.
`That was excellent for a first try, keep doing that for now and you can learn to take more another time.'
Oliver smiled again and started to bob up and down with gusto bringing Mr Sowerberry towards his climax. The boy's enthusiasm more than made up for his lack of technique and this felt much better than any blow job that Noah had given him.
`You'd better stop if you don't want me to cum in your mouth,' Mr Sowerberry warned Oliver.
`Is that the white stuff?' Oliver asked, stopping briefly.
`I like it,' the boy said curtly and carried on sucking.
`Oh yes, oh YES, OH YES!' Mr Sowerberry yelled as he had the most intense orgasm of his life. This time his semen spurted out, the first three ropes of cum filling Oliver's mouth. The boy realised that there was more than he could cope with and pulled off, the fourth spurt hit his chin and the fifth landed on his chest. The remainder ran down the undertaker's cock and onto the boy's hand.
Oliver swallowed what was in his mouth and grinned to show that he did indeed like the taste. He licked his hand clean and then wiped the residual cum from his chin and ate that as well. Mr Sowerberry saw the droplet of semen on the boy's chest, scooped it up with his forefinger and offered it to Oliver who gratefully cleaned the proffered digit.
`Come on, let's get into the bath and get cleaned up,' Mr Sowerberry said. He got in and Oliver climbed in after, sitting with his back snuggled up to the man behind him. Mr Sowerberry began to slowly wash Oliver removing any residual cum and workhouse grime. When his hand reached the boy's groin he found that he was still hard and began to rub the 2" rod and knead the pea sized balls in their little sack. Oliver moaned with pleasure and started to hump against Mr Sowerberry's hand. After a few minutes the boy squealed, arched his back and pushed his penis hard against the hand that was molesting him. The man felt the boy's cocklet throb as Oliver enjoyed the second dry orgasm of his short life.
`We'd better get dried and dressed before my wife gets home,' Mr Sowerberry said. `One other thing, this is our secret, don't tell anyone else about what we do together.'
`Don't worry, Sir,' Oliver replied with a warm smile, `I won't tell a soul.'
* * *
As the end of Oliver's four week trial period approached everyone at Sowerberry's Undertakers seemed to be happy; well almost everyone.
Oliver was happy. He didn't care much for the undertaking business but he had somewhere to sleep, food to eat and a cock to suck. What more could a young boy ask for! He was able to take another inch into his throat now and was sure that it would not be long before he could take all seven inches.
Mr Sowerberry was happy. Oliver had attended his first funeral and the family had been very pleased with the idea of a mute in proportion to the deceased. He was also having his cock sucked on a regular basis; in a far better way than Noah managed and it wasn't costing him a penny!
Even Mrs Sowerberry was moderately happy. Although she didn't care for the boy, he wasn't costing as much to keep as she'd feared and her husband hadn't pestered her for sex for nearly a month. She hoped that he'd grown too old for any more of that nonsense.
Noah, however, was most definitely not happy. Oliver had usurped his place in his employer's affections and more importantly, since the brat's arrival, Mr Sowerberry hadn't asked Noah to suck his cock once. That meant a significant drop in young Mr Claypole's income. It didn't take a genius – and Noah certainly wasn't that – to work out the reason for that particular change of circumstance.
Noah took every opportunity to tease and torment Oliver trying to reduce the boy to tears every chance he got. One day, the pair were alone in the kitchen with Noah, as usual, pulling Oliver's hair, flicking his ears and calling him all the names under the sun, when he decided on a new approach.
`How's yer mother Workhouse?' he asked.
`She's dead,' Oliver replied.
`Just as well, she was a regular, right-down bad `un.'
`What did you say?' inquired Oliver looking up.
'A regular right-down bad 'un, Workhouse,' replied Noah, coolly. 'And it's a great deal better that she died when she did, or else she'd have been hard labouring, or transported, or hung; which is more likely than either, isn't it?'
Crimson with fury, Oliver started up; overthrew the chair and table; seized Noah by the throat; shook him and collecting his whole force into one heavy blow, felled him to the ground. A minute ago, the boy had looked the quiet, mild, dejected creature that harsh treatment had made him. But his spirit was roused at last; the cruel insult to his dead mother had set his blood on fire.
`Help, the new boy is murdering me!' Noah yelled.
The noise brought Mrs Sowerberry and Charlotte running into the kitchen, whereupon they grabbed Oliver and held him fast. Noah then got up and started pummelling the small boy with his fists. Finally the three of them bundled Oliver into the cellar and barred the door.
`Your Master is out,' Mrs Sowerberry said to Noah, `go and fetch the beadle.'
Fifteen minutes later Noah returned with Mr Bumble. `Do you recognise this here voice?' he asked through the cellar door.
`Yes,' Oliver replied.
'Ain't you afraid of it, sir? Ain't you a-trembling while I speak, sir?' said Mr. Bumble.
'No!' replied Oliver, boldly.
An answer so different from the one he had expected to elicit, and was in the habit of receiving, staggered Mr. Bumble not a little.
At this point Mr Sowerberry returned to enquire what was happening. `Oliver tried to kill Noah,' his wife informed her startled husband.
Mr Bumble drew the undertaker off to one side. `Have you been feeding him meat?' he asked.
`Well, yes, in a manner of speaking,' Mr Sowerberry replied, his face reddening.
There was a noise as Noah tried to stifle a snigger. His employer glared at him.
`Oh, I see,' said the beadle, `and does he consume everything you give him?'
`Oh yes, he eats it all right up. Which is more than you can say for some people,' the undertaker answered, looking pointedly at his assistant. This time it was Noah's turn to blush.
`Well, there's your problem!' Mr Bumble exclaimed. `These workhouse lads are brought up on gruel and you've been filling him with manly goodness. You've spoilt the boy Sir, spoilt him!'
The cellar door was opened and Oliver was dragged out. His clothes had been torn in the beating he had received, his face was bruised and scratched and his hair scattered over his forehead. The angry flush had not disappeared, however; and when he was pulled out of his prison, he scowled boldly at Noah, and looked quite undismayed.
`What's the cause of this disturbance?' Mr Sowerberry asked sternly.
`He called my mother names,' replied Oliver.
`So what if he did?' said Mrs Sowerberry. `She deserved what he said and more.'
`That's a lie!' exclaimed Oliver.
The insult to his wife left Mr Sowerberry with no alternative but to beat Oliver; which he did, firmly enough to please his good lady but not as hard as he could have, on account of his liking for the boy.
* * *
That night alone in bed with no-one to see him Oliver buried his head in his arms and wept as he never had before. The happiness he had felt over the past few weeks was now gone. Even Mr Sowerberry, whom he'd come to like very much, had turned against him.
At first light he rose from his bed and slipped out into the street. He climbed the hill until he came to a footpath over the fields which he knew led to the high road. When he reached it he sat by a milepost which bore in large letters, LONDON 70 MILES.
London – no-one would find him there, not even Mr Bumble. He jumped back to his feet and started the long walk towards the great metropolis.
To be continued – when Oliver will meet the pimp Fagin and his rent boys.
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