Date: Sun, 30 May 2021 14:47:38 +0000
From: olhap8464972175@elude.in
Subject: THE LUSTFUL LITTLE MOUSE

THE LUSTFUL LITTLE MOUSE

by Oliver Hapland

The God-fearing 12-year-old son of a Russian diplomat in Victorian London
has to negotiate the persistent advances of a wealthy Old Gentleman,
whilst coming to terms with his own guilty attraction to other boys.

Warning: this story contains masturbation and descriptions of sexual
interaction between boys and with men. If this is likely to offend you,
please do not read on. This story is fiction. It is an artistic
exploration of its themes and does not condone them.

Readers who enjoy this story may like to check out my other stories on
Nifty, such as 'Little Lord Barry: A True History of a Wicked Boy to His
Thirteenth Year', or 'Gulliver's Pageboy' about the sexual adventures of a
larger-than-life adolescent.

I am always delighted to receive readers' email at
olhap8464972175@secmail.pro




THE LUSTFUL LITTLE MOUSE


Chapter 1

Oskar felt a shiver run through him as the tramcar he was sitting in ran
past the Kensington museum where he had last spoken to the old man. It was
a cold shiver, for the memory was not a nice one, but the boy felt
curiously excited by the recollection none the less.
	To put it from his mind he concentrated on the flowers pinned to his
mother's hat where she sat on the seat in front of him. She and Oskar had
not been able to sit together since the tramcar was crowded.
	An elderly woman sitting next to the boy seemed to be in danger of losing
her own hat since she was apparently nodding off to sleep. He caught the
hat as it slipped from her head and patted her awake. 'What a kind boy
you are,' she said.
	It was true: Oskar Kovalenko was a good boy. Every night he knelt by his
bed, opposite the icon of St George the Victor and spoke to the Lord and
told Him about the people he had met that day, and asked the Lord to
bless them and keep them from harm. He tried to be honest in his prayers,
even when he had done something bad, but of course the Lord knew about
those bad things anyway, just as He new about the good, because He could
see everything.
	Oskar asked for forgiveness for his own weaknesses, just as his mother
had taught him to do, and he asked for strength too so that he might be
like his father one day and be a diplomat, for that was a very big
responsibility. He prayed for his grandmother back in Russia and that he
might see her again, and he prayed for his sisters.
	On Sundays the family, along with those of the ambassador and all the
other diplomats, walked to the Russian Church. They had to do this twice:
once in the morning and again in the afternoon; but if the sermon was
very long or it was raining when they came out, they would travel home on
the underground railway - 'What a marvel!' his father had said the first
time. 'Someday we too will have one in St Petersburg.'
	Oskar's English was excellent, he had been tutored by his father, but
still the other boys at the school called him 'Rusky' or 'Ivan' and
seemed to take pleasure in shoving him unnecessarily hard in their
playground games, or even tripping him up. Once he had torn his trousers
in falling but got up and laughed, so determined was he not to seem weak;
it was only at home that evening that he had found he had badly grazed
his knees.
	Given their unkindness to him, it was curious to Oskar, that he had
recently, and quite involuntarily, begun to think about sleeping with
some of the boys at school.
	To say 'sleeping' is quite accurate - the word is not used
euphemistically in this case - for he knew little of the other matter
that that word is used to suggest.
	However, these thoughts disturbed Oskar somewhat, when he wished
sometimes that he could be with one or other of his classmates in his bed
and could hold him. But it was not these particular desires that troubled
Oskar - for it was a kind and natural thing to love others, was it not? -
the Holy Bible said so. What caused the boy upset was that he desired to
hold them in the nude.
	Oskar had not told the Lord about these thoughts. The boy wondered if
other boys had them too, but his casual enquiries on this matter had left
him in no doubt that these were not the sorts of things that boys usually
spoke of, and after that he had kept these thoughts secret and firmly
locked away - until he had met the old man, anyway.
	Notwithstanding these peccadilloes, Oskar's life was a comfortable and
happy one. Although the Russian Embassy in London was grand, the
apartment in it where his family lived was modest: of homely proportions
but well furnished.
	However, there was always the gnawing dread that someday his father would
be recalled by the Tsar and then the family would have to pack all their
belongings and move on to another city and another house, and he to
another school. But the boy was used to moving on: it was all he knew.
Ever since he could remember, his family had lived in Prague and Paris,
Cairo, Madrid and Oslo...and he had only reached his twelfth birthday!
	As a result of the continual moving on, his parents had not indulged the
children with large playthings and had instead encouraged their interest
in small items that could be taken easily from place to place. So, aside
from his little gold-trimmed Bible - which he held in the highest regard
- his treasures included some handsome tin soldiers in gleaming red
uniforms; a set of ebony dominoes; and an album for postage stamps.
Through all of his travels this last had become the boy's particular
pride.
	In each country Oskar had begged his father to let him have the stamps
from his diplomatic letters and had glued them carefully into his
leather-bound book. He now had an impressive collection - the rival of
any he had come across amongst the classmates in his many schools.
	The family was a strong one and his mother and father and sisters were
his companions; it did not matter that school pals came and went: he did
not need them. There was never a lonely moment at home; the household was
busy, with important looking men and their wives passing in an out,
usually speaking Russian but sometimes other languages.
	On one evening every week, Oskar would accompany his mother to distribute
warm clothes or food to the poor people in whichever city they happened
to be. This was necessary, his mother said, since God had decreed that
they, the Kovalenko family, were to be well-off and so they must give
generously to those who were not so blessed. Oskar believed in this
passionately and it warmed his heart to help his mother so.
	In short, life at the ambassador's residence felt like a whole world to
Oskar and he felt like an important, though rather small, actor in it.
	So it was a surprise to the boy when he began to desire something
outside; it felt to him something like fear as he lay awake in his bed
with a longing that he could not seem to satisfy. He would curl up and
sob a little sometimes and feel guilty for his self-pity.
	Since he had been a little boy it had comforted him to put his hands
between his legs and press his thighs tight around them, and he still did
this. He knew it was bad to play there - though he had never been told
why - but when his pipka became stiff, as it did sometimes, it felt good
to rock himself to sleep like that.

It was at about the same time as his longings began that Oskar began to
talk to the old gentleman on the train on the way to school.
	Travelling always by the same train, the 7.23, Oskar would naturally see
the same people every day and grew accustomed to their faces and they to
his. There were men and women travelling to work and children going to
school, just like him.
	Most had little interest in conversation and buried themselves in their
newspapers or library books, but Oskar became aware that a particular
pair of eyes was often on him from across the carriage. When he looked at
the owner of the eyes this man smiled at him.
	The man was always dressed in a rich black suit, coat and a top hat that
he rested on his knee as he was seated. He had thick grey whiskers, in a
style that was no longer in vogue, and round eye-glasses, the sort that
grip the bridge of the nose. He was not on the train every day, perhaps
once a week, but when he was, he always succeeded in catching Oskar's eye
and the boy would feel obliged to smile in return, then drop his gaze
self-consciously and feel himself blushing.
	Oskar always took the same seat in the carriage and soon the man came to
taking the one opposite him. The gentleman had recognised the school
colours on Oskar's hat. 'I used to attend that school,' he told the boy
and he gave the name.
	'Did you really!' exclaimed Oskar.
	'Yes, it is an old and grand school. You should feel proud to go there.'
	'Oh,' said Oskar, suddenly aware of his smallness in the scheme of things.
	On the mornings after that first exchange they talked more about the
school and the masters. The gentleman wanted to know whether certain
rooms were still used for this or that and it seemed the place had
changed little in half a century.
	 From the small details the man scattered into their conversation, Oskar
gathered that he was very wealthy, having made his fortune in banking,
but had never married and had no children, and now gave a good deal of
his money to help 'working lads' keep from 'bad company', as he called
it.
	The old gentleman wanted to know about what Oskar liked to do and when he
heard of the boy's stamp collection he was most interested. It seemed the
man was a collector too and had been at it for sixty years! 'Do you know
what the proper term for a stamp collector is?' he asked.
	The boy shook his head and the man told him.
	'He's called a "philatelist".'
	The gentleman laughed when Oskar tried to repeat the word.
	'Pronounce the "a" like "cat" not "ahh" like "cart"!'
	He helped the boy say it several more times till he could get his tongue
round it.
	'It comes form two Greek words: "ateleia" for the stamp and "philos"
which means "lover".'
	Oskar was astounded by the man's learning, and rather embarrassed when he
said 'lover'.
	'Do you know your Greek?' the old gentleman asked him.
	'We have studied some, sir.'
	The man looked pleased.
	'They were a noble race: highly cultured. I hope you will learn more
about them.'
	Oskar said he hoped so too. The train was slowing into a station and
since it was Oskar's stop he felt distracted and prepared to stand up. As
he did so the old gentleman reached forward and touched the boy's bare
knee.
	'Perhaps you would like to see my stamp collection one day?' he said.
	'Yes, sir. I would like that,' Oskar replied politely. 'Goodbye.' And he
stumbled off the train with his school satchel swinging.
	He was glad to be able to disappear into the crowd of commuters.
Clambering up the station steps, it was with a mixture of shame and
confusion that he was aware of his pipka in his trousers, where it had
gone stiff as he was talking with the old man.

			***

I would be delighted to hear from readers of my story. Email me at

olhap8464972175@secmail.pro

and tell me what you enjoyed (or what you didn't!) and what you think
might happen in Chapter 2. Does Oskar meet the old gentleman again or does
something happen with one of the boys at his school? I will always reply,
and comments encourage me to write more!

Readers who enjoyed this story may like to check out my other stories on
Nifty, such as 'Little Lord Barry: A True History of a Wicked Boy to His
Thirteenth Year', or 'Gulliver's Pageboy' about the sexual adventures of a
larger-than-life adolescent.