Apologies to the late, great Mr. Dickens, and it's just possible that there might be some material in here which might offend. If that's the case (or if it's not legal for you to read this stuff) please leave now: otherwise - enjoy.
The old man got back late from the "Three Cripples". When he'd first met Sykes he had been just like any of these boys. They grew up; that was the trouble. Perhaps it was his fault that they grew up bad, and - while bad boys could be both fun and lucrative - bad grown-ups were both a pain and dangerous. Sykes was dangerous. Not that the old man had never encountered that particular brand of danger before. He always knew where to put in a word that would send one of his former associates to an early grave. The public executioner looked after the interests of old Isaac Fagin very well. Perhaps it was time to end his association with Sykes in the like manner. He put the sack down in the corner by the old fireplace, and looked round at his boys.
Fagin never slept at night, preferring to rest in the daytime when the boys were out "working". Now the boys lay on their wooden bunks with the straw matresses. The sound of gentle snoring filled the old building. Most lay two or three to a bunk for warmth. They slept fully clothed, for what that was worth, removing only their boots (if they had any). Most of the boys could not be called attractive children: none were particularly unattractive. Fagin sighed. He had long been attracted to these boys - and to many more before them. He had taught them their profession - such as it was - and lived on the booty they brought back. At night they slept.
He sat down next to the Dodger's sleeping form. He had often marvelled how Dodger, so canny and hard in the daytime, transformed into so innocent and peaceful a boy when sleep overtook him. The boy lay on his back, his ankles crossed and his mouth open. His breathing, though firm and distinct, was not snoring. Fagin glanced down at the soles of Dodger's feet. Dodger was not a tall boy, nor skinny - though not fat - and his feet were fleshy but well shaped. His toes were not overlong, not crushed together (he was barefoot more often than most of the others); the balls of his feet and the bottoms of his heels were still quite soft. Gently Fagin lifted the uppermost foot and kissed the tips of the toes. He then began licking the bottom of the foot. Dodger moaned softly and pleasurably in his sleep. Encouraged, Fagin began sucking each toe in turn. Gently replacing the lovely foot, Fagin leaned forward to dodger's fly. Very gently he unbuttoned Dodger's flies and eased out the boy's cock. It was soft and with plenty of luxurious foreskin. Fagin was aware that Dodger had only just started to cum. Gently he began to manipulate the soft cock. There was a sudden movement and Fagin found himself colliding forcibly with the fireplace. He collapsed in a crumpled heap by the chimney corner. Dodger was sitting on the edge of his bunk, his cock still lying in his lap and his bare feet on the floor. Somehow in the transformation from a sleeping Dodger to a sedentary one the boy had managed to bring his knees up to his chest and deliver a kick like a mule's. He regarded Fagin cooly. "You'd ha' thought even a despicable old man like you would ha' learned not to milk the bull", he remarked contemptuously. "It's not like that my dear........", began the old man, but Dodger cut him short. "I know exackly wot it's like, so don't come it with me. You' bin in an out all our trousers every night since we come here. Well I won't stand for it so you just play your nasty little games with some of the others." "Of course, my dear". The old jew seemed to have trouble getting up. Dodger grinned suddenly. "Good! Then so will I. Where's the new boy?" "In my room", said the old man, "I gave him a blanket" "Very gen'rous!" observed the Dodger, "You call that poky little hole behind the fireplace a room?" "You ain't been too proud to live in these lodgings this past five years Jack Dawkins," returned the old man, "And that's the only place I can get some peace and quiet." The Dodger stepped over the old man and made for the alcove in question. "Yes, well you can get some peace and quiet out here tonight. I'm going to keep Oliver company." With that he vanished behind the fireplace.
The old man was well aware that the thirteen year old was not someone he could take on and win, but Charlie Watts - only a year younger than the Artful Dodger - was a different proposition altogether. Fagin moved to Charlie's feet and began to fondle them. Charlie stirred and opened his eyes. Fagin didn't notice and Charlie said nothing. It would have made no difference if Fagin had noticed. Charlie was of an entirely different temperament to the older boy. "Live and let live" was Charlie's motto (or would have been had he known what one was), and a pleasanter young gentleman one could not have wished to meet. His countenance - though not stunning - was pleasant; well fleshed out and crowned with a luxurious mop of fair hair. His blue eyes twinkled with merriment more often than not, and the younger boys all respected him. The old man licked his feet and sucked his fleshy toes. Charlie placed his hands behind his head and said nothing. Even Fagin was aware that he was no longer asleep by now, but his silence encouraged the old man and he unbuttoned the youngster's fly. Charlie relaxed (or perhaps that should be stayed relaxed). He did not think he approved of this sort of thing, but - since Fagin was going to do it anyway - he supposed he might as well enjoy it. Fagin was good at it. He knew how to bring pleasure to a young man. Probably one of the few things he ever did that was not entirely selfish. Charlie's breathing grew faster and heavier as his cock hardened and the old man used lips teeth and tongue to pleasure him. It was the work of an expert; not too much teeth (or gums mostly) plenty of tongue inside the foreskin. The old mans head bobbed up and down, and Charlie's rock hard member went right to the back of his throat. The twelve year old had only cum once or twice before, and never as he did now. The old man swallowed it all and - after a period to get their breath back - finished off by licking the boy's cock clean. He sat up and looked the boy full in the face. Charlie Watts still lay with his head on crossed hands, clearly awake now, but his eyes closed as if savouring the moment. "All right, Charlie?" "Yeah!" breathed the boy, without opening his eyes. "Good boy!" said the old man getting up.
His experience with young Watts had gone some way to mollify him after his defeat by the Dodger; but that episode still rankled. He had deliberately located Oliver in his own room so as to be able to enjoy the boy at night - not a very worthy motive and Dodger had seen through it at once. Obviously Dodger's motives were no better, but what could an old man do ? Well if he could not pleasure young Oliver himself, he could at least get some vicarious pleasure by watching the Dodger at work - so long as Dodger didn't see him.
Silently he moved to the fireplace. Cautiously he peered round it. Nothing could have prepared him for the sight that met his eyes. Dodger, when he said he meant to keep Oliver company, had meant exactly that. He had undressed and slid beneath Oliver's blanket, and now the two boys lay in each other's arms. Innocence wrapped in sleep. Oliver's fair head and pink skin contrasted strangely with the Dodger's brown hair and freckles. The old man could not believe his eyes. Of course Dodger may have simply been protecting Oliver from Fagin. If so he couldn't have done it more effectively. Only one thing was left to him and even that was dangerous. From beneath the blanket protruded two pair of bare feet. Fagin lay on the floor his face close to the boy's feet. He played with himself as he admired Dodger's plump feet and Oliver's small pink feet with the small curled toes. He fell asleep resting his head on Oliver's toes. He dreamed.
It would not be pleasant to dwell on what the avaricious old miser dreamed. Oliver's dreams would be much more pleasant. After many adventures he would find happiness and security. Charlie Watts dreamed too. In spite of Fagin's influence he would grow up a respectable and respected man. The Dodger when he was at last deported would at least be able to take pleasure from the memory of one good deed. And the old jew? The gallows to which he had sent so many of his former proteges waited finally for him.
But for now - let them dream.