Author: Aardvark

Email: losingthewill2live@gmail.com

 

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.

 

 

There have been requests to know what was entailed in the `clean-up operation' that I referred to towards the end of Part 1. Well...read on:

 

 

Lost Ball: Part 2

 

From a position where he was slumped against me, he twisted round slightly, to get more comfortable, and ended up more or less sitting on my right thigh, his upper body pressed sideways against mine, in the firm embrace of my right arm, with my hand resting on his hip. His eyes were closed still, as he came down slowly from the intensity of his orgasm, and his forehead was wet with sweat from his recent exertions. One of his arms was around my shoulders, and the other was draped against my chest. With my free hand, I gently pushed the strands of his damp hair up from his forehead, and kissed him, lightly, just above his ear. I continued to stroke his face, delicately tracing the lines of his cheekbones with my fingertip, as against my chest I could feel the race of his heartbeat slow down from a sprint to more or less a walking pace. I tilted his chin slightly upward, and kissed him softly on the mouth. It was a moment of complete intimacy, and I was aware that it needed to be handled carefully there was every chance that, the evil deed completed, he'd be overcome with sudden guilt, and would take to the hills. Literally. Leaving me with a job only, as yet, half done.

 

Looking down, I could see his briefs still hooked beneath his balls, and his cock nestled on top, much softer now than it had been, but still thick and almost certainly more distended than it would be in its natural state of repose. Partly from a sense of tidiness, but more, I expect, because I wanted to touch him down there, I pulled the waistband out and up, and encased his cock and balls once more inside the thin cotton of the pouch. Dark patches showed where his cum was soaking into the fabric, and I stroked against them lightly with my fingers. He watched as I did so, and then turned his eyes to mine, and I kissed him once more, this time following the first kiss with another, and then another. The tip of his tongue pushed against my mouth; I responded in kind, and we gently duelled with the tips of our tongues for the next minute or so. My hand, which had been cradling the side of his head as we kissed, dropped down to his crutch, once more, and, as I'd expected, I could already feel the distinct stirrings of renewed life down there.

 

We both watched, as I caressed the contours of his pouch, before slipping my hand inside the waistband of his briefs and cradled him directly, gently fondling him and exploring what I found there. His cock and balls were damp with sweat and with the remnants of his copious ejaculate. As I pushed down, beneath his balls, he opened his legs for me to do so, and at the same time pushed his hardening cock against my wrist. In doing so, he was acting unthinkingly, and entirely giving way to instinct and to the dictates of his teenage libido. Which definitely got my vote!

 

I withdrew my hand from the confines of his underwear, and purposefully held my fingers to my nose, to inhale the unmistakable pheromonal odour of boy musk, and fresh sweat, and cum. It was entirely intoxicating, and I gave a grunt of approval as I savoured it. Maybe it would gross him out ...and maybe it would be part of his learning curve...and maybe it would be both. It's been many years since my own teenage wank sessions - before I'd got started with the real thing - but I seem to recall that at that stage there's no expectation that taste and smell can be almost as much a part of the sensation bomb of sex as touch will be. Well, if this was a learning curve for him, then I was more than happy to play schoolmaster, and to include as much as I possibly could in the curriculum.

 

"I think maybe we should get cleaned up, a bit," I murmured, and indicated the mess he'd left on both of us. He considered for a second, at the same time playing a little with the hairs on my forearm, and then he nodded. "Ok," he said, and eased himself up off my lap, into a standing position. Again with that sense of tidiness, or else the shameless desire to touch, and however slightly to possess, with both hands, I pulled up the back of his briefs, which had previously been pushed roughly down to the top of his thighs, until they were once more stretched enticingly across the firm contours of his bum, and cut across the dimple in the muscle at his hip. I heaved myself out of my chair, coming hard up against him in the process, and as I did so I slipped my hand between his legs, from behind, and gently groped his balls and squeezed between his legs. He made that slight sound in his throat that I was beginning to recognise, and appreciate, and he leaned back into me; I kissed his ear, and reached around and down with my free hand, to confirm that he was indeed once more heading for a full-on erection.

 

"Come. Bathroom." I commanded, speaking low and directly against his ear, and with my hands on his shoulder and on the small of his back, I steered him into the house and in the direction of the ground-floor bathroom. For whatever reason, he slipped off his moccasins as he went but it made sense for him to have done so; where before, when he'd been wearing just his shoes and his underpants, they'd been both incongruous and hot, by now the shoes risked being merely incongruous. It seemed that amongst all those instincts he was readily putting on display was an innate sense of style.

 

I'm a fan of bathroom sex. I always have been. Soapy hands sliding easily into all those intimate places...and fingers and tongues exploring...and relaxing into the sensual embrace of warm, scented water, which somehow permits access to places which otherwise might be off-limits. In steering Boy into the bathroom, I certainly had more in mind than just the utilitarian process of getting us both clean. And he knew it.

 

I tried not to break contact with him, as I got the bath started; although it seemed increasingly unlikely that he was about to have a dramatic change of heart, I didn't want to risk breaking the spell by leaving him standing, alone, at any point. And so, as I one-handedly got the bathplug in place, and the water running, at the right temperature, and even squirted into it some bath foam, I made sure to keep my other hand the entire time firmly clamped between his legs, and gently teased him with a constant series of squeezes and tugs and light probing beneath his balls.

 

Once the bath was filling, I stood properly once more, and made to pull him towards me for a full-on embrace. He grinned, and grimaced at the same time, as he indicated the front of my polo shirt, and, looking down, I realised that the lower section of my shirt was a sticky mess, still criss-crossed with the obvious remnants of his orgasm. Grinning broadly, I pulled the garment off and tossed it into the corner of the room, and for the first time he got a look at my shirtless torso. Years of daily gymn routines and a sensible diet means that I'm no slouch, and I knew I had every reason to feel confident about what he was seeing. Not ridiculously gymn-worked, but more than respectable pecs and shoulder and arm muscles, with a good tight diaphragm further down - tanned, from all those days working outside during the summer months, and a thickish mat of chest hair, since I stopped shaving it off, several years ago.

 

"Ok ?" I asked. Ostensibly about the messy shirt having been got out of the picture, but equally signalling that what he was looking at was the special of the day, and it was up to him to say if he didn't like it. He smiled, suddenly appearing shy, and wordlessly nodded. So, I pulled him towards me, and held him tight, reassuringly, for a few seconds, his face against my neck, and my nose buried in his hair. Against my thigh, I could feel the pressure of his erection, and as I pushed my leg slightly against it, he began very gently to hump against me in return. I pulled back just enough to allow me to lean in for a kiss, and then I thought it was time for some more learning curve, and using both of my hands I guided his mouth down to my left nipple. Which is my `on' switch, beyond all others.

 

He got it. Immediately. Possibly, he was copying my earlier treatment of his own nipple, or maybe he was just a natural, but as soon as I put his mouth in place he began to suckle, and to nip and lick like a consummate pro. God, it was electric! As was the effect it had on my cock. I'd been hard pretty much since the moment I'd first started to undress him, out on the terrace, but this suddenly took it up a notch, and my cock was instantly rock-solid, and pushing out the fabric of my running shorts in a way that was threatening to cause damage. To them, or to me I'm not sure which. With a series of muttered encouragements, to indicate my approval of what he was doing, I took his hand from my waist, where he was holding onto me, and placed it firmly on the front of my shorts. To let him know the effect he was having. It was his first contact with that part of me, or of that part of anybody apart from himself, come to that, and so that was another major moment for him along the learning curve. When he squeezed my cock, in combination with the effect of his tongue and teeth on my nipple, he brought me as near to buckling at the knees as I can remember in a very long time.

"Woah!" was the best I could manage, as I gently levered his mouth off me. There would be plenty of time for more of that, later. He grinned, proud of his newly-discovered prowess, and his eyes sparkled as I grinned back at him. Learning, it seems, can be fun.

 

The bath was full enough for our needs, and I turned off the water, leaving an inviting mountain of bath foam on the surface of the water. He stood there, beside the bath, looking absolutely fucking gorgeous: tanned, and lean, and invitingly sexy. The cum stains on his pants had dried now, and could only be seen as small wrinkled patches which disturbed the smooth contours that delineated his crutch. His cock, though, was obviously sticking perfectly upright within the tight cotton, and his hard-on seemed to be rivalling mine in terms of the danger of something snapping, unless we did something about it.

 

"In you get," I said, with every intention of sounding businesslike, and I tapped his bum officiously at the same time, to reinforce the point, pointing towards the bath.

 

"I should, maybe..." he indicated his briefs, and that he should take them off. Until I firmly stopped him.

 

"No, no, no." I pulled his hand away from the waistband, which he seemed about to lower. "They need washing anyway. Much easier to do it this way." Leaving aside completely for his benefit - that I had in mind creating for myself a memory of him wearing soaking wet, skin-tight underwear that had the potential to keep me occupied on lonely winter's nights in the future. Which do sometimes happen.

 

More learning curve. Having a bath in his briefs. He stepped in, and lowered himself into the water, while I sat on the edge of the bath and reached for a washcloth and soap. As he leaned back against the slope of the bath, I began slowly to run the washcloth over his shoulders and chest, and as I slipped my hand beneath the water and reached for his crutch, I leaned in and kissed him, long and sensuously. He kissed back with equal passion, and as my hand found his stiff cock, and began to grope and explore around it, he clung onto my neck and began to make those now familiar little noises of rising excitement.

 

Beneath the water, I made entirely free with him, and my fingers roamed everywhere, pushing under the elastic of his underwear, and teasing and touching his arsehole, and then clasping his hard shaft, and working it, and working it.

"Stand up, " I told him, and he did. His body in general carrying with it traces of the bath foam; one large clump of which decorated the bulging front of his pants. As he stood there, his crutch was pretty much at my eye-level. I ran my hand up the back of his thigh, and then reached to dislodge the clump of foam as I squeezed his cock. The image was everything I could have hoped for: the fabric of his briefs now almost transparent, as they clung skin-tight to his shape beneath. At my bidding, he turned around, and then placed his hands against the wall and leant forward, legs slightly apart, and his bum sticking out. Wet cotton stretched over the smooth lines of the perfect mounds of his buttocks.

 

I traced my fingers along the elastic of the legs of the briefs, and slid my hand between his legs to touch his balls; he shivered and pushed his arse back further towards me, and I leaned forward, and ran the tip of my tongue along the back of his thigh, following the line of the bottom of his briefs. First, his left leg, working from the outside in, and then the right leg. He appeared to have stopped breathing, and there was no sound to be heard, apart from an insect buzzing intermittently somewhere on the other side of the room.

 

I put my hands on the backs of his thighs, pushing them up and apart, one hand on each thigh, effectively massaging his buttocks, and I pressed my face against his bum, exactly at the point where the damp cotton was stretched tight across the crevice between his arse cheeks. I pressed the tip of my tongue against the cotton, and I made to rim his tight little hole, with just the thinnest of layers of fabric between my tongue and his bud. In terms of learning curve, this was entirely off the scale, and I suspect that what was happening now was way beyond Boy's ability to take it in; intellectually, he had no way of assimilating it, and all he could do was to accept and to respond on only a physical level. At the risk of him doing that too literally, and cumming again, so soon, I lowered the back of his briefs just to the top of his thighs, and then I parted his buttocks and examined what lay hidden beneath. Arseholes, to my mind, are rarely things of beauty; but this one somehow had an innocent charm to it, and I had no hesitation in leaning in, and teasing it with the tip of my tongue, first lightly, and then with more insistence. By now, the silence had been broken, and there was a low and continuous moaning coming from somewhere above my head. I reached through, between his legs, and pushed my hand up inside the pouch of his briefs, to grasp the shaft of his cock, which I began to wank, roughly in time to the swipes of my tongue over his arsehole.

As his moans got loader and seemingly more urgent, I had to decide whether to take him to another climax, now, or to bring him back, and to play for longer. Except that I realised almost as the thought presented itself that in fact the decision was no longer mine to make armageddon was almost upon us.

 

Swiftly, I turned him around once more, and roughly I pulled his briefs down to his thighs. His cock was rigid and throbbing, and he reached for it, drawing back his foreskin, to reveal the shiny head beneath. At least this I could take charge of, though, and I knocked aside his hand, and before he could do or say anything to the contrary I had the head of his cock in my mouth, and was rewarded with his gasp as my tongue washed over the sensitive expanse of his glans. From the throbbing in his cock, I could tell we were right on the edge, and I slipped my hand back between his legs, and used the saliva I'd only minutes before deposited there to lube him, ready for my finger to push inside.

And this time, it did go right inside, almost in one go. His moaning, as my finger went in, went up several notches, and suddenly his hands were gripping the sides of my head, as he began to flood onto my tongue. The noise he made as he came was practically feral in both tone and volume, as, with gusto, he filled my mouth, again and again and again. Although I swallowed as much as I could, much still ran from my mouth and down my chin, and the picture I presented as he looked down at me, spent once more, was another in his list of `first's . More learning curve.