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The text in this story contains erotic material and is expressly written for adults only.
If you are underage or offended by such material, or if viewing this file is illegal in your locality, then leave, close or delete this file-story now.
This is a work of fiction, any resemblance to persons living, dead or otherwise is purely coincidental. The ideas and thoughts that follow are pure fantasies. In real life, at the very least they would be unpleasant and probably illegal. Fantasies are like that; daydreams where we can contemplate and imagine the sensations without suffering or inflicting the pain, despair or humiliation.
© obohobo 2010
"Well, I now know for certain that I can never trace our forbears further back than 1832. That old book Gran gave me clinched it and may also explain why we have homosexual tendencies," Mark informed Pete, his younger brother on his return from a month long cycling tour. "I typed it all out while you were gone so we don't have to keep handling the sear pages, and you'll be able to read it easily. We need to take care of the original journal because it is a valuable document on the life of Edward Filtonwood, our great, great, great grandfather. It's worth a read, not just for the history, but it's a novel in itself, and a rude one too. I wanked myself many times whilst reading and typing and I'm sure you will too."
Initially, Mark, the family genealogist, hoped to trace his ancestry back to Tudor times, but at least the book provided a definite cut-off point and caused him to wonder if homosexuality was a hereditary trait. The pair had sexual relations with each other and with other boys since they were fourteen but Mark, now twenty-two, courted a girl in the hope of breaking the pattern and starting a family. His ancestor had done so, could he?
That night Pete took the typescript to bed and started to read.
In this year of 1882 during the reign of our illustrious Queen Victoria, being now sixty-five years of age and still in possession of my faculties but with my wife, Molly, five years my senior, ill abed with consumption and not expected to last many more weeks, I decided to append my life story for the benefit of any of my children, and their children, who may care to read it after I too have passed on.
My papers state the date of my birth as April 24th 1832 but I am told the date could be at least a difference of a week, for when they found me on the steps of an orphanage on that day, I could have been a week or more old. The nuns who ran the orphanage gave me the Christian name of Edward but I took the family name of Filtonwood from Emily Filtonwood, the woman who nursed me for the first few years of my life.
Eventually Emily conceived another child out of wedlock and I became too much of a burden for her to support and the age of four, the nuns at the orphanage secured me a place with a wealthy family, the Warburtons, living in Berkshire who wanted a companion for their own son. All this they told me much later in life for I remember nothing of Emily or how we lived. Major Henry Warburton and his wife, Judith, treated me in like manner to Ralph, their son, and I wanted for nothing. I had food, servants and the same education with a private tutor. Whilst no knowledge of my parents ever came to my hearing, I feel one or other or both, must have been people in good standing for, while Ralph surpassed me in sport, especially hunting and fishing, I far surpassed him with my schoolwork, particularly in penmanship and figuring, abilities which stood me in good stead later. The tutor, a Mr. Greenford, would oft times nurse and encourage my abilities until Ralph and I had different lessons but he always had his revenge when outside the house for he grew strong and muscular and fleet of foot, whilst I remained small and thin for my age, despite eating the same food as he.
Tragedy struck when at the age of eleven and a half, Ralph and I contracted a serious bronchial infection that took his life but to everyone's amazement, I recovered. My survival caused Judith much anguish and while she continued to allow me to live in the house, she hardly spoke to me and resented my being alive whilst her son lay underground.
One evening about six weeks after the funeral, Major Henry came to my room and said quietly, "Pack as many of your belongings as you can into this bag for tomorrow we travel to Scotland. I have business there and my associate has arranged for you to stay with a family until you are fourteen and old enough to earn your own living. Until then I will pay the family a small allowance for your board and schooling. I am sorry about this Edward but I know you realise the agony and stress my wife is under after the death of our son."
From my geography lessons I knew Scotland abutted the north of England but I had no perception of its great distance from London and I had only been to our capital city on one occasion. Before we left, the Major gave me a slim leather case containing my birth papers and a note from Mr. Greenford on my schooling. Many hours later our steam train arrived in Edinburgh and I spent the night in a hotel with my mentor and the following morning they placed me on a small train and gave the guard instructions to see I alighted at Southernton, a small mining village nearly two hours journey.
Gladys McCloud, the wife of my new guardian, met me at the station and I walked nearly a mile, mainly up hill, half carrying, half dragging my bag, to their house. After living in a spacious detached residence in the country, it came as a complete shock to find my new home one of a terrace of twenty-four joined together in a long row with a narrow, arched passageway between each pair. Upstairs were only two bedrooms and downstairs, a living room, a kitchen and a scullery. Worse, I not only had to share the bedroom with their son, Ian, a big, brawny lad a few months older than me, but we had to share a bed too. I cried when I saw the dilapidated state of the room and the bedclothes but my new 'mother' scolded me for being a baby.
Walter McCloud, my new 'father' worked at the mine but now had a surface job which meant he didn't come home with a coal dust blackened face but his work involved muscular effort and I soon felt the strength of his hand when I didn't do the work they expected. It also disgusted them that I yelled and screamed at every hit and didn't stop crying until a long while after.
Ian tormented me too but didn't hit me. It started at bedtime. Not only did we have to share the bed, but also the chamber pot. I'd discretely put on a nightgown and turned my back to him to use the pot but he removed all his attire and walked around and stood before me holding his larger pego. "Can you milk it?" he asked in his peculiar accent. I knew what he meant and nodded that I could, for I had done so in the privacy of my room. "Let me see," he ordered and pulled my nightgown up and off. When I refused he grabbed my pego and pulled me to my feet. "Do it," he snarled and I started to rub it gently. I looked fearfully at the door which stood wide open but Ian made no attempt to shut it and I later learned that neither of the bedroom doors were ever shut, a legacy from his childhood when his mother needed to hear if he cried.
He rubbed his much more vigorously and soon had it standing firm and hard and before long spurted his seed on to my body where it proceeded to rub it in. Some he massaged into my pego until I sent forth my milk, most of which he captured in his hand and then rubbed on my face. Apart from the embarrassment of having him handle me, and the fear that I would get into trouble if his father or mother caught us, much to my consternation, I rather enjoyed the sensation of having another boy play with my private parts. His playing continued in bed and he asked me if I'd ever been used as a maid. Not knowing what he meant I said, "No," but he crudely said he would fuck my mouth and arse before long.
Neither of us slept well that night and sometime in the early hours of the morning, Ian's hand felt around my groin until he found my manhood and started to rub it until it became hard. His, already stiff, prodded at my thigh and when he found I responded, pushed me down in the bed until I found my mouth close to the end of it. "Suck it," he hissed under the blanket. It smelt of stale sperm but I didn't find it too objectionable and knew he'd force me anyway, so I took it in my mouth and when he bobbed it in and out, I tried to work with his movements. Some time later I tasted his milk but he held my held so I couldn't spit it out. This set the pattern for most nights. I frequently sucked him to completion and he occasionally sucked me. My fears that we would be punished for what we did proved groundless, for his mother or father often paused at the doorway and watched for a short while, and I found out they believed it a natural thing for young boys to do and part of their learning to be men.
School was both pleasurable and a terror. The schoolmistress, a Miss Farquart, took an interest in my work and knowing my ability to be far ahead of all the others, brought in books she'd used for her college work. This, together with my southern cultured accent, didn't endear me to the others and they made fun of me at every opportunity but I persisted in learning all I could.
.... There is more of this story ...