Author: Aardvark



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.


I should address the `playing safe' issue, I suppose. Leo and Michael don't, because they don't need to: Leo was a virgin when the relationship began, and has only ever had unprotected sex with Michael, who had tested `negative' in his most recent test, since when he had not been exposed. Which means they can indulge freely, without having to break off in mid-flow and start scruffing around in search of condoms (remember what those days were like?)


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 12

`Leo – Vignettes...(3)'



Our table was at the edge of the terraced garden, overlooking the narrow country road beneath, and then with a view beyond, out and down over the Lucchese plain. As dusk fell, the lights of the city could be seen below and in the distance, and the massive outline of the hills to the west at first dissolved into the gathering darkness, and then reasserted itself, as a density distinct from the night sky above and behind.

I was taking Leo out to dinner. It was a date. A real date. And one where he was even likely to keep his trousers on for the duration of the event – unlike our other and previous `dates' which had all taken place in private, and where it had never proved possible, or been necessary, for one or other of us to have resisted undoing his flies within minutes of his arrival.

He was taking it seriously. This was the Tuesday evening of the week before he'd be leaving for Sardinia with his parents, and in fact it was the last evening before they left when he could be certain he wouldn't have to be at home for some family reason or other. When he'd arrived that afternoon, he'd brought with him a complete change of clothes, and even a sponge bag with everything in it that he thought he might need to titivate himself appropriately before going out. We'd spent the afternoon in bed, sheltering from the intense heat of the day, and indulging in long, languorous sex, and drowsing contentedly together in between times. And, at a certain point, he'd resolutely taken himself to the guest bathroom, to `get ready'. While I stayed in bed, and idly contemplated the bedsheets he'd just vacated, and tried to identify `essence of Leo' in the depression he'd left in his pillow.

When he returned - an inordinately long time later, as it seemed to me - he was buffed and scrubbed, dressed only in the towel he'd wrapped around his waist, along with the bead bracelet he wore on his wrist, and he positively gleamed from his efforts in the bathroom. He'd even shaved. Which definitely went beyond the call of duty, given the incipient nature of the growth which barely dusted his upper lip. Lying back against my pillow, I made a show of smacking my lips in appreciation. He looked slightly embarrassed, and covered his confusion with busily searching in his bag for his clean clothes: fawn chinos, and a dark shirt, midnight blue, broken by a fine gridline in yellowish gold. And his expensive new briefs, which on examination I'd found were from an extremely smart swiss manufacturer, and which clung to him in a way that made them worth every last centesimo. With his back to me now, he dropped his towel, and stepped into them, pulling them up and into place with his characteristic dip-and-tug right at the end. When he turned around, I was effectively speechless at the image which presented itself; the afternoons spent tanning, combined with his many hours on the tennis court, had perfected his body – I thought - into that of a complete adonis: a honed musculature...pecs, shoulders, thighs...and a gloriously flat and tight tummy, all now tanned to an even deep gold, and offset by the brilliant white of his underwear.

Still looking slightly abashed, he approached in response to my outstretched hand, and I drew him close. He'd overdone the aftershave...but, at fifteen, what can you expect; he'd learn, in time, and if I left the car windows open on the way to the restaurant, it would soon dissipate to a manageable level. As he stood beside the bed, I leant over and planted a kiss on his stomach, just above the waistband of his briefs. He smiled down, to meet my upturned look, and then he wrinkled his nose: "You stink," he said, with all the candour of youth. "Aren't you going to have a shower?"

Which I had had in mind - although perhaps not at quite such a break-neck pace as his lengthy stay in the bathroom beforehand now made necessary. Although the place we were going for dinner is notoriously relaxed in almost every way, if we turned up too much after the stated hour, we'd have lost our table for sure. In Leo's honour, I made more of an effort in dressing than I usually would for such a cheap-and-cheerful country place, and instead of yet another polo shirt, I too chose something rather more formal, and I even foreswore jeans for a rather better cut of trousers. Though I say it myself, I thought that we presented rather well together, scrubbed-up as we were.

Just before we headed off to the car, I took his shoulders, and looked him up and down, while he stood there for my inspection. And then, with a grunt of approval, I briefly pulled him in for a hug, and was conscious of the taut strength in his body as he put his arms around me and tightened his grip in return. The embrace had to be brief, or else the hard-on that sprang in my trousers at his touch would have dictated an entirely different agenda for the evening, and the way he immediately melted into my arms indicated that he'd have been stripped and spread-eagled in a second, had I made the least move in that direction.

"Tell me again where it is that we're going," he'd asked, once were in the car and heading out through the town gate, in the direction of the hills. So, as I drove, I described the place to him: it had been a favourite of mine for a long time. Nestled high above the plain, it was a perfect place to catch the evening summer breeze at the end of a suffocatingly hot day. A simple restaurant, but with a patch of land on the hillside outside, where La Signora put half a dozen or so tables under the pine trees, and people gathered, to while away a long summer's evening as the day cooled to an acceptable level. No menu – just course after course after course brought out, pretty much at the whim of the kitchen, until eventually the whole thing drew to a close, entirely at its own pace. It was rumoured that the quality of the food in any one year depended upon who La Signora had in her bed that year, since she equally put whoever it was to work in the kitchen. I pondered that one. I had no idea whether Leo could cook. Even less, though, did I care.

But, it had to be said, one other detail that was strongly in favour of our dinner venue for this evening was that it was nearly forty minutes away by car, And so, the danger of meeting anybody Leo knew there was next to non-existent. This was a day of firsts: our first formal date; the first time of my driving him in my car; in fact, the first time of actually being out anywhere in public together. For all that the `fidanzati' statement had been made, there was still a whole range of complicated issues associated with the status of our relationship. The fact that it broke no laws, since Leo was a year and more over the legal age of consent in Italy, was irrelevant to the social minefield of a relationship where I was three times his age, not to mention the small detail that, as far as we knew, I was the only person in the world who knew that Leo was in fact gay. Whilst we hadn't talked directly about any of this, it was clearly there in the background, and well understood – and so it was in the context of an unspoken need for discretion that I'd made my choice of venue for our first official outing.

And the evening was perfect in every way. The place was full – it always is – but not in a way that was intrusive. The tables are spread out, and ours was right at one end of the terrace, and it felt entirely private. The food was as good as it ever has been, and a carafe of house wine flowed appropriately. Behind us, the hill rose steeply, with the scattering of the few houses that made up the hamlet, and off to the left, the last rays of the sun warmed the faηade of the Romanesque church. We ate, and drank, and talked...and talked...and talked. Leo had two glasses of wine, although the second one remained unfinished, and the occasion and the grape made him voluble. Things that interested him...what he wanted to do with his life...things he found stupid or frustrating in the way the world was organised...which gymnasts he thought were sexy...why he'd never been able to have a dog...what was the point of history. A million and three points to be made, and each one of them rounded him out in yet more detail. Eventually, as the dinner came to an end, and after the final course had been cleared, he wound down, and we sat, in companionable silence, looking out at the view. His hands were resting on the table, and I reached across and gently, barely noticeably, ran my fingertip across the knuckles of his left hand, causing him to meet my eye, before he glanced down with a shy smile...and then he looked back up and forcefully twinkled at me. I met his smile with one of my own, and momentarily clasped the back of his hand before I discreetly withdrew again. Enough of a PDA, even for this place where we were completely unknown.

He sighed, apparently with pleasure. And then, abruptly, changed tack and announced his departure for the bathroom – the wine and water he'd consumed had taken their toll on his bladder.

In his absence, I asked for the bill, and was not greatly surprised when, along with the bill, our waiter arrived with a bottle of grappa...although the three glasses he brought with him was a bit unexpected. In his late twenties, I'd noticed him when we first arrived...and had I been there in other circumstances, I probably would have noticed him a lot more. In the course of the evening, he'd been amusing, and attentive...but not oppressively so...; ok...bottom line: he was cute, and seemed naturally flirtatious. Now, I accepted his offer of a grappa, but I declined one on Leo's behalf. Slightly diffidently, the waiter asked if he could join me in a glass.

"I would like to you...and to your friend," he announced. His tone was awkward, but he pushed on, in any case.

"My `friend'?" I raised my eyebrows. I'd rather assumed that to anybody looking, Leo might have been taken for my son, or nephew, or godson. But, clearly, I'd been mistaken.

"Oh, don't worry – it's not so obvious," he rushed to reassure me. "But, to me, I could tell." He took my attitude for acquiescence, and poured himself a grappa, and then raised his glass. "To your very beautiful love affair!"

Slightly stunned, I touched my glass to his, and drank. Just as Leo returned. He picked up that something was in train, and looked at me questioningly, as our waiter gathered up the grappa bottle and the cash I'd put on top of the bill.

"No. For me it was a pleasure," he said, as I tried to thank him for his gesture, and then he was gone. As we made our way back to the car, I rested one hand lightly on Leo's shoulder, and I suspect a broad grin was plastered across my face. The car, parked some distance down the road, was in complete darkness, and I took advantage of the fact once we were inside, as he manipulated his seat belt, to reach across and to turn his face to mine. I kissed him. "Thank you," I said...and I half-expected him to ask what for. But, he didn't. Instead he kissed me back. In perfect understanding.

"Shall we go home?" he said.


Much of the route back was on small country lanes, which, at this time of the evening, were more or less deserted. Already, by the time we'd reached the foot of the hill, my hand had drifted sideways from the gear-lever, and was resting easily on Leo's thigh. He placed his hand on top of mine, and as I drove, I gently caressed the back of his hand with my thumb. At one point, he reached to turn the radio on, and Rete Toscana immediately began to churn out a Mozart Piano Concerto, one of the later ones...I can never remember the exact number. When his hand returned to mine, he clasped it more firmly than before, and slid it up his thigh, and resolutely in the direction of his groin. I didn't resist. In between gear changes, I squeezed his package through his trousers, and could feel him getting harder and harder under my hand, as he spread his legs and gently pushed himself back against me.

There's one junction along the way which is quite tricky, and I had to concentrate properly for a minute or two, watching for traffic coming from the direction of the autostrada, off to the right, and then quickly navigating my way with a quick left and a right, across and into the road we wanted. By the time my hand found its way once more back between his legs, I found that in the meantime he'd unzipped his flies, and my fingers slipped easily inside, to rest against the thin cotton of his briefs, stretched tightly over his erect cock. When he's fully hard, Leo's cock has a vein which is visible just at the base of his shaft, sticking out slightly, and I was conscious now that I could feel it throbbing gently as my fingers touched and caressed him inside his trousers. As I explored further, my fingers moved over the end of his cock, and there was a distinct wet patch in his briefs where he'd leaked pre-cum, under my touch. Nothing was said, the entire time, and it was as though we were both pretending that nothing was happening. While Mozart's arpeggios all the while played politely on in the background.

At the gate in the Piazza, he quickly did up his flies, and got out to unlock the gate, and then to close it again after I'd driven through. By the time he re-joined me beside the garden gate, the car was properly parked and locked up, and he slipped his hand inside mine as we headed into the garden, and we walked hand-in-hand the length of the walkway, in the light from the lamps that illuminate the entrance path . The evening was warm, and the star-scape in the night sky overhead was glorious.

"Let's not go inside, yet," he suggested, as we arrived at the terrace. I knew that going inside would be a precursor to him having to go home – he was already later than he should have been – and I understood that he wanted to put off the evil moment.

"Ok," I agreed, and he immediately led me off and into the darkness of the garden. Which in fact was not that dark, once my eyes had adjusted to it, and in the moonlight which bathed the North Lawn, the whole scene appeared like an old-fashioned photographic negative. In his light-coloured chinos and dark shirt, Leo seemed somehow elementally part of it. There was no breeze, and the whole world felt as though it was waiting for something to happen.

Leo slipped off his shoes, and in the half-darkness I could see him as he undid the top two buttons of his shirt. And then, he stood there, his arms at his side. I took over. I have no idea what impulse dictated that I should undress him, but it seemed at that moment as though it was the most natural and that most obvious thing that should occur.

Button by button, I undid his shirt, and then continued, to unbuckle his belt and to open the waistband of his trousers. As I unzipped his flies, the lower part of his shirt came free, and I undid the final two buttons, and then turned my attention to his cuffs. In silence, he presented his wrists, first one and then the other, for me to deal with the buttons, and then, once that was done, I slipped the shirt off his shoulders and dropped it onto the grass. His trousers were next, already down around the top of his thighs, and I bent to take them right down, and then extracted his feet from them as the trousers gathered around his ankles. Enticing though the sight was of him there, naked apart from his white briefs – which practically glowed in the moonlight – I resisted the urge to break the spell and just grope him. And instead, I slid my hands inside his briefs, over his hips, and took his underwear right down, and then held his hand to encourage him to step out of them. Which he did, leaving his underpants discarded on the grass.

And, finally, I tackled the catch on his bead bracelet, which I'd never previously undone, and had no idea how it worked. Clearly, the gods were smiling down, as I managed it with no difficulty, and I dropped the bracelet onto the patch of white of his underwear, so as not to lose it. He was gloriously, finally, completely, wonderfully naked. And in the moonlight, I could see quite clearly the strength of his erection as it presented in all its glory, standing before him.

In a matter of seconds, possibly less, I was stripped and as naked as he was. This wasn't about me, and I had no need of a ceremonial disrobing; this was just about getting myself into an appropriate state to take him to the orgasm that he so clearly needed.

Everything about the situation seemed magnified. The feel of the grass under the soles of my feet; the sensation as Leo's shoulder grazed my hardened nipple as I moved around and embraced him from behind; the throbbing in his cock as my hand reached down to take it in my grasp. His body was tense, and I could tell that he wasn't far off from cumming. The long foreplay session on the drive home had presumably been responsible for that, and what he urgently needed now was a soul-rocking moment of release.

I pulled him back against me, my hard cock pressing into his side, and with my left arm across his chest, I began to work his cock. Initially, playing with it, and then graduating so that I was wanking him in earnest. His feet were spread, and his groin was thrust forward into my hand, which he fucked, to intensify the effect of my strokes on him. As his orgasm built, a low rattle grew within his throat, and he grasped with one hand at the forearm of the hand that was wanking him, and with the other he groped behind him to try and hold onto my hip.

Bolt after bolt of cum shot off into the darkness, as his knees suddenly buckled, and the growl in his throat translated into a more guttural sound, deep and basic. He slumped in my arms, his orgasm was so intense, and slowly I lowered him so that he was kneeling on the grass, and I knelt behind him and supported him in my arms, his back damp with sweat against my chest.

"To your very beautiful love affair," I thought.

And I rocked him in my arms, as we knelt there in the moonlight.



To be continued...