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.


A word of warning – I expect that the episode after this one will be the last.




Lost Ball: Part 19




We emerged from the cinema, to find that outside it was still dusk. The clocks had changed only the day before, and it was still that brief transitional period before the longer stretch of daylight in the evening would become the new norm – going to the late Saturday afternoon showing at the cinema had become a regular event for Leo and me over the winter months, and we were used to the fact that night would already have fallen by the time the film had finished. Our habit was then to go off for supper, generally at home, but sometimes instead to a local trattoria.

Leo had wanted to see the latest Sorrentino, and we were arguing about it afterwards as we came down the stairs into the main hall. The cinema is a multiplex, with four separate screens, and we'd been in one of the ones at the top of the building. He'd thought the film amazing, and although I'd liked it, I thought it was a bit too glib in places. The staircase was busy with everybody else leaving from the same screen, and I had my hand on Leo's shoulder, in order not to be separated, as he descended a step or so below me – it was completely impractical to try and carry on a conversation with people swarming past us, like that, and with him having to look back over his shoulder in order to do so. But, impractical or not, he was determined to do it. He had an opinion, and he was going to voice it.

Eventually, we made it to the foot of the stairs, and actually out onto the pavement, still in mid-debate. And probably even more impractically, as our crowd was now mingling with the people emerging from one of the ground-floor screens, where the film had also just finished.

"Leo." A voice in the crowd, made him stop, and turn. Two women, part of the other crowd, stood just behind him, and it was one of these who had accosted him.

"Mamma." He said. Stopped in his tracks. A pause. "Ciao." She waited, a polite smile on her face – but I was aware that she had noticed my hand, still resting on Leo's shoulder. He gathered himself. "This is Michael." Her smile became fixed. Rictus.

"You...are Michael?" She was surprised, clearly. Her friend, sensing an issue, began to make her excuses, but Leo's mother quickly cut her off and confirmed that they were going off together. She didn't wait for me to answer her question. "Leo – do we see you at home, later?" she asked, as she was turning to go.

"No, Mamma. Tomorrow." He was quite firm. She shouldn't have been surprised, as Leo more often than not spent Saturday nights with me, these days. Although, I suppose you couldn't blame her for trying. Particularly since it seemed that they now had something specific that they needed to talk about. She grunted at him in stolid acknowledgement of his statement, and then turned to go. Just as she did, she remembered to look back, and she nodded at me. Not as a mark of farewell, or even of dismissal, but more in the sense that I felt she was sizing me up. For what purpose, precisely, was unclear.


"My mother has asked if she could have your phone number," Leo said, when we met, the following Wednesday evening. "She wants to call you...about something." His voice was carefully toneless.

"About what?"

"I don't know." He shrugged, and I had no reason to doubt the truth of what he'd said.

"Is it a good idea, do you think?"

"I don't know." And this time the shrug had an air of helplessness about it.

The situation with Leo's parents was, if not exactly fragile, still an area where both sides appeared to be acting with great caution. After he'd reappeared in my life, five months earlier, he and I had talked through in great detail the best approach he should take in getting his life back together. School would be relatively easy: application, and hard work to make up lost ground, would get the authorities off his back...and would get him back to where he should be, academically. His parents, though would be a different matter. The structure of his life with them seemed to have ruptured badly, and it was difficult to see how that particular genie could be put back in the bottle. In the end, after we'd gone over it from every possible angle, I'd suggested that he approach them with a mixture of humility and of determination. Humility, in the form of an apology for how he'd been behaving, and a straightforward expression of regret about how they'd argued and how unhappy he knew he'd made them feel...but at the same time, a clear statement that he was going to live his life as he wanted, and that they had to respect his right to do so. I didn't know them at all, but from the way he described them, I suspected that they would appreciate his maturity if he approached them in that way...and I had no sense that they were unfair people – just people who'd suddenly found themselves out of their depth, and in circumstances which had conspired, in a way which, not entirely through their fault, had made their relationship with Leo fall disastrously apart.

In practice, I expect the tactic worked - to the extent that it did - as much because they were exhausted and worn down by the constant arguing as because they rationally accepted what Leo had said to them. Effectively, terms of a peace accord were put in place: he would accept their rules, and respect them, and would work hard at school, and they could co-exist on a civil basis, as long as they accepted that he also could have his own space...and that what he did with that space was his own affair. In practice, this had resolved itself into him spending a large part of each weekend with me, and also part of one evening during the didn't matter which one, but in practice, as a mid-point, it tended to be Wednesday. His parents didn't know that he was spending that time with me...or, indeed, with anybody in particular...but, I imagine they suspected. In the same way, nothing was ever mentioned about his newly-discovered sexuality...but, often, it must have been as present as an unspoken element in their conversations as if it were being directly addressed. As far as Leo was concerned, it was none of their business, whatever he chose not to tell them...and he had said absolutely nothing further to them about me, after their fragile rapprochement had been put in place. For them, I was a no-go area, and as the terms of the new arrangement appeared to be holding up, they knew better than to risk any further rupture by pushing him and asking unwelcome questions.

"Leo," I said now. Across the supper table, on Wednesday. "When she met me, last weekend – your mother seemed surprised. About something. Why would she have been surprised?" His look of innocence was so obviously contrived that, with his mouth already open to come out with a third `I don't know', I looked at him severely, and he thought better of it. Instead, he frowned. And considered.

" weren't exactly as she expected you would be," he said, finally.

"That would make sense." And when the implicit and ironic invitation to expand further produced nothing more: "In what way might she have expected something different?" A pause.

"Perhaps...somebody younger?" he suggested. "A bit."

"How much of a bit?"

"Quite a big bit, maybe." I raised a questioning eyebrow. "Like...possibly, she thought you'd be...I don't know...maybe twenty-five, or something like that."

"Ah." I drank. "Twenty years' difference is quite a lot of `bit'"

"Mm." He agreed. "Could I have some more water, please?" I re-filled his glass.

"So...they really don't know very much about me, at all?" He shook his head.

"Just what I told you I'd said: your name, and that you're older than me, and that we have ...or `had' together. But, nothing else. I think they thought that you're a postgrad, or something like that, at the University. And I let them think it. It's none of their business." He shrugged, in apparent dismissal, but he looked both fierce and uncomfortable at the same time. From our soul-searching conversations during the winter, I had a pretty good idea why: Marco had been the only person he'd ever told about me, in any detail, and the consequences had been unthinkably horrible. Either consciously or subconsciously, after that he'd decided that silence was a more pragmatic approach. Now, I reached across the table, and gently played with his hand, as he glared at his water glass.

"That's ok. It's your choice." I gathered that he thought perhaps he'd let me down, or maybe even that I would think he'd needed to create a false impression of me on purpose, because he'd thought it would be more palatable than the reality. Which I didn't.

I pondered the request for my phone number. Really, I didn't want to give it – once given, it could be a nuisance in the future. As much as I was a no-go area for them, Leo's parents were for me a distant blank, in fact they even had some unspecific negative associations, and frankly, I was quite happy to leave it that way.

"Ask her if it's ok for me to have her number, and I'll call her, sometime," I said, in the end. I wasn't looking for an opening to talk to her, but there was no need either for me to be gratuitously obstructive.

"It's ok. I can give it you now. I'm sure she won't mind."

"No. You might be right - but ask her, anyway."


It was only as I was dialing the number that it occurred to me that I didn't know Leo's mother's name. Of course, I know Leo's surname, which is the same as his father's – but, in Italy, married women don't take their husband's name, and so I had no idea what I should call her. Beyond `Professoressa', which seemed inappropriate, in the circumstances.

"Is this Leo's mother?" I asked, as the call was answered. So – it wasn't so difficult, after all.

"Yes." The voice was crisp. She'd known immediately who it was, even though I'd not introduced myself. She must have been waiting for me to call. "You're Michael." I confirmed that I was.

It transpired that she wanted to meet, in order for us to talk – whatever it was she had to say, it would be better said in person. She suggested lunch. I proposed coffee, instead. "I don't eat lunch," I said, as my excuse – but in fact I felt that it would be easier to flee from a cup of coffee, if I didn't like the way things were going, than to extricate myself from the middle of a three-course meal. She suggested a café near to the hospital, where she had her office, and we agreed to meet there at midday, two days later. Her tone throughout was one of brisk efficiency; I could read absolutely nothing from it.

On the day, I made sure to get there early. That way, I could establish myself before she arrived, and subtly claim the advantage of being quasi-host. It was a fine spring day, and I chose a table outside, with a view of the front of the Archbishop's palace, on the other side of the square. I'd brought some papers with me that I needed to look through, and by the time she arrived I was already firmly ensconced, and occupied, and with a cup of coffee half-drunk on the table in front of me.

"Michael." It was more a statement than a greeting – and, in fact, I had trouble not to hear it as an accusation. I rose to greet her as she made her way between the tables. Well...greet? Acknowledge, rather.

In her mid-forties, she was dressed in a slightly aging-student style: loose, lightweight trousers in a dark fabric with a polka-dot design on them, and something that looked like a fisherman's smock on top; over her shoulder she had a tote bag, and her hair, dark and slightly graying, was pulled back into a bun, which was held in place with a heavy tortoiseshell slide. Her face was lined, but handsome, and clearly intelligent; she wore no makeup, although a pair of silver earrings – Indian, maybe? – dangled from her ears; and she wore a heavy silver bracelet on her wrist. We sat, as she reached the table, and she rapidly ordered something to drink from the waiter who was hovering nearby. We had neither of us made any attempt to shake hands.

A banal exchange of comments on the weather, before her coffee arrived, and then, a pause. I waited. She tore open a packet of sugar and stirred part of the contents into her cup.

"I thought it was appropriate that we should meet," she said eventually. Since I didn't particularly understand why that might be, I said nothing in reply. I could see that I wasn't making it easy for her. Another pause.

"Are you in a relationship with my son...with Leo?" She suddenly asked, in a way which suggested she was unused to her questions going unanswered. I imagine that her junior colleagues found her a tough nut. I thought I might as well give as good as I got.

"Forgive me – but, I'm afraid I don't know your name." My tone was perfectly pleasant, but I could see that I'd caught her off-guard. She was also unused to people not knowing who she was, and she appeared to be considering how she should now position herself. I suspect that her preference would have been to give me her formal title and surname, but since she was already using my first name, then to try and do so would have been glaringly inappropriate, given that we were probably of much the same age as each other, and obviously of the same social class. If anything, I was likely to be older than she was...although, I took quiet pleasure in acknowledging that my face had none of her lines, and that I would probably be thought significantly her junior by anybody who was looking.

"It's Cecilia," she volunteered, without enthusiasm. I smiled, formally, as though we'd just been introduced at a drinks party.

"Well, Cecilia...please understand that I'm not here to any way. And, certainly, I have no intention of saying anything to you which I think Leo might not say himself. So, in answer to your question - you must ask him that yourself."

"From which, I understand that the answer is `yes'," she shot back. I smiled, coldly, and took another sip of my coffee. Again, there was a pause, as she appeared to consider how to continue. And before doing so, she took a deep breath.

"Leo is our son – our only child," she said next, in a visible attempt to explain herself reasonably. "It was a...surprise...for us when we found out that he appears to be homosexual." I raised my eyebrows at the `appears to be', but said nothing. "And it was not a welcome surprise. It is not good news to hear that your child is likely to face challenges in their life which you hadn't envisaged for them." Still, I said nothing – although I thought her attitude more suited to thirty years ago than to the present day; possibly, she was reflecting the views of her husband, who was older and effectively from a different generation. "But...although it was not what we would have wanted for Leo, we nevertheless accepted it. And, when we thought that he had a `friend', this `Michael', who was maybe a few years older than Leo – maybe the same age as his cousin, Marco – if anything, this seemed to be a good thing...something stable for him, in this new life he seemed to be... exploring." I stiffened at the mention of Marco's name, but I don't think she noticed. I also took on board her careful choice of words, which made clear that their acceptance of Leo's sexuality was deeply conditional, and in fact all pointed towards a belief that it would be only a passing phase. On Leo's behalf, I found it both irritating and patronizing.

"And, so?" She'd paused, once more. My words made clear that so far she'd said nothing of any particular note.

"And, was a shock to discover that in fact this new `friend' is not another boy...somebody who is just a few years older than Leo...but, instead a much, much older man. This makes it all very different."

"It does? How so?" Of course, I understood her perfectly, but I saw no reason why she shouldn't have to spell it out herself.

"If you don't understand that, then you cannot be a very intelligent person. Which I doubt is the case," she retorted, with some vehemence; and she managed to imply that my apparent level of intelligence was something insidious. "But, since you wish me to be categorical on the subject, then, fine...I will be. A relationship between a boy – which is what Leo is – and an older man, like you, is likely to be manipulative, and one-sided, and exploitative, where the child is used predominantly for the sexual pleasure of the older partner, until such time as they grow too old to be of any further interest, and the child is then abandoned, in favour of another, younger version. Causing untold hurt and damage in the process." As she spelled it out, her face was hard, and her tone uncompromising. I could feel my brow becoming more set, and my teeth clenching, as she spoke. My reply was controlled, and voiced with care.

"Cecilia. You don't know me. You know nothing about me, or what kind of person I am. And yet, you appear to have jumped to some rather profound conclusions on the basis of your complete ignorance. If either us were open to a charge of a lack of intelligence, then, on the basis of what you've just said, it would clearly be you." She said nothing.

"I've known Leo for almost a year, now." She hadn't been clear on that detail. "On what basis would you accuse me of having been manipulative towards him?"

"That's not the point."

"Or, of having exploited him, in any way?" She was silent.

"You appear to assume that my interest in him is purely physical. It doesn't seem to occur to you that it could be more...broadly...based than that. That I could actually be interested in him and value him, as a person?" I could feel myself becoming angry, as I spoke. And, although I didn't lose my cool, I was becoming more forceful in the way I was speaking to her. She fought back.

"Tell me, Michael," and somehow she managed to make her use of my name into an insult, or perhaps as if she doubted it was my real name, "how many relationships - sexual relationships - you have had, over time, with boys like Leo?" I had to rein in an impulse to empty the dregs from my cup into her face. The implication of what she'd said was squalid and unpleasant and deeply, aggressively hostile. In fact, I managed to remain apparently impassive.

"That is a question I would answer if Leo were to ask me, since it would clearly be his business. But, because my possible history – or habit – of buggering schoolboys is no concern of yours," – I thought we might as well call a spade a spade, here – " then I'm afraid you'll just have to rely on your own nasty little imagination as to the truth on that point". In fact, the answer was `none' – but it was absolutely none of her fucking business, and so, she could just shove her question where the sun don't shine. She was clearly angry. Her nostrils flared noticeably, and two little points of white appeared just beneath them. She gathered her bag into her lap, and appeared about to storm off. She wasn't the only one who was angry, however, and there were a few things yet that I felt I needed to say to her. She stood, to leave.

"Sit down, I'm not finished." To my surprise, she did. Something in my tone had obviously hit home. I looked at her in angry silence as I struggled to get my thoughts in order, and as I did so, she spoke once more.

"Leo has had a very difficult year. Very difficult. Quite apart from his relationship with his father and me being complicated by this new...element his life, his schoolwork has been affected, and in general he has been very troubled." All of which was directly leveled at me, as an accusation.

"And you ascribe that to me?" I shook my head in disbelief. She clearly knew nothing of what had really been going on, or of the depths to which Leo had really descended. "Tell me...what do you know about what happened last summer with this precious Marco...this cousin who you think would have been an `appropriate' sort of person for Leo to have a relationship with?" My question startled her.

"Marco?...I don't really see the point of your question. Marco and Leo have always been very good friends. There was some friction at one point, in the autumn, I know...and so, maybe they were growing out of their earlier closeness...but I have no idea what you think Marco has to do with any of this." A tone of haughty dismissal.

"Well, then – let me tell you." And, I did. Despite my earlier statement that I would tell her nothing which Leo might not himself say – and clearly, he had chosen not to share any of this story with his parents – I was sufficiently angered by her smug and self-satisfied stance that I let rip with the entire story. I told her how Marco had learned of my relationship with Leo, and had then used that knowledge, significantly in relation to threats to reveal all to Leo's parents, systematically to destroy him. His confidence, his independence, his pleasure in life, his character, his very soul. I told her of all of the nasty little incidents along the way...of the phone and of Leo's wristlet being destroyed, of the bullying, both mental and physical, and of the campaign whereby Leo was, over time, completely and entirely broken. And all of this had happened on their watch, when they were supposed to be directly protecting him from whatever slings and arrows life might throw at him...'their only child'. And they'd noticed nothing. They'd let the whole thing continue, under their very noses. By their lack of action, and their lack of attention, they'd been complicit in the whole thing. And then, after Marco's campaign had – almost by chance – been shut down, they'd unwittingly continued with the process of hostility and aggression, and had continued to propel Leo in his spiral descent. Until – as I'd learnt in the course of more than one late-night discussion, in the cocooning darkness as we'd lain together in bed – Leo had concluded that probably there was going to be only way out of it all. That's the problem with a brain like Leo's, where your worldview is assimilated through a filter of uncompromising four-square logic: if he'd lost all of the things that he cared about, and his daily life was merely one of ongoing misery, with no prospect of it changing in the future, then what was the point of carrying on? I suspect that had the situation carried on for much longer, then he would have decided no to. I'd been shocked and horrified – and scared, a little - when Leo had confided this to me. As was his mother, now, when I passed the information on to her.

As I'd been speaking, she'd sat and listened, in silence. Her expression had changed from one of scepticism and disbelief – which disappeared, as more and more of the details I related to her she clearly recognized as having happened – to surprise, and then concern. And then shock. And then, it appeared, distress.

"So...Cecilia... when it comes to talking about responsibility for Leo having `had a difficult year', don't you dare even to think of laying any of that at my door. If we're talking about anybody having caused hurt and distress to Leo, then I think you need to look a great deal closer to home. You and your husband."

She actually looked on the verge of tears – but she got little sympathy from me. I was still so angry, both with her recent comments, and with what I felt had been their part in bringing Leo so low.

"I didn't know," she said, in an uncertain voice. "I had no idea." She was clearly shaken by what she'd just learnt, and I summoned the waiter and ordered two glasses of grappa – I needed one, as well, after the unpleasantness, almost physical, of our confrontation. She drank her grappa in silence, apparently collecting her thoughts.

"What should we do?" she asked, eventually. This, I thought, was rich – that she should now be seeking my advice, after the accusations she'd leveled at me only ten minutes before.

"In terms of repairing your relationship with your son?" I said. Emphasising the word. "I think that's probably largely in his court. But I suppose you could make an effort to meet him more than halfway. Beyond that, frankly, I think that your relationship with him has as little to do with me, as mine with him has to do with you." So, butt out, lady. "And, now – if you'll excuse me."

At which, I left sufficient cash on the table to pay for what we'd ordered, and I left.


Leo, of course, continued as a shining presence in my life.

Towards the end of the morning on the following day, I was up a ladder which was leaning against the side of the well-house. I'd noticed that ivy had started to grow over the roof of the building, and I was carefully removing it before it could find its way under the tiles, and cause any damage. It was a relatively painstaking task, and I'd been at it for some time, and in fact was almost finished, when I registered voices not far away over in the school grounds. I glanced sideways, to my left and slightly over my shoulder. I could see a group of kids, a mix of girls and boys, sitting on and around one of the benches that line the path that leads along that side of the school building, on the other side of the schoolyard. In all the time since I'd known him, I'd never actually caught sight of Leo in the school grounds, and so had little expectation of him being in view this time, either. But, on this occasion, against expectation, he was. Standing a little apart from the main group, he was leaning with his back against the trunk of one of the plane trees that also line the path - he appeared to be of the group, but not particularly participating in any of the various conversations that were going on. The coolest of cool dudes.

I'd not seen him for a couple of days, and as always happened when I first saw him after any break, I felt a jolt inside. Butterflies, I suppose. He looked clean-cut and wholesome and, I thought, quite ridiculously handsome, in jeans and gleaming white sneakers, and under the opening of a plain red windcheater I could see he was wearing a white t-shirt. Although he almost certainly would have no idea who I was talking about, he appeared unconsciously to be channeling a long-departed James Dean.

As I looked at him, he glanced in my direction, and although he gave no sign of recognition, he must have seen me, noticing him over the top of the hedge. Casually, he drew out his phone from his jacket pocket, and I could see his thumbs working rapidly over the screen. So, it was no great surprise when, a second or so later, my own phone pinged in the back pocket of my jeans. Although it was a fine spring day, I was still dressed in winter gardening clothes: an old pair of jeans, held up by a heavy leather belt, and work boots, along with a lumberjack shirt in black and green check. I'd upgraded to a less steam-driven phone some months previously, and there was a fairly constant flow of texts and calls at odd moments during the days when we weren't together.

`r u stalking me?' I read.

`would u blame me?' Leo tended to text in yoof-speak, and I more or less texted in normal-speak.

`y?' And this, I knew from experience, was a clear invitation to flirt.

`because, right now, I want to push you against that tree and fuck your brains out!' Having pressed `send', I watched as he received the message, and the grin which immediately appeared on his face. One of his mates said something to him, probably wanting to know who he was texting, and Leo gave him some kind of dismissive answer.


And then he put his phone back into his pocket. The bell had gone for the next lesson, and the group dispersed and made their way back inside. Leaving me standing at the top of my ladder, with my cock almost painfully hard inside my jeans, at the image I'd just conjured up for myself in my imagination. I'd finished anyway, and I made my way back to ground-level.

It should have come as no great surprise, several minutes later, after I'd dismantled the ladder, to hear the noise of activity on the other side of the well-house wall. The structure has a lean-to roof, with only one wall of full height, whilst the rest are only about head-height, and are open above that. On the schoolyard side, there's an ancient metal rubbish bin attached halfway up on one of the lower walls, and it has always been by dint of climbing onto the bin, and then up and onto the top of the wall, that kids have entered the garden in search of lost footballs. Fortunately.

I watched, as first a pair of hands, and then Leo's head appeared above the wall, and in an inelegant scramble, he'd pulled himself up and over the top of the wall, and had dropped down onto the top of the cisterna. He stood up straight, and brushed himself down where he'd managed to get brick dust in places on his jeans and his jacket, and then he grinned down at me, beaming. Leo took enormous delight, I'd discovered, in stolen pleasures.

He moved forward, to the edge of the cisterna, and squatted down, so that his knees were on a level with my face, as I took the two steps needed to bring me right up to him. I reached, and rested my hands on his knees, before sliding them the length of his thighs, tightly encased in his jeans, and around to clasp his bum. I pressed my face against the inside of his right thigh, and then leaned in to press my face against his groin. I raised my head and looked up at him. Resting his hands on my shoulder, he leant down and in, and we kissed. Lightly...and, the kiss continued...less so. His mouth tasted of peppermint. At the moment when his tongue flicked against mine, I knew that his cock was as hard inside his pants as he'd made me inside mine. As the kiss finally broke, still with his hands on my shoulders, I clasped him by the waist, and he half-stood, to assist in me lifting him down. Not that he was exactly a feather-weight, these days; Leo would be seventeen before the end of the year, and my muscles confirmed the fact as I took his full weight in my arms.

Which stayed around him as he stood there, now at ground-level. With his hands still on my shoulders.

"Hey," I said, as I kissed him again. Probably for almost as long as the first time.

"Hey," he replied, quietly, as the kiss finally finished once more.

"Shouldn't you be in class?" Another quick, stolen kiss.

"Not exactly. I have a supervised study group this session."

"Which means, I imagine `supervised'?"


"By a person? Who might just notice that you aren't there?" My hands were lightly massaging his shoulders as I spoke.

"Yes – but I have a terrible stomach ache. I think it must be something I ate. I told Paolo to say that I'd had to go to the bathroom. It's quite serious."

"A stomach ache?" I said, and drew away from him in mock alarm. "Are you in pain?"

"Terrible," he confirmed. "I think it may be terminal." I reached down and unzipped his windcheater, and I placed my hand on his stomach.

"Is this where it hurts?" I asked. And I drew up his t-shirt so that my palm rested directly on the warm skin of his tummy.

"Mm," he agreed. "But probably a bit further down." He wasn't wearing a belt, and as my hand moved lower, my fingers slipped under the waistband of his jeans, and also under the waistband beneath of his underpants. My fingertips quested amongst the topmost of his pubic hairs.

"More like there?" His breathing was suddenly heavier, and he fractionally splayed his thighs as he pushed himself against my hand.

"More like." He frowned. "But, probably a bit lower still." He held onto my left shoulder with both of his hands, while I removed my hand from his jeans in order to undo the waistband and then the first two or three buttons of his fly. Once done, I pushed my hand back inside, and right down and into the pouch of his underpants, where I could firmly grasp his balls and the hard shaft of his cock. "Yeah," he gasped at the sudden firmness off my grip on him, down there. "That's exactly where it is!" I kissed him again, hard, and as our tongues moved together, I squeezed his balls, and then shifted my hand so that I could begin lightly to wank his cock, which he was working against my grasp by a slight back and forth motion of his hips.

"I think I can see where the problem is," I murmured, as the kiss broke again, breathlessly. My fingers pulled his foreskin back, inside his underpants, and I could feel the wetness at the tip of his cock which had been caused by my actions. The expression on Leo's face clearly showed that he'd crossed that line which divided playful flirtation from a need for the relief of sex. His eyes were part closed, and there was a new sense of urgency in his look.

"I thought you said you wanted to fuck my brains out..?" His hips were moving more demandingly against me, by now. I withdrew my hand from his underpants, and watched him watching me as I held my fingers to my nose, and inhaled the scent of his cock that they now carried. From experience, I knew very well that this kind of thing turned him on...he got excited by combining the animal aspects of raw sex with the cerebral impulses which operated in his brain directly in parallel: right now, his cock would be pulsing ever more firmly because of the fact that I'd knowingly sought his scent, transferred from his cock to my nose, but also and additionally because it was me who was seeking out the scent that came from him. Sex, for Leo operated on two levels, and when the two could be made to work at the same time, then that was what got his pulses racing best of all.

"I think I'd better," I said. "Particularly if this stomach-ache of yours seems likely to be terminal. There's no time to lose..." With my hands on his shoulders. I turned him around, and I slid his jacket off his shoulders, and quickly slipped it off his arms entirely and placed it over the back of one of the nearby whicker chairs. Over the winter, when he couldn't play tennis, Leo had taken to the gymn instead, and his shoulder muscles were clearly visible, flexing under the tight fabric of his t-shirt, the sleeves of which stretched over his biceps. I reached around in front of him, and found the nubs of his nipples, which hardened immediately under my touch, as I pinched and twisted them gently, before my hands traveled down to his waist and to the front of his jeans. Deftly, I unfastened the remainder of his fly buttons, and I reached inside his parted fly, and gripped and squeezed his erection through the tight fabric of his briefs. He moaned, under his breath, as I groped him there, his cock and then his balls, and I pushed my right hand down, inside the gusset of his jeans, and I squeezed hard between his legs, beneath his balls. From his breathing, I could tell that he had surrendered himself entirely to what I was doing, and I kissed the back of his neck, and then I nipped and nibbled at his right earlobe. He dropped his head, to allow me greater access, and his breathing was now ragged and heavy.

Just in front of him, under the edge of the lean-to roof, was an ancient metal pit-prop, that had been there for as long as I'd known the place, apparently stopping the roof from caving in. I took Leo's hands, now, and I placed them against it, for support, as I pushed down against his shoulders. He bent at the waist, holding onto the pit-prop, and I kept the pressure against his shoulders until he was bent from the waist with his back almost horizontal. In that position, his arse was pushed out and presented gloriously to me, tightly covered as it was in the denim of his jeans. Roughly, with my booted foot, I kicked his feet to left and right, and he obediently moved them, splaying his legs in the process, and pushing his bum out in an even more exaggerated fashion.

Indulging myself in the moment, I took the sides of his jeans, and I carefully worked them down and off his arse, to the top of his thighs...making every effort in the process not to take his underpants with them. Which were a pair I'd not seen before: his usual brief style, with a white waistband and piping around the legs, and cotton that was stretched tightly over his buttocks and between his legs, striped horizontally in bands of red, white and blue. They were obviously brand new...and, I presumed, worn in honour of our proposed date for that evening, directly after school would have finished. Had I been undressing him in more relaxed circumstances, I'd probably have teased him about wearing the colours of the Union Jack, for my benefit – but where we were right now was somewhere that was way beyond the frivolity of that kind of comment...and in fact way beyond any kind of comment at all.

I worked his jeans low enough down that I could properly explore his underwear with my hands, and I traced the line of the legs, and then through, between his legs, to grope his balls, and to reach for the shaft of his engorged cock. With his hands firmly gripping the post of the pit-prop, he was presenting himself entirely for my examination. I worked my fingers hard against his taint, through his briefs, and as my hand worked back towards his bum, I slipped my fingers inside the right leg of his briefs, and he let out an involuntary gasp as my finger brushed over the sensitive lips of his pucker. And then, a slight moan, as I pushed my fingertip against the resistance of his arsehole. He was dry, there, and I quickly took some saliva on my fingertip before I pushed my finger back inside his briefs, and slid just the tip of my finger, now lubricated, inside him. He pushed his arse back against me, and he let out a little whimper, both of need and of desire.

With my other hand, I pushed his t-shirt right up to his shoulders, where it stayed in place, and I reveled in the sight of his bare back and the tops of his thighs, framing the expanse of red, white and blue, stretched tightly over the glorious curve of his bum. In the position he was holding, his arse cheeks were tense, and he'd created a dimple on each of his hips, which made his briefs there stand slightly proud of his body. I pushed my hands up and inside the legs of his underpants, and I roughly groped his buttocks, letting my thumbs push down into the crevice of his arse, and play against his arsehole, and then down and between his legs. Then, I reached around and underneath him; his abs were also tense from the position he was in, and with one hand, I ran my hand over them, and up to his nipples, while with the other, I reached for the hardness of his cock. I wanked it a few times, and then slid the fingers of my hand that was holding his shaft under the leg of his briefs, and I levered his cock out and into the open. With his foreskin fully retracted, he was leaking copiously.

I would have liked to have stripped him completely, but at the back of my mind was the knowledge that we should be quick, if he wasn't to risk trouble. With my hands on each leg of his briefs, I tugged them down, just as far as the top of his thighs, and I exposed the orbs of his arse. Again, I pushed my hand, inside his briefs now, through and between his legs, and I cupped the hot dampness of his balls from behind. When I withdrew my hand, I briefly held it my face, to enjoy the unique quality of Leo's musk, and then I reached round in front of him, and generously coated my fingertips with the pre-cum that was readily available at the tip of his cock. Which I then proceeded to smear over the bud of his arsehole. It wasn't enough to do the job, but I knew that he would be intensely turned on by the gesture – as I was, too – and I probed his arsehole with my finger once I'd smeared his own fluid over him. His breathing was interspersed with Leo noises, by now – part moan, part whimper, part guttural grunt. He knew that we couldn't make too much noise, only feet away from the school grounds as we were, but it was impossible to be entirely silent.

I added some saliva to his arsehole, and fingered him some more, probing more deeply. Then, in seconds, my belt and flies were undone, and the front of my briefs was tucked beneath my balls. More saliva was spread over my cockhead, and I positioned myself against the pucker of his arse. As he felt me there, he held his breath, in readiness, and as I pushed inside him, deeply, and in one go, he let his breath out in a deep low moan, part sigh, of pleasure and relief.

With my hands on his hips, I fucked him, deep, and with a continuous regular rhythm, building ever closer to my climax, and, as my thrusts increased in speed and intensity, encouraging Leo to his. He took his right hand off the post in front of him, as the pressure in his balls gathered, and he reached beneath himself to wank his cock in time with the gathering speed of my strokes. As I judged his orgasm was imminent, I reached down, and placed my hand over his mouth, just in case he should forget himself and shout out at his moment of climax – as he so often did – and instead, he fastened his teeth into the side of my hand, and as I felt his arse muscles clench around the base of my cock, he grunted deeply, again and again, and I could her the sound of his cum splashing onto the concrete of the floor beneath. Not entirely silent, myself, but with a chorus of low grunts and moans as I continued to thrust into him, I could feel my climax gathering strength inside me, until, with an sense of perfect completion, I felt my muscles contract, and my cock, bucking time and again, coated Leo's insides with my cum.


After a moment to gather my breath, I slid my arms around and underneath him, and when I stood upright, I took Leo with me. His back against my chest, and my cock still buried inside his arse. His raised his hands to place them over mine, on his chest, and our fingers laced together. He turned his head, for a kiss. Long, and lingering. Under my hand, clasping his, I could feel the race of his heartbeat gradually returning to normal. As the kiss broke, I nuzzled the back of his neck, in perfect silence. And saying everything that needed to be said.


At one.

To be continued...