Date: Wed, 9 Feb 2022 17:00:41 +0000 From: olhap8464972175@elude.in Subject: THE LUSTFUL LITTLE MOUSE, CHAPTER 6 THE LUSTFUL LITTLE MOUSE by Oliver Hapland This continues 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. Thank you all so much for your comments; it is so helpful when writing to know that my stories are so appreciated. Warning: this story contains descriptions of sexual activity by 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 read my other stories, such as 'The Monkey's Grin', 'Little Lord Barry' or 'Gulliver's Pageboy' (see links below). I am always delighted to receive readers' email at olhap8464972175@elude.in Please consider making a donation to Nifty to continue providing all these wonderful stories http://donate.nifty.org/ THE LUSTFUL LITTLE MOUSE CHAPTER 6 The young artist's studio did not turn out to be quite as Oskar had imagined. When he arrived at the station on Saturday morning, the Old Gentleman was waiting for him. 'There's no need for us to take the train,' the Old Gentleman said. 'I have my carriage, look!' He helped the boy up into the waiting Brougham; the driver whipped the horse and they were soon riding towards Pimlico. 'My artist friend is a talented and intriguing fellow,' said the Old Gentleman. 'He lived for many years in the Punjab, and took very much to the native ways. I do hope you will like him.' Oskar said that he hoped he would do also, and felt nervous. Instead of the smart terrace that he had expected might be the residence of an artist, they entered a shabby and rather squalid backstreet, where dogs did their business amid barefoot children. The Old Gentleman took Oskar's hand and led him down some steps to the basement of one of the dwellings. A youth in a dapper, though somewhat worn, suit, leaning in a doorway smoking, regarded them sardonically. 'Ain't you the lucky one, darling!' he said to Oskar, eyeing the Old Gentleman's sumptuous frock coat. They ignored the youth and passed into the building - although they had to wait because someone was coming out. He was an expensively-dressed man in middle age who seemed embarrassed to be suddenly confronted by the Old Gentleman, but who, upon noticing Oskar, gave the boy a most approving look. They passed on into a dingy passage where several doors presented themselves. Upon the last of these the old man rapped with his cane. The artist turned out not to be so young after all. Oskar's father was perhaps only a little older than this man. The artist wore a loose gown with some oriental patterning about the hems, and canvas espadrilles. On his head was perched a similarly-patterned pillbox hat with a tassel. The studio was small and lit by one north-facing window high up in the wall. Shod feet could be seen passing by on the street above and, to screen the room from prying eyes, tissue paper had been tacked across the panes. In a corner, a small stove glowed dimly and the air was filled with a curiously spiced smoky aroma. Otherwise, the room was furnished with all manner of objects, most of them looking as if they had not been new for a very long time: a delicate rattan chair with some of the seat missing; a chinoiserie table with a chipped Oriental vase on top; lots of drapery thrown over screens. Hung about the walls and propped up everywhere were canvases and boards with paintings and sketches of figures, mostly nude, in all manner of poses. Oskar gazed around at these particularly. They seemed to him very well rendered and life-like, arranged in classical scenes that reminded him of pictures he had seen with his mother in various art galleries around the world. They were of women and some men, and quite a few boys. The women pictured, however, seemed to be more vulgar than those he had looked at in the Prado or the Louvre; they had their hair pinned up like ladies of the street, and their bare breasts and flabby thighs seemed quite indecent. The artist held Oskar by the shoulder at arm's length and looked him up and down. 'Yes, he is just what I need for the bacchanal,' he said to the Old Gentleman. 'Take this and undress behind the screen,' he told Oskar, holding out a bundle of linen. The boy was surprised at this abrupt turn of events and looked to his friendly companion, who smiled reassuringly and nodded. This wasn't at all how Oskar had imagined his visit to the artist's studio: he had expected to be given a tour, like a guest, and then to sit on a comfortable chair, perhaps, and have his portrait made. But the two men evidently had other ideas and he felt obliged to do as he was told. Behind the screen, he unfolded the bundle and examined it. Rather than some sort of smock or toga to evoke classical times, the bundle contained only a long gold-coloured chain with large links, and a length of cloth. This was about 18 inches wide and as tall as Oskar when he held it up. How could he wear this? Between the screen and the wall there was very little space and nowhere to sit. He struggled out of his boots and unfastened his stockings and slipped them off, feeling the iciness of the stone floor. His other clothes he hung over the screen. When Oskar emerged, the artist said to him crossly: 'You have to remove your underclothes, too! Put the cloth over your shoulder and secure it at the waist with the chain,' and he showed Oskar what to do. So Oskar had to go back behind the screen. When he came before the men again, he had the piece of cloth in place - which was just long enough to preserve his modesty in front and behind - and the artist led him to a rug that had been arranged on the floor with a cushion at one end. 'Sit here,' said the artist, 'so that you show me your side and stretch your legs out. Then fold one leg beneath the other so that I see the sole of that foot. And put your arm over your lap.' Oskar did his best to do as instructed, feeling rather awkward, and was then made to tip his head back and dangle a bunch of grapes over his open mouth. 'Imagine they are the most sweet and juicy grapes you have ever tasted' said the artist. 'You are craving them. I want to see that on your face.' Oskar did his best. When the man retreated behind an easel, Oskar was left very exposed, sprawled as he was, almost naked, under the gaze of his Old Gentleman and this other man whom he hardly knew. The eyes of the artist darted over Oskar's body and across the paper on the easel as if there was no difference between the two. Oskar felt as if he might as well be a collection of pots or a piece of gathered fabric, for all the artist was concerned. But the eyes of the Old Gentleman, who was sat in an easy chair in the corner, he could feel fixed on him intently, sizing up every part of him from his pale calves and thighs, his abdomen to his armpit and the upturn of his chin. Oskar couldn't bring himself to look at the Old Gentleman. Still, Oskar reflected, his current state of undress wasn't so very different from when he had bathed in the sea as a little boy and then sprawled on the sand in his woollen swimming drawers in front of the grown-ups on their deck chairs. But he hadn't known any shame then. In time, Oskar's raised hand began to weaken and the grapes to waver and his back and shoulders to collapse with fatigue. 'Ah, you are in need of a break,' observed the artist. 'Let's change posture.' Oskar stood up stiffly and the artist had him sit on a low box mounted on a small stage so that he faced the easel. Then he had him put his right leg over his left and turn his body towards the room's darkened interior whilst turning his face in the opposite direction towards the window. 'Hold the box to your left with both hands,' the artist told him. 'Just so!' Oskar held himself still, with one thigh raised and a shoulder presented awkwardly to the easel. The man returned to his sketching. He seemed to work ever so fast. Oskar dared now to dart one or two glances at the Old Gentleman, who had joined the artist at the easel and was looking on approvingly, it seemed. The faint warmth from the stove reached Oskar's half-bare back, but otherwise he felt quite chilly, especially in his fingers and toes. He tried to take his mind off the cold by guessing what might have given the room its smoky incense smell, which was rather nice now that he was used to it. He sat in his posture for perhaps ten minutes before again the artist, apparently seeing him shivering, said: 'Let's have a rest. You may come and see what I have done.' As the boy stood and stretched his muscles, the artist threw a tartan blanket round his shoulders, which Oskar accepted gratefully. The sketches upon the easel were astonishing! With just a few dashes and marks, the artist had been able to make Oskar's body live on the paper in all its rounded fullness. On the page was a boy whose slender legs looked firm as if you could touch them, and around whose trunk there were ridges of muscle that Oskar didn't realise he possessed. He had to raise his arm above his head there and then and have a look. The artist had used chalk to accentuate the extreme play of light and shadow on the form, and the resulting likeness to himself was unsettlingly true. The man seemed to have captured everything exactly as he had seen it. Oskar started in shock. The boy on the paper had his genitals visible. The private parts could be seen beneath the thigh where the right leg was crossed over the left. Oskar flushed and glanced over at the partially-open door, behind which the men could be heard talking as the smoke from their cigarettes drifted in. To think that Oskar's balls had been on display all the time he had been sitting on the box, and he hadn't even known! He covered the picture-boy's modesty with his hands, but it was pointless, of course: there was no changing it. He pulled a chair over to the stove and huddled there in shame until the men came back in. 'Stand up, boy,' ordered the artist. 'I want you to model for my group of fauns now. You will begin with a standing pose and then we shall make you more comfortable.' As the man arranged the scene, Oskar fastidiously arranged his own belt-chain and cloth over his modesty. The Old Gentleman came over to him and clasped him firmly by the hands. 'You have pleased me royally!' he said, panting his hot breath over the boy. 'My friend is very impressed with you. He says your physique is most excellent, and it is rare to find a boy who can sit still for so long.' The old man seemed in high spirits and not at all cross that Oskar had inadvertently exposed himself in the picture; Oskar imagined the telling-off he would get from his mother, had she been there to see it. The old man pressed a coin into the boy's palm and closed the fingers around it. 'Here is a half-sovereign for you, for being such a good boy. I like to reward boys who please me.' Oskar uncurled his fingers and looked at the weighty piece of gold there. Half a sovereign! He had never owned so much money! But what had he done to deserve it? 'Thank you, sir!' he beamed. The old man patted him on the head. 'There may be another one for you at the end.' The artist beckoned and Oskar, after carefully depositing his new wealth into one of his shoes behind the screen, allowed himself to be positioned, standing with his back to the easel this time. One foot slightly in front and one behind and a hand on his hip, he raised the other, as instructed, and rested it on the upright of a hatstand. 'Look down at the stove,' he was told. The artist stood back to take in the composition. 'No!' he exclaimed. 'It simply does not have the essence of the Greek. I must see the buttocks!' And he came up behind Oskar and pulled the cloth from Oskar's shoulder so that it fell to the ground, leaving him standing with nothing but the gold chain round his hips. 'Perfect!' proclaimed the artist. Oskar was startled but could only stand frozen where he had been put - he fought hard against a compulsion to cover himself with his hands. He listened to the scratching of the artist's charcoal and felt cold again, in spite of the stove. What must he look like from where the man was standing? Oskar had examined himself naked often in the cheval in his bedroom and had found that he could see his back by turning and regarding his reflection with a hand glass. He could remember now the look of the shadows beneath the twin precipices of his shoulder blades, the curving spinal valley, the delta and firm cleft of his buttocks. Abruptly a new voice came from the doorway and Oskar's head whipped round to see a dark-skinned youth in a turban standing there. 'I come to prepare the hookah, sahib,' said the youth in an accent that Oskar could not place. Oskar's hands went instinctively to his crotch. 'Forgive me,' said the artist to Oskar. 'This is Ramu, my houseboy. He is a Pathan and assists me in all my work. There is no need to worry. He is very used to my models.' The houseboy Oskar judged to be several years older than himself, although it was difficult to tell since the youth's body was slight and not filled out like a European's might have been - like Otto's was. He wore a light gown like his master's but had his feet bare. The houseboy carried a jug which he set by the stove and then proceeded to drag a long silver object, that Oskar had taken for a candlestick, out of the shadows of a corner. Into the bottom of this candlestick he began to pour water from the jug, before dismantling the top and placing something within it from a pouch at his waist. Finally, the houseboy removed a glowing coal from the stove with a pair of tongs, and transferred it to the apparatus before putting it back together again. Oskar watched all this with bemusement, as he went back gingerly to his pose. Ramu seemed not to regard him, save once when his dark, glinting eyes flashed across and took in the boy's slender profile, catching momentarily about his middle. With Oskar's eyes still following him closely, the houseboy carried the hookah across to the Old Gentleman where the youth bowed and set it down. The device had attached a flexible tube, colourfully woven, which the old man took up and began to draw upon with his mouth. The hookah bubbled noisily and jets of smoke emerged from the man's nostrils. Oskar watched with fascination and a little unease. He understood now the aroma that the room possessed. The charcoal scratched at the easel and Ramu retired to the shadows, although Oskar could see the older boy's eyes glinting at him. Presently, the artist said, 'Enough! Ramu, prepare the boy for the "Frenzy of Dionysus".' Oskar had no idea what was meant by this, but the paper on the easel was quickly replaced and a divan laid out which he was instructed by the Pathan to lie on. 'Please to place front on here, as so,' Ramu told him, indicating where Oskar should position himself. The boy lay down on his belly with his arms by his sides and was surprised to see the houseboy throw off his own gown, under which he wore only a twisted cloth about his loins. Then the houseboy produced a dish, from which he coated his hands with an oil that he then proceeded to rub into Oskar's back and shoulders, and between his legs. 'Why do you need to do that?' Oskar asked. 'Sahib wants boy to be most comfortable.' Oskar did not think that much of an answer, but the Pathan's hands against his skin produced such a wonderful feeling that he soon began to wonder whether the question was unimportant after all. The skillful hands ground and pummeled deeply into his back, buttocks and legs, smoothing knotted muscles. Oskar purred with contentment and also with arousal. The air in the small basement hung heavy now with the smoke from the hookah. Oskar had begun to feel sleepy and barely noticed when the Pathan left him. With his head on one side, he observed the Old Gentleman stand up and approach, motioning to the houseboy, as he came, to bring the smoking apparatus. The gentleman had taken off his coat and top hat and now wore upon his head a skullcap, something like the one Oskar had once seen a Chinaman wearing on a cigarette card. 'Now, my boy, are you feeling comfortable?' 'Yes, sir,' he said languorously, 'very comfortable.' 'I thought you might like to try a little of the pipe. It is something that, in the East, men partake of in the company of other men, and with boys too, when they are becoming men. Is that not so, Ramu?' The houseboy nodded vigorously. 'It is rightly true, sahib.' The Old Gentleman bent with difficulty to offer the hose of the hookah and, following an urgent snap of the fingers from the artist, the houseboy hurried to bring the chair for the old man to sit in. Oskar surprised himself by taking the colourful pipe and, propping himself on his elbows, took a sip. 'Not too much, at first,' the Old Gentleman advised. The hookah gurgled loudly. The smoke was denser than Oskar had anticipated and made him splutter, but he would not give the pipe back until he had taken a proper pull - like a real man. He had often watched the men smoking cigarettes together at society functions. He wiped his mouth with his hand. What would his mother say now? He had heard her complain often enough about the 'filthy habit'. But he was being a man now; what did women know! The Old Gentleman resumed his own toping thoughtfully. 'Do you remember the piece of sculpture we once looked at in my gallery, with the god Dionysus and his fauns with goats' legs?' 'I think I do...' 'They were cavorting in a frenzy of drinking and ecstasy and I asked you whether you knew what it meant to feel pleasure so great that you might have left your own body.' '...Yes, I remember.' 'Well, that is what my friend wishes to paint! He wishes you and his boy, Ramu, to be the models for his fauns.' Oskar's face creased in puzzlement. He couldn't quite imagine how he could resemble a frenzied faun. He didn't feel in the least like being frenzied. In fact he was really rather sleepy. His pulse throbbed dully in his temples and his head felt heavy and full of fuzz. The old man leant closer with the pipe in the corner of his mouth. 'You told me then that you had never felt an ecstasy of pleasure,' he said. Oskar settled himself dreamily. 'I think I have...since then.' 'Jolly good!' said the man, leaning back, his eyes bright. 'I thought you might have.' Presently, the Old Gentleman's chair was set back in its place, from where he could sit and watch, and the divan was festooned with cushions. 'Please to sit up with legs crossed,' said the Pathan and Oskar complied, feeling less bothered by his nudity now. He felt serenely calm, if a little dizzy. Then the Pathan dropped his loincloth to the floor and Oskar noted vaguely, as the youth sat down before him, that there was no skin on the head between his legs. 'I feed you,' said the Pathan, 'grapes: head back!' A dish of fruit was produced and Oskar took with his lips from the Pathan's hand. The charcoal scratched at the easel. As the Pathan fed him, the dark-skinned youth would caress Oskar's ear with his lingering fingers, caress his cheek, his neck, his breast. Soon the fingers were between Oskar's legs and caressing him there, as the other hand continued to feed him the juicy grapes. The charcoal kept up its scratching. The Pathan then sat back, supporting himself on his hands, offering himself to the boy, skinless and erect. Oskar knew what was expected and, feeling his lust rise, got down on hands and knees to do it. He knew well by now how to dote on a phallus and he showed off his skill to the watching eyes. But this seemed not to be the Pathan's ultimate purpose and Oskar was surprised when he broke away and bid the boy to lie beside him, his back to the Pathan's chest. The chain about the boy's hips, which was his only clothing, jingled gaily as his moved into position. Oskar allowed himself to be rolled with the Pathan's strong hand placed firmly on his chest, his knees bent before him, the Pathan close in behind. Oskar did not feel cold now; the youth's flesh was warm against his own, and the embrace comforting and secure. Oskar's mind drifted back to a time, long ago, when he had fallen on the sports field on the Heath and the senior boy had taken him between his legs and held him. How complete Oskar's happiness had seemed then, how content he would have been to have remained enclosed by that big boy's strength forever. He nestled into the youth's protecting body and the other responded by pressing in closer. Oskar was not surprised to feel a pressure at his bottom: he had felt it before, and he surrendered to it willingly now. There was discomfort, a fullness from which he felt an urge to escape, but he did not have the will to move. He allowed the Pathan to fill him and move into him, occupying him irresistibly little and little. Then the other shifted powerfully against him and Oskar moved too, pegged like a timber in a storm-bucked ship. They rode together on a growing ocean surge, Oskar clinging tight to his lover as the storm's fury grew, and the Pathan, his arm across the boy's chest and hand now about his throat, held Oskar firmly as the waves slapping at his hull rose to a crescendo. At the height, the boy felt the Pathan swell within him to almost unbearable fullness, and the sea seemed then to burst open into a million scintillating droplet of unfathomable light. In an ebbing bay of warm after-swell, Oskar felt the indomitable wave of sleep overwhelm him. He drifted and dreamt of a naked figure in a turban cross-legged by a rush-work basket, a pipe at the lips charming sweet notes, a snake rising, rising, and the features of the face under the turban belonged to a friend, 'you want him' said Pierce, between notes, 'take hold of him,' but, as Oskar reached out his hand, the snake veered away hissing, and Pierce threw back his head in laughter, only he was no longer Pierce but the Old Gentleman and Oskar could not have the snake, no matter how hard he tried to reach it. When he awoke, he was in the Brougham, jolting through the London streets. He was wrapped in a tartan blanket. 'How do you feel, my boy?' the Old Gentleman asked, with concern. 'You've been asleep for some time.' 'My head hurts,' replied Oskar, blinking, 'and I'm very thirsty.' 'Of course you are, my boy. Take some water,' and he produced a silver flask from the interior of the carriage, and poured some into a tiny metal beaker. 'Where are we?' asked Oskar, having drained it. 'We are nearly at the station. Do you wish to be taken all the way home?' 'No,' said Oskar, scrambling to sit up. 'No!' He was fully dressed in his smart clothes and his boots were tied. 'What happened? How did I get here?' 'Don't you remember?' asked the Old Gentleman. Oskar pondered. He could remember a number of things, although hazily. He had been dreaming. But how many of the things were figments of his unconscious and how many were real, he could not rightly know. He didn't feel he could tell the Old Gentleman about any of them. The driver pulled the Brougham into the kerb. 'Ah, we are here. Are you sure you don't want me to take you home?' 'Yes, quite sure, sir. Thank you.' Oskar slipped down from the coach and waved as the driver whipped up the horse. 'I am so glad you could come,' called the Old Gentleman from the window. 'Thank you, sir. Goodbye.' As the coach receded, leaving Oskar amid the bustle of teeming Kensington, the boy felt in his trouser pocket and found two half-sovereigns. One he recalled the gentleman giving him at the artist's atelier. He remembered now that another had been promised against his good conduct. Oskar stood looking at the two coins. 'How'd you like to exchange one of them for a nice big bouquet of roses for your mama?' A woman with rotted teeth was grinning at his elbow; she sat by a basket crammed with that bloom. 'One of those shiny coins will just about cover it, if I reduce my price. See what I'll do for a nice boy like you!' Oskar held the coins tight. A few months ago he might have felt compelled to do as the woman told him. But he had grown up a good deal since then; he wasn't so green now! 'No, thank you,' he said. 'That's right, my boy,' another woman's voice came from nearby. 'Don't you let her palm you off. She'd charge a pound for a buttonhole if she could get away with it.' 'You speak for yourself, Gertrude,' replied the first woman. 'Where'd you get all that money from, anyhow, boy? What you been up to?' The other woman, who was standing by a pillar selling matches from a tray, seemed to feel some responsibility to defend Oskar's honour: 'Can't you see he's from a respectable nice home?' she said. 'He's a good boy; look at his clothes!' 'Not like those snipes from round here, then' the first woman jerked her head disdainfully. 'They'd bend over for anyone for the price of a ciggy!' Oskar backed away, leaving the women to their squabbling. As you moved, he found that his bottom was rather sore. *** Readers can email me at olhap8464972175@elude.in It is always great to hear that people have enjoyed my stories and don't be afraid to email me more than once: comments encourage me to write more! Readers who enjoyed this one may like to read my other stories: The Monkey's Grin -13-year-old Martin inherits a certain piece of sports equipment with strange powers. https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/the-monkeys-grin Little Lord Barry - about a wicked boy in the time of King George. https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/historical/little-lord-barry Gulliver's Pageboy - a comedy about the sexual adventures of a larger-than-life adolescent. https://www.nifty.org/nifty/bisexual/celebrity/gullivers-pageboy