The following story is almost certainly a work of fiction.
If you shouldn't be reading this sort of thing, because of the rules which operate in the place where you live, then your decision to continue reading must be a matter between you, your conscience, and your relationship with whoever it is who makes the rules – be it your mother or your government.
Comments are welcome. There's more to tell, and if there's any interest to hear it, then, you never know...
And, as ever, donations to Nifty are encouraged. We all get a helluva lot of `entertainment' from these pages; give something back. Follow the link on the Nifty homepage to see how you can donate.
Many thanks for your comments. I only hope that it's as rewarding to read as it is to write.
Lost Ball: Part 10
`Leo – Vignettes...(1)'
"So – how is it that you know Leo?" Elena asked. The question seemed casual; her tone light. The sort of thing you'd get at any drinks party. Except that, I know Elena. And her enquiry was a great deal more loaded than its method of delivery suggested. What she really meant was both: "How is that you know Leo?", closely followed by: "How is it that you know Leo?" And that was something I wasn't about to volunteer. Not readily, anyway. Not right now.
We were in that part of the summer when days all
begin to flow together, seamlessly, and people can drop out of circulation for
weeks at a time, as they disappear without warning, off to the mountains, or to
the coast, or even abroad. Which day of the week we're in at any given moment
becomes something that requires thought before it can be answered with any
confidence. I knew that Leo's parents would be taking him off with them, at the
start of August, to the same villa in
I've known Elena for years. She specializes in ancient
languages, as part of the
Leo was due to arrive earlier than normal, that day, coming straight from a classics lesson, as he had to be somewhere with his mother later in the afternoon, and so was juggling his timetable. We wouldn't have long together, as a result, but presumably had both reasoned that something was better than nothing. After Elena had turned up, I'd contemplated texting him to say not to come- he might find it uncomfortable to find somebody else there – but I found I was too selfish to deprive myself of that day's dose of Leo for something that might not even matter.
And, in truth, I found myself slightly intrigued to see how he'd deal with the situation.
Elena had already been there for maybe forty minutes by the time I heard the click of the garden gate which announced his arrival, and a minute later his confident tread on the boards of the walkway. By the time he heard the sound of our conversation, it would already have been too late to have turned back without it being obvious. So, he kept on, as normal. As he approached, I saw him through her eyes – khaki shorts and a deep blue linen shirt, unbuttoned at the neck and with the sleeves rolled to the elbow, tanned, and handsome, his hair something of a mop (he was starting to need a haircut), sun-bleached to a light auburn and falling across his forehead. And, very definitely, a teenager. On his right wrist he wore one of those colourful ethnic bead-and-string bracelets that the kids buy from the Senegalese who haunt Corso Italia. If there was a pause as he took in Elena's presence, then I didn't see it; he exuded...I don't know quite how to put it...he exuded a feeling that things were right in his life...'bien dan sa peau', as the French would say, probably. And it felt good just to observe him, like that.
Ok. I had it bad.
In private greeting, I briefly touched the back of his hand as he approached my chair, and I introduced them to each other, perfectly normally, as two separate friends of mine who didn't yet know each other. The fact that one of them was apparently still a schoolboy was of no account.
"There's cake, in the kitchen, if you want." I told him. "Elena brought it." And he disappeared to go and forage, displaying an easy familiarity with the house. And in his absence I firmly returned the conversation with Elena to what we'd been talking about before Leo had turned up.
"And how was our friend Tacitus, this morning?" I asked, as he returned to the terrace, bearing a slice of cake on a plate, and even having provided himself with a fork with which to eat it. Which showed better manners than either Elena or I had done.
"Oh...the usual stuff.
Loads of blood and people being killed. We were doing
something about invading
"Nothing much changed there, then," I said, assuming a `guilty-as-charged' role. And if Elena noticed, she made no comment, but instead joined in the conversation as though there was no private undercurrent perceptible between Leo and me. She was well informed on the subject of Tacitus, and the two of them fell into a ready discussion about the writing and the man. Leo appeared to be holding his own, and opined that Tacitus was clearly ill-named, given how many words of his were still extant. Elena appeared to be charmed by Leo, and I found myself assuming the role of the proud ...not parent...but perhaps `sponsor', as the two of them joked and talked together. I suppose, as the only child of two professional intellectuals, he was used to finding himself in social situations with people who were much older than him, and who didn't in general make much of an allowance for either the gaucheness or the lack of learning of youth.
At one point, Leo's phone rang – his mother – and he excused himself to take the call. Which he did from the privacy of the other side of the terrace.
And that was when Elena asked her question: "How is it that you know Leo?"
"He goes to the school next door," I said. "His
father works in
The church clock struck half past the hour, and Elena regretfully announced that she had to make a move. Leo stood, politely, to shake her hand as she left, and it was entirely clear from his demeanour that he wasn't about to be leaving, any time soon.
"I'll walk you out," I told her, and nodded at Leo to indicate that I'd be back in a minute.
"He seems nice," she said, carefully, as she wheeled her bicycle down the lane back towards the gate out to the Piazza. I walked beside her.
"He is," I said. "And, apparently, a complete charmer, when he puts his mind to it." She laughed.
"You didn't tell me how it is that you know him." We'd arrived at the gate, and I pressed the switch to unlock it, and held the gate open while she navigated her bike through.
"Did I not?" With a feigned air of innocence. "I thought I had..."
"No." She said. And I smiled, and allowed the pause to lengthen, until she understood that no further answer would be forthcoming. Her expression became slightly more serious, and she touched my arm as she added: "Michael – I hope you know what you're doing."
"Yes," I kissed her on both cheeks. "So do I."
By the time I returned to the terrace, there was no sign of Leo. The plates and coffee cups had all disappeared, as well, and so I assumed that I'd find him in the kitchen, tidying things away.
But, no. No sign of him there, and the dirty cups and plates had been left, out in the scullery, stacked neatly on top of the dishwasher. On my way back to the terrace, to see if he was out in the garden and somehow I'd missed him, I passed through the small sitting room. And there, on the back of the old walnut armchair, his blue shirt had been carefully hung; his shoes were aligned neatly on the floor, beside the chair, and the khaki shorts were folded on the seat. I paused at the sight, and my cock twitched inside my shorts – Leo's clothes without Leo could only be a corollary to Leo without his clothes.
Since there was no sign of him downstairs, I went up, and peered into the office, and then the salone. Both were empty, and the door through from the salone into the dressing room was closed – which is not how I generally leave it. From across the room, though, hanging from the door handle I could see what I found, on closer inspection, to be a pair of boy's briefs. New. And made from a fine cotton fabric that was so sheer that I knew it must be almost transparent when worn. It appeared that Leo had been shopping. Expensively. And by now, at the sight of his discarded underwear, my cock was rampant.
The dressing room was also empty, with the curtain pulled closed across the doorway through into the bedroom. At this point, I knew exactly where I would find him, and I made my way stealthily across the room and I pulled back the curtain so that I could slip inside, as though undetected. And, there he was, in the centre of the bed – naked, and stretched face-down on the top sheet of the bed. He hadn't entirely closed the shutters, and the light filtering into the room gave it a sub-aqueous feeling. He'd pushed the pillows onto the floor, so that he could lie entirely flat, his arms stretched out and angled up at the elbows so that his hands rested, palms down, to either side of his head. His legs were slightly parted, with his feet perhaps ten inches or so apart. The days spent tanning as he wore the striped trunks had already paid off, and the backs of his thighs were tanned a caramel colour, although as yet nothing like as dark as the colour of the small of his back. The mounds of his buttocks, in between, rose up stark white, with the crack between them sharply defined. He lay there. Perfectly still.
Clearly, what we had here was nothing less than a human sacrifice. Stripped and ready to meet the Gods.
On the nightstand, I saw that he'd carefully – and rather obviously – left the bottle of poppers and the lube, which he'd taken out of the drawer. As if I needed any prompting. I was already pretty clear what form of human sacrifice this was going to be.
Sticking with what I guessed was his script, I quickly stripped myself out of my clothes, making as little noise as I could, and I moved in on him. He gave no sign that he was aware of my presence, and continued to lie, perfectly still, his face pressed against the bed.
Standing there, I reached across, and very lightly touched my fingers to the inside of his left calf, not far above his ankle. He tensed, and then forced himself to relax, as I moved my hand, only just making contact with the back of his leg, further and further up. Painfully, jaw-tensingly slowly.
After all, I reasoned, these ancient savage rituals should be respected, in all their forms.
My fingertips teased the hairs on the back of his thighs, as I moved up and into the cleft between his buttocks. Although, in every other way, he remained motionless, as my hand brushed against his taint, he parted his legs, slightly, and raised his hips, only a little, but sufficient to allow my hand access beneath him, to his groin. My hand cupped the velvety softness of his ball-sac (the contents of which were drawn tightly up into his body, in expectation) and then grasped the hardness of his erection. By the time I removed my hand from underneath him, he'd pushed his arse back up, and was resting by now on his elbows and his knees, spread apart, presenting his parted buttocks as the central focus of attention. Not a sound came from him
I began to understand that Leo had two distinctly different approaches to sex. One, was about intimacy and connection – that was when I held his gaze at the same time as I fucked him, and the physical sensations were wired directly to an intellectual process in his brain; that was about what was happening between him and me, and that personal element was fundamental to the whole thing. And the other...was about raw physicality, when he avoided eye contact, and sought to make himself available as an object, and it was about nerve endings and about seeking reactions within himself which went way beyond anything that he could put words to. And that was where he was now. It wasn't that either form of sex was better than the other. They were different, and, for him, both equally valid. I doubt he himself could have described what I've just identified about him – possibly, the different urges that he was responding to were causing him confusion at some level within himself, and I was way ahead of him on this one. Now wasn't the time for an in-depth discussion on the subject, but I clocked it as something we should maybe address at a later date. It was all part of the complicated challenge of his sexuality that he was in the process of meeting.
His arse was up in the air, and I knelt up on the bed, between his legs in order to give it my full focus. Reaching for the lube, I uncapped it, and squeezed a quantity of the stuff onto the index finger of my right hand. Human sacrifices, I reasoned, needed to be anointed. With the tip of my finger, I carefully applied the lube to his wrinkled pucker, and then gently used all the fingers of that hand to massage the smooth area that ran from there right through to the underside of his balls. I took some more lube on my fingertip, and went back to gently probing his bud, and making sure the entrance to his arse was thoroughly slicked with the stuff. Then, I reached right between his legs, for his hard cock, and I gently pulled it back between his legs, forcing him to stick his arse further back and up in the process. Already, his foreskin was retracted, and as I squeezed another glob of lube directly onto his exposed cockhead, for the first time he made a noise, and a low groan came from him. Which turned into a more high-pitched moan, as I carefully covered his entire cock with the stuff, and then worked it over his glans with the palm of my hand.
For the next few minutes, my hand worked the length of him, from the tip of his cock, right through between his legs and back to the central point of this whole exercise, his waiting rosebud. As my fingers traced the line of his taint, he had to suppress a shiver that threatened to overwhelm him. And then, back again, only to return and to insert just my fingertip inside him, and to hold it there, teasing him with the exquisite sensation of that touch, so slight but full of such promise, as he gripped the tip of my finger with the muscle of his arse.
It was nearly time. I dropped the lube, and reached instead for the bottle of poppers. Leo stayed in the exact position he'd assumed, on his hands and knees, and waited for me to apply the poppers to his nose. He inhaled deeply as they were held firstly to one nostril, and then to the other. And then, for good measure, I gave him a repeat hit at the first nostril again. Even as I got properly into position behind him, I could tell from the quivering in his muscles that he was already starting to feel the rush, and it wasn't a moment too soon, as I knelt up and placed my hard cock at his waiting arsehole. I waited for one further split second, judging my time, and as a low moan began to come from him, I pushed in, all the way, in one clean thrust.
He cried out. And I fell forward onto his back, and reached down for his hands which were still flat on the bed, supporting him up against me. I laced the fingers of both hands through his, and I pushed him forward and down onto the bed. My knees roughly forced his as far apart as I could, and as my weight pushed him down against the bed, he pushed back up against me, as my cock buried itself as deeply inside him as it was physically possible to manage. Holding his hands in mine, I wrapped my arms around him as he lay beneath me, and as I held him like that I thrust up and into him. Bottoming out with every thrust. His movements beneath me seemed a combination of attempted rejection and deep wanting, as he seemed both to be trying to push me away and at the same time to force me even deeper inside him.
Finally, he managed to get some purchase with his knees as he pushed back, and I was fucking him more or less in the same position as we'd started, with his arse up in the air, and his upper body, still held tightly in my arms, down against the bed.
His noises suddenly changed, and the guttural grunts and moans gave way to a more high pitched series of noises, with that slightly questioning note that I'd come to associate with Leo being completely somewhere else for that split second. From the noises, I knew that he'd cum, and that he'd pumped his juices into the mattress beneath him – even without either of us actually touching his cock at the time. And I think it was that knowledge - which I found so fucking hot - which drove me over the edge, and I began to cry out, myself, as I thrust for the last few times into his arse and released myself into him.
Sweating, and breathless, and quivering, I allowed myself to fall properly forward onto the bed, with Leo still tightly clasped in my arms, my cock still buried deep inside him. And, like that, I held him, and I held him, and I held him.
With no words.
Because none were needed.
To be continued...