Bread and Dripping
folder
Erotica › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
2,913
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Erotica › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
2,913
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Bread and Dripping
I don’t know who owns the rights to writing about Oscar Wilde and Lord Alfred Douglas. Some rich Englishman? It isn’t me.
Bosie likes them hungry, he likes them wild. He finds them in mud-heaps, skinny street-Arabs, grayish skin showing through rents in their filthy clothing. He says they’re all whores. “You like him, Oscar?” Turning his latest find this way and that, enjoying the awkwardness, the frightened movements; the way a knife falls from his clothing when he undresses.
“He’d kill me, wouldn’t he?” The thought excites him. He holds the boy down, one hand on his throat, the other fumbling with his own trousers. “He’d kill me for the cost of my pocket watch,” and he laughs softly. Shoving his legs out of the way, “Hold him, Oscar.” When you don’t move fast enough, “I said hold him,” in a harsh voice.
You can feel his little bones under your hands. Looking down into a thin face; he pretends pain when Bosie enters him. “Lord, God!” and his cry sounds real. His mouth is as red as Bosie’s, his eyes as blue. You wonder what he’d look like if you made him laugh; whether you could take him with no one holding him down.
He grunts, cries out a little, then screams, as Bosie spills his seed deep inside him. His mouth’s a red square, eyes squeezed shut, lashes paler than his dirty skin.
Bosie steps away, adjusts his trousers, wiping his hands fastidiously on a handkerchief. “You want him Oscar?” He look at you, a little contemptuous. “Hurry up, this room rents by the hour.” With a laugh, glancing at the boy on the bed, “So does he no doubt.”
You take him quickly, loving the feel of being inside him where Bosie has been. He doesn’t struggle; he lets you take your pleasure, staying there on the bed when you’re finished. *Sorry, boy.* You put ten shillings next to him.
“He’d have done it for half a crown.” Bosie hands you your hat. “We can get tea at the Savoy in an hour.” He smiles at you. “I want muffins.”
“Toasted,” you say, “with plenty of butter.” Taking his arm, “And you must eat them greedily; it’s the only way to eat anything.”
Bosie likes them hungry, he likes them wild. He finds them in mud-heaps, skinny street-Arabs, grayish skin showing through rents in their filthy clothing. He says they’re all whores. “You like him, Oscar?” Turning his latest find this way and that, enjoying the awkwardness, the frightened movements; the way a knife falls from his clothing when he undresses.
“He’d kill me, wouldn’t he?” The thought excites him. He holds the boy down, one hand on his throat, the other fumbling with his own trousers. “He’d kill me for the cost of my pocket watch,” and he laughs softly. Shoving his legs out of the way, “Hold him, Oscar.” When you don’t move fast enough, “I said hold him,” in a harsh voice.
You can feel his little bones under your hands. Looking down into a thin face; he pretends pain when Bosie enters him. “Lord, God!” and his cry sounds real. His mouth is as red as Bosie’s, his eyes as blue. You wonder what he’d look like if you made him laugh; whether you could take him with no one holding him down.
He grunts, cries out a little, then screams, as Bosie spills his seed deep inside him. His mouth’s a red square, eyes squeezed shut, lashes paler than his dirty skin.
Bosie steps away, adjusts his trousers, wiping his hands fastidiously on a handkerchief. “You want him Oscar?” He look at you, a little contemptuous. “Hurry up, this room rents by the hour.” With a laugh, glancing at the boy on the bed, “So does he no doubt.”
You take him quickly, loving the feel of being inside him where Bosie has been. He doesn’t struggle; he lets you take your pleasure, staying there on the bed when you’re finished. *Sorry, boy.* You put ten shillings next to him.
“He’d have done it for half a crown.” Bosie hands you your hat. “We can get tea at the Savoy in an hour.” He smiles at you. “I want muffins.”
“Toasted,” you say, “with plenty of butter.” Taking his arm, “And you must eat them greedily; it’s the only way to eat anything.”