Date: Sun, 13 Jun 2021 19:17:37 +0000 From: olhap8464972175@elude.in Subject: THE LUSTFUL LITTLE MOUSE, CHAPTER 2 THE LUSTFUL LITTLE MOUSE CHAPTER 2 by Oliver Hapland This is Chapter 2 of the story of Oskar, the God-fearing 12-year-old son of a Russian diplomat in Victorian London, as he negotiates the persistent advances of a wealthy Old Gentleman, whilst coming to terms with his own guilty attraction to other boys. In this chapter, Oskar arranges an appointment with the old gentleman, and we meet one of Oskar's school pals, who introduces him to a novel way of directing his frustrations. Thanks to everyone who emailed me about chapter 1. I was humbled and inspired by all of your kind thoughts and comments. Warning: this story contains descriptions of sexual interaction between boys. 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 search out my other stories on Nifty, such as "Little-Lord-Barry": 'A True History of a Wicked Boy to His Thirteenth Year', or "Gullivers-Pageboy" about the sexual adventures of a larger-than-life adolescent. I am always delighted to receive readers' email at olhap8464972175@elude.in THE LUSTFUL LITTLE MOUSE CHAPTER 2 The next time Oskar saw the old gentleman on the train, he felt almost as if they were old friends. The man was obviously very pleased to see him and asked after his studies, especially his Greek. 'Do you like sculpture?' asked the man; 'The Greeks were very good at sculpting the human body.' Oskar thought that he did like sculpture, although he wasn't exactly sure. 'Would you like to come and see some at my museum?' said the man. 'Your museum!' Oskar was astonished. 'Well, it's not my museum only; but I own it with others, in a way. And the sculptures aren't Greek, in fact, but they are copies made by the Romans and then by the great artists of the Renaissance. I feel sure you would like them.' So it was arranged that he would meet the old gentleman at his museum the following Saturday morning. Oskar looked forward to their rendezvous with a feeling of excited anticipation that he did not understand. But before the weekend could arrive, other more pressing matters took the boy's attention. His desire to hold a boy as he fell asleep had percolated into his dreams: especially a puzzling, but not unpleasant one, of rolling around with another boy on some grass in the nude. More than once he had awakened from this dream with a queer, urgent sort of feeling in his pipka. Although the boys in Oskar's dreams where often unknown to him, one he could recognise. Piers was Oskar's particular friend at school. He was of German extraction and although he had been born in London, he was made to feel an outsider by the other boys, on account of having a 'Kraut' father, as the boys would say. So the Russian boy and the German were drawn together by a sympathy as outsiders rather than an affinity in other things. They shared little in the way of interests, other than a detestation of sports, but both took great pleasure in childish wordplay and riddles; this they carried to such an extent that one of the school masters had humorously suggesting that they had invented their own language. Piers was tall and stocky with fair hair and eyes that one master had called 'beady'; his heavy-set frame was quite different from Oskar's more delicate figure. It was well known among the boys at the school that Piers was already in possession of a large and hairy penis, which was the object of some wonderment on the occasions when he could be persuaded to show it in the schoolyard. Oskar found his friend's fine blond hair very sensuous and beautiful and would sometimes stroke it as they hung their heads over their books in study. The larger boy would bat Oskar's hand away in irritation, but otherwise seemed untroubled by his friend's eccentricity. It was in Piers's nature to take such things in his stride. Within his family, earthy matters of the body were discussed openly, and he often shocked Oskar with the forthrightness of his statements. This was quite at odds with the demure atmosphere that Oskar was used to at home. Where Oskar had three sisters, all older than him, Piers had only one sister and two brothers. Otto was oldest at seventeen, and the youngest of them all, the boy Hans, Oskar had never met, for he was only six years old and too young for school; closest in age to Piers was Gerta, a rather striking girl of fourteen with tightly curled hair that she tied up in ringlets. All of the other boys in the class were sweet on Gerta, after she had come on the Mayday picnic that year. The whole boys' school had decamped to the Regent's Park carrying trestle tables and wicker hampers and Gerta's girls' school had been there also. After luncheon they had played team games and there had even been some competitions with the boys against the girls. Gerta enjoyed a special position among the boys in Oskar's form, being the sister of one of them, and even joined the boys' team with Piers for one of their races. The boys had all tried especially hard to win, each of them wanting to show himself better than his classmates in front of this unusual creature. Even Oskar had exerted himself to the point that he lost his footing and fell, winding himself badly. They had picked him up and carried him to the sidelines where, much to his embarrassment, Gerta had kissed him. 'You poor boy!' she said, 'There, there.' Oskar was used to being kissed by his sisters and mother, but not to being kissed in public and especially not in front of his school friends. The other boys were envious: 'She kissed you, lucky beast!' they said, but Oskar didn't feel lucky. What was of much greater significance to him was that one of the senior boys had seen him fall and beckoned him over to where he sat on the grass. 'Come, brave hoplite and sit with me,' he said jovially. 'You shall watch the remainder of the tournament in splendour from the sidelines.' 'I'm really not much hurt,' Oskar protested, but the boy would not listen and pulled him down by the wrist. He took Oskar between his knees where he sat with the others and put his arms around Oskar's neck. The senior boy seemed like a man to Oskar who sat timidly, hardly daring to breathe. But the big boy said nothing more to him, continuing instead an animated conversation with his group of senior friends. Oskar hardly cared though. He was quite content to sit within the boy's long limbs, encircled and protected. He experienced a thrill of delight at the bigger boy's touch and the warm, soft pressure of his thighs. The memory of it would stay with him. 'I thought that boy was going to toss you off!' Piers said to him afterwards, when they were sitting amongst the picnic hampers. Oskar didn't properly understand his friend's meaning, although he had heard the term often enough in the schoolyard. 'He did toss my hair a bit,' Oskar volunteered. Piers laughed and gave Oskar a shove, evidently thinking this a joke. But when Oskar looked hurt he stopped and said: 'You know what I mean really don't you?' Oskar looked blank. 'I mean touch your prick.' Oskar felt hollowness at his ignorance and it showed in his face. 'You do do it, don't you?' Piers asked him. 'Of...of course I do!' The reply had come out more sharply than Oskar had intended and now it was Piers's turn to look hurt. Then Oskar sank lower behind the hampers and asked in a voice that was little more than a whisper: 'How do you do it? How do you toss it?' It was a mark of Piers's maturity that he did not make fun of his pal's unworldliness. 'Well, like this,' and he dropped a hand into his lap and made the motion. When Oskar looked nonplussed, his friend said, 'Look, I'll show you.' The boy glanced around to make sure no one was approaching and then swiftly unbuttoned the front of his short trousers and pulled his penis out on to the grass. It was a shapely appendage, it seemed to Oskar, squat and thick and bigger than when he had glimpsed it before; it was strange to imagine that his friend carried such an unwieldy thing between his legs all the time. As Oskar watched, the boy drew back the foreskin so as to uncover the blue-pink glans, then he spat expertly on the end and rubbed it in. 'It goes better with spit,' he said and demonstrated how he took the skin back and forth. 'Get yours out!' Oskar hesitated before complying, since his pipka was not much to show beside his friend's splendid prick. But if Piers thought this when he saw it, he gave no sign. Oskar imitated his friend's well-practised manipulations. 'It feels randy, don't it!' Piers said with feeling, and Oskar had to agree that it did feel queer. He immediately recognised the feeling from his dream. Unfortunately, almost before they had begun, they had to stop because the picnic was coming to an end and people were rising and beginning to tidy away. 'If you keep going, you come,' Piers told him, as he buttoned his shorts. 'Come where?' 'It means you get so randy that your prick spurts.' 'Oh.' But that was the end of the lesson and Oskar was left to ponder all of this new information until bedtime. After his prayers that night, he got into bed under the watchful gaze of St George the Victor and, having pulled the blankets up about his ears, he tried to repeat what he had been taught that afternoon, hoping the Lord would not notice what was going on under the covers. *** I would be delighted to hear from readers of my story. Email me at olhap8464972175@elude.in and tell me what you enjoyed (or what you didn't!) and what you think might happen in Chapter 3. What will occur at the museum with the old gentleman? Where might Oskar's new encounters with boys at school lead? I will always reply, and comments encourage me to write more! Readers who enjoyed this story may like to search out my other stories on Nifty, such as "Little-Lord-Barry": 'A True History of a Wicked Boy to His Thirteenth Year', or "Gullivers-Pageboy" about the sexual adventures of a larger-than-life adolescent.