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.
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Lost Ball: Part 5
I was in danger of drifting off, once more – so comfortable was I, with Leo half draped over me, and my arms loosely wrapped around him. I glanced across at the bedside clock, and was surprised to see that it was already past .
"Are you ok with the time?" I asked. And as he followed my gaze and saw how late it was, he sat bolt upright, and was out of my embrace and standing beside the bed in one lightning move.
"Shit! Fuck! Shit!" He picked up his singlet from the floor, and started to look round for the rest of his things.
"A shower?" I suggested, conscious of the flakes of dried cum that were visible across his tummy and chest – mostly his, but also probably, by now, some of mine. I turned the bedside lamp back up to full, and got out of bed to help him, if I could.
"No. No time. Fuck! I'm going to be killed..." It seemed serious. He pulled on his singlet, and began pulling at the tangled bedding in search of his briefs. Even in this moment of crisis, I found time to admire the sight of his bare arse, poking out beneath the bottom of his singlet, as he bent over and scruffed around in the chaotic mess of the bedding. In order to speed him up, I retrieved his shoes and his shorts from where I had earlier – much earlier – kicked them into the corner of the room, and by the time I turned back to hand them to him, he'd recovered not only his briefs, which were in his hand, but he was also holding the lube container, which he'd obviously also come across in the course of his search. He held it up.
" May I...borrow... this?" he asked. Clearly, his need was important enough to have made him pause, even in the midst of his frantic hurry.
"What for?" On its own, what purpose would it serve him? He looked slightly awkward.
"To...practice." He said, finally. "For...So that I can..." He seemed to have trouble finding the words.
"For fucking?" I finished off, for him, and an intriguing image sprang to my mind of him `practising'; legs stretched wide, while he worked the makeshift dildo in and out of his arse. "Yes," I said. Although, as I said it, I took from his hand the pair of discarded baby blue briefs which he'd been about to step into. The pouch of which had in part taken on the shape of his cock and balls, and which was also liberally streaked with marks of his pre-cum, and with remnants of the lube that I'd applied to his cock. "As long as I get to keep these, in return". His eyes briefly gleamed - presumably at the thought of my interest in his underwear – and he released them to my grasp.
And now, his shorts pulled on, he roughly stuffed his feet into his sneakers, and he looked around to see if he'd missed anything. While he'd been dressing, I'd pulled on my own shorts, and had then torn off the bottom half of the defaced bookmark, and scribbled on it the number of my cell-phone. Which I pushed into his hand.
"Text me," I instructed, and he briefly scanned the paper, which he then thrust into the pocket of his shorts. With one further appalled glance at the clock, for verification that it really was as late as he feared, he pushed aside the curtain through into the dressing room...and he was gone.
I hadn't had time properly to realize the fact, before the curtain was roughly thrust aside, once more, and he was standing back before me. He lunged, and for two glorious seconds his arms were clasped tightly around my waist, as he pressed his head against my neck; and then, there was one quick, briefly passionate kiss to my lips...and then, this time, he really was gone.
After a second or so, his briefs still in my hand, I made my way quickly to the balcony at the East side of the house, with a view down over the citrus lawn. I'd hoped to have a last glimpse of him, but by the time I got there, he'd already gone. All I could do was to raise his briefs to my nose, and inhale what scent of him they still retained.
`Thnx for gr8t time 2day. Leo.'
It was gone 11.15 when his text arrived on my phone. Texting isn't something I usually do – nor are cellphones, very much – and so I didn't immediately recognize what the buzzing noise was that came at me from the other side of the room. I doubted that the breezy tone of the text got anywhere near the complicated mass of emotions he must be feeling, in response to what he'd experienced in the course of the afternoon – but I understood that he was trying to make contact, and that in some way he wanted to sign off with me before the momentous day was entirely finished. I considered how I should reply – I wanted to sign off with him, as well, and, if only at long distance, to put his mind at rest before he went to sleep; but I didn't want to go the `r u ok?' route, since it might not have occurred to him that there was any reason why he might not be...and also, I don't know most of that shorthand crap that people seem to use in texting – and, if I wrote normally, I wondered what suspicions might be aroused if his texts got read by somebody else in his household, and they wanted to know who was texting him in good old grammatical format, with spelling and syntax and the whole works.
I compromised by using one of the symbols that I do know: a colon,
followed by a hyphen, followed by a close-round-bracket. A
smile. Cheesy, but better than nothing. I
pressed `send'. And then thought of something else. `dun
At that, I smiled. Attaboy!
`Have fun!' I sent, risking two full words together in normalspeak.
And, then, with the image in my mind of him `practising', I decided I might go off to do a bit of homework, myself.
The following morning was the start of the weekend. I had plans. So, it appeared, did Leo. I texted him early. `Next time?'With the implied question, `when?'
His response came through only several hours later – his `early' on a Saturday morning was clearly different from mine. `Monday', and this was immediately followed by another text, which was simply `?' Wryly, I took that to mean that I did have some say in the matter, and that I was being asked if Monday was ok. I sent him back one of my versions of a smiley, along with `3.00'. I was telling him, not asking him. And although I'd have been happy for him to be crawling into my bed at three in the morning, I had no doubts that he might be confused about whether we were talking a.m or p.m. Again, it was several hours before I got back from him another smiley – a copy of one of mine - to indicate agreement. I was intrigued by the context of his delayed response, and had images of him sitting in the middle of family, somewhere...in the family car, or at the breakfast table, maybe...and casually having to fend off the inevitable question about who it was that was texting him, and about how he'd have to say that it was something so trivial that no instant response was needed. It made me all the more aware that I knew absolutely nothing about him – for all I knew, he could be the fifth in a line of eight kids... or he could be the only son, of the local mayor... or he could be an orphan. And in spite of that, I still felt that on some quite fundamental level, I was beginning to know quite a lot about him.
I drove down the coast, for lunch at a place on the beach with some Swedish friends who had a house near there, and then went back with them, to stay the night and for dinner with some other friends of theirs. It was an arrangement of long-standing, and if Leo had wanted to meet up on Saturday, after all, I would have had to disappoint him. Sunday, was late and leisurely, and by the time I'd finally got back home once more, the afternoon was well advanced. Around six, the phone rang – Stefano, with an invitation to drinks and a scratch supper on his terrace, along with some of the friends with whom he'd spent all day on the local beach. Readily I accepted, and after I'd showered and changed, I set out to the main drag, to get a bottle of wine of good enough quality to take along to supper as a contribution.
The shop next to the enoteca sold underwear and beachwear, and my glance had often been drawn to their windows, whenever something was on show that particularly caught my imagination. This time, when I emerged from the wine shop, I lingered, paying more attention than normal to their window display, and then, with only a half-formed idea in my head, I opened the door and went in.
A very early start. Before the heat of the day, I wanted to get all of the new growth from the grape-vine from out of the top of the old plum tree, which it had invaded from the framework of the adjacent pergola. It happens every summer, and if I leave it for too long, the tree risks disappearing entirely beneath a floodtide of tendrils and vine leaves.
I placed a fruit-pickers' ladder against the lower half of the tree, and from there it was possible to climb up into the branches, and to strip away the offending vine, and to drop it by the armful to the ground below.
The morning was beautiful. Air with the softness of spring water; and, as the sun began to climb in the sky, the shadows stretching across the lawn gradually shortened. The grass, which had been heavy with dew when I'd first got there, was rapidly drying as the day progressed.
After an hour or so, I'd broken the back of the task at hand, and resting in the top branches of the tree, for a minute or two I took in the beauty of the view – and then, looking down, I realised that if I didn't start to restore order to the chaos of torn vines that littered the ground beneath, then I'd still have it to do by that time in the morning when any physical work at all would start to be an unwelcome chore.
It only took five minutes. A mountain of torn vines was crushed into two large weeding bags, with the remainder almost burying the wheelbarrow, and all of it ready to be transported to the compost heap. The morning was already warm, and my t-shirt was wet with the sweat from my labours. I stripped it off, along with my gardening gloves and, dropping them on the ground, I stretched myself out beside them, with my hands folded beneath my head. I could allow myself a short break, before finishing for the morning. The grass beneath my back was soft, and looking up, the clear and unbroken blue of the sky was visible through the network of branches of the tree, each one dense with leaves and with the golden tones of ripening fruit. All of this – along with the expectation, constantly there, at the back of my mind, of an afternoon ahead of glorious pleasure to be taken with an enthusiastic and energetically horny fifteen year-old boy. It couldn't get much better than this!
When, without warning, my view was brutally interrupted.
By feet, one suddenly placed on either side of my head, and my view of the heavens was rudely blocked by the sight of the back of a pair of legs, and of a body – inevitably - with hands on hips, seemingly towering above me. A pair of legs which it took me only an instant to recognize.
"You know, I can see right up into the legs of your shorts," I told him, in greeting, and I remained laying there with my hands behind my head. Playing it cool. And I could, too, see up into the legs of his shorts: an intriguing view, following the muscular line of the backs of his thighs, up and into the shorts, where the curve of his buttocks was plainly visible, as was the area between his legs, and the underside of his balls, all constrained by the fabric of his briefs, which translated them into a series of interconnected and tantalising packages.
Leo placed his hands on his knees, and bent forwards so that he could look back and down, through his parted legs, and grin at me, as I lay there. He was wearing a pair of tennis shorts and a faded pink polo shirt, both of them looking as though they'd seen better days, and the latter noticeably tight on him. Round his head, he'd tied a white bandana, which had been folded into a strip and it was doing service as a sweatband. He was clearly delighted at having snuck up on me, undetected, and I suddenly got a view of a Leo which was different from the normal one - who in general appeared to be aged fifteen-going-on-twenty-seven – and this other and different one appeared instead to be fifteen-going-on-eight. That could be ok, too, I thought – in small enough doses.
"And `Good Morning' to you, too," he answered. He seemed as pleased to be there as I was to have him there, and I reached out with both hands and loosely clasped his ankles.
"The morning was lovely, already," I said. "And, now, suddenly, it's got even better."
I ran my hands up the back of his calves, the muscles of which were emphasized by the position he'd adopted, and then I went further, and I slid my hands up and into the legs of his shorts, until my fingertips came into contact, right at the tops of his thighs, with the bottom of his underwear.
"This isn't ." I was gently touching the smoothness of his buttock, and sliding my hand through, to touch his balls. "How come you're here?"
"I'm out, having a run." He answered. As though that explained everything. His voice was slightly thickened, and I could tell that the touch of my hands gently exploring him inside his shorts was having an effect.
"So, I see."
He obviously had been running, and the sweat he'd generated had trickled down his back and gathered in his underwear. Between his legs, his briefs were sopping wet. I slid the tip of my forefinger under the leg of his briefs, and gently stroked back and forth, teasing the damp underside of his balls.
"How have you got on with your homework?" I asked, and I could sense my own voice was thickening, as I continued to touch him.
He swallowed perceptibly before he answered. "I think it's ready," he said. "But...I think maybe you should check it for me. I'm not sure..."
And, at that, I ran the tip of my finger back between his legs, and slid it up and into the crevice between his arse cheeks. His breathing became more noticeable, as I did so, and he bent his knees slightly, his hands still braced against them, instinctively to allow me better access. But, as my fingertip came into contact with the pucker of his arsehole, I stopped. In the realization that he appeared to be lubed, up there, already. Something he must have done before he'd set out from home This, I realized, was a Boy on a mission.
I withdraw my hands immediately from his shorts, and gripped the back of his thighs. "Undo your shorts," I said. Something had clicked in my brain, and there was a tone in my voice both of urgency and of command. He stood, and then, after he'd done as I bid, as my hands pulled him back down towards me, he allowed the shorts to collect at his knees, which he now bent, to stop the shorts from falling even further. In doing so, he ended up lowering himself further than before, over my face. His briefs were stretched tightly across his cheeks, as a result, and I reached round and held onto his thighs as I pulled myself up as far as I could, until my face made direct contact with his arse, and with the cleft between his legs. As I inhaled, I got the mingled scent of fresh sweat, and of course of excited Boy, and – yes – somewhere in there but discernible without doubt, the sweet smell of commercial lube.
I dropped back down, resting back on the grass, and I reached up to him. With my left hand, I pulled the gusset of his briefs to one side, and there, plainly visible, was a slick of lube on and around his arsehole. I ran the tip of the index finger of my right hand over his bud, and then...I pushed it in. He gasped, but not loudly; this was only the start of what he'd been making himself available for. My finger slid easily in, up to the second knuckle, and I turned it, inside him, and immediately I found the swollen walnut of his prostate. His moan easily elided into a whimper, as I ran the tip of my finger over his gland. He was trembling, and so, I think, was I.
I withdrew my finger. He stayed in position. And then, I pushed against him, pushing him up and away, and at my implied instruction he stood up.
"Lose the shorts," I told him. I don't know why, but for some reason we were suddenly in a place that was raw and immediate; I was barking orders at him, and, trembling, he was doing what he was told. We appeared to be on the same trajectory. Instantly, he dropped his shorts to the ground, and stepped out of them. I saw, for the first time, that he was wearing the same briefs – or an identical pair – that he'd been wearing that first time that I'd undressed him.
Roughly, in haste, I shoved my own shorts and underpants down to my thighs, and I held my cock, hard and very ready, in my hand.
Sit on me," I told him, my voice low and hoarse. "Sit on my cock! Now!"
He stood astride me, and lowered himself down and into position. With one hand, he was holding his cock, now sticking out and above the waistband of his briefs, and with the other, he held onto one of the lower rungs of the ladder that leant against the tree, to steady and balance himself as he limbered down, squatting over my groin. While I knew it would be more practical if he were kneeling astride me, there was something gloriously abandoned about him sitting down on me in that way, about to impale himself, and surrendering himself at the same time both to my cock and to the forces of gravity.
With my free hand, I reached between his legs, and I yanked his briefs to one side, so that his arsehole was properly exposed. I pressed down on his thigh, until he was lowered sufficiently that my cockhead was brushing beneath his balls. And with only a slight adjustment, I moved it back and into place, directly between his cheeks and against his waiting bud. I looked up, and made eye contact. Unwavering. I held the hard shaft of my cock, ready, against him, and held his gaze.
And he pushed down. Raising his chin as he did so, but at no point losing contact with my eyes.
As my cock began to enter him, I removed my hand that had been holding it upright and in position, and I gripped his thighs in both my hands.
Slowly, but inexorably, he pushed down. There was resistance, but not enough to halt matters, and little by little, his muscle gave way under the pressure. And suddenly, the head of my cock was inside him, and his eyes, which had been half-closed with concentration, shot open, and a low moan came from his throat. Through my cock, I could feel his pulse working inside him, and the heat of his arse as I entered him was intense.
We stayed in that position, as he got used to the intrusion, for maybe half a minute, and then he seemed to know to readjust his legs and – somehow managing it without ejecting my cock in the process – he translated his position from squatting to kneeling. Which meant that he could control more easily the speed and angle at which he worked himself down onto me. And, as he did so, rocking gently backwards and forwards, I began at the same time to push myself up into him, with a series of short but fierce thrusts.
It was an intense and urgent fuck – very different from the `deflowering' that I'd had in mind for him (and, yes, I had been giving it quite a lot of thought over the past few days). With my cock perhaps two-thirds inside him, he'd set up a kind of backwards and forwards sliding motion, which worked my cockhead against his prostate, and as he pleasured himself, using me, his eyes glazed over, and his breathing assumed a rhythm, rapid and shallow, that replicated the rhythm of his body moving against mine. His body dropped forward, and he braced himself by gripping my forearms. In turn, I held his hips with my hands, while his knees pressed hard into either side of my body. Even now, though, he seemed aware that he needed not to make too much noise - given that we were effectively in public - and the sound he was making never rose above a guttural moaning.
At the dictates of his body, as he got closer to cumming, he rose up and leant back, sitting astride me. His hand went straight to his cock, and he began to jerk it, working himself to a frenzy. I held his hips tightly, and continued to fuck up into his arse as it moved back and forth. And then, suddenly, with a volley of small mewling sounds, he was shooting, on and on, over his own hand, and again and again in strings over my stomach and chest. His arse muscles gripped my cock as he reached orgasm, and at that I thrust up hard into him, giving him the last third of my shaft, as they did so. As his streams of cum started to diminish, I felt my cock buck inside him, and with three or four final thrusts, I came into him, grunting with satisfaction all the way. As I finished, he collapsed on top of me, still impaled on my cock as deeply as it was possible for him to be.
For several minutes, we stayed like that, a heaving, sweaty mass of tangled limbs. But, eventually, his breathing had subsided to the point that he could raise himself up, his hands on the ground to either side of my head, and he looked down at me. Strands of his hair were plastered to his forehead, which in turn was beaded with sweat, some of which ran down his nose and gathered in a quivering drop at its tip, threatening to fall onto my face. I reached and took it on the tip of my finger to transfer it to my mouth, and made a expression of appreciation as if it were some precious vintage.
He grinned, breathlessly, and then laughed – although doing so made him wince, as the general contraction of his muscles made him suddenly aware of the thickness of my cock, still embedded deep inside him. Slowly, slowly, he eased himself off me...until my cock flopped free, to create that general sense of loss which always happens, where his arse momentarily felt empty, and my cock momentarily felt without purpose.
The church bell, almost directly above us, began to chime , and he pushed himself back and away, and he sat up.
"I have to go." He rocked back on his heels, and stood up, adjusting his briefs as he did so, to restore them to a semblance of order.
"Yes. I can't be late. Not after last time."
Lifting my hips, I awkwardly pulled my shorts and underwear back into place, as he cautiously bent to retrieve his own shorts, and to step into them. Fully dressed, once more, he brushed himself down – for all the good it did – and he met my eyes, in that way of his. Both of his knees bore grass stains, but I couldn't see any point in telling him so.
"Since you're here now," I asked him, leaning up on one elbow, "does that mean that we still have an appointment for this afternoon? Or has this been `instead'?"
"Oh, no." He said. "Not instead. This was `extra'." And with one last grin, a little uncertain, he turned to walk carefully away, all too clearly aware of the effects on his body of our recent fucking, and of the fact that he might have to walk more slowly than usual, if he wanted to avoid disaster.
`Extra'. I pondered, as I fell back to lie properly on the ground. `What a wonderful word.'
To be continued...