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 9
And then, of course, there were the swimming trunks.
I'd bought them at the same time as I'd bought Leo his `fuck-pants'. And for exactly the same reason. With broad vertical stripes in white and a yellow that was so deep it was almost gold, I knew they would look very hot on him – the brief cut was the sort of style he liked in his underpants, I knew from observation, and if anything, these were cut slightly higher in the leg, but seemed quite roomy in front. Roomy enough to accommodate a hand, as well as his `junk', had been my immediate thought on seeing them – a thought that came entirely un-summoned, and which had caused me to smile to myself, standing there in the shop. `Sold, to the man with the over-active imagination!'
Not to mention that my inner-control-freak whispered that the tan lines these trunks would leave on him would beyond question delineate all his most important parts – the white meat is, after all, the best bit.
I bought them. I gave no thought to what the old queen at the cash desk made of my purchases, which were clearly intended for somebody of a much lighter build than mine. Probably a profound sense of jealousy. Ah, well...
But, I wasn't about to lay myself open to the same teasing from Leo that had happened, last time, and I considered my strategy with some care.
of our late night phone-sex, a routine had more or less established itself,
between us. Like many others, his parents believed that a three month break entirely
from schoolwork was a bad idea, and so over this part of the summer holiday,
they'd arranged a tutorial programme for him. He was
in no need of extra teaching in most of his subjects, but his father had decided
that you could never spend too much time polishing your knowledge of the
classics – and so, three mornings a week, Leo spent with an old family friend,
a retired Classics professor, with whom he was working his way through chunks
of Tacitus...appropriately boys-own storylines, with loads
of gore and battles; and the other two mornings, as a sop, they'd paid for a
month's tennis lessons with a professional coach. I approved. Mens
His time wasn't otherwise entirely free – his mother was away for some of the time, but not all of the time, and when she was at home, she expected to see Leo at least on occasion, for meals; and his father was often around at the beginning and end of the week, with an expectation that `family' stuff would take place, as appropriate, over the weekend. So, he didn't have complete carte blanche to spend time in the secret world he'd discovered over my garden wall – but he had quite a generous amount of free space, and what he did have, he made the most of.
him a key to the gate from the piazza; it meant that he'd never have problems arriving
because of any unhelpful presence in the school grounds - although, when I gave him the key, I sensed
in him a hint of disappointment that this mundane form of access to my World might
reduce the aura of `otherness' that
surrounded the garden – and everything in and about it – as a place that
existed only for him, to be accessed by coming through the back of the old well-house.
A bit like giving Narnia a
postcode, I suppose, or locating
And so... the swimming trunks.
It must have been a Wednesday, I think. One of the days when he'd come from a Tacitus session, anyway – because, when he'd been having a tennis lesson, he just used to cycle over, directly from the court, still wearing his sweaty tennis clothes (which were generally removed pretty quickly) and carrying a change of clothes in a bag; if he'd spent the morning in the Roman empire, then he'd go home first, and get changed into something appropriately casual before he came over to spend the afternoon...and maybe also the evening. And I can remember that on the day when he first wore the swimming trunks, it wasn't sweaty tennis gear that he pulled off in order to pull the trunks on instead. So. It must have been a Tacitus day. And almost certainly a Wednesday, as I doubt I had the patience to wait any longer than absolutely necessary before I'd try to get him into wearing the things. In my mind's eye, I can clearly see what he was wearing when he arrived that day: a thin white cotton singlet, slightly ribbed, over silky, navy-blue knee-length basketball shorts. And, on his feet, his usual sneakers.
"I want to lie in the sun for a bit, before siesta," I told him, after the usual kiss and hug of greeting. "I'm wiped out from this morning's gardening." `Siesta' being code between us, by then, for serious fucking...and since lying in the sun had all sorts of `making out' possibilities, then he was happy to go along with the suggestion. The decking terrace at the back of the house, which overlooks the little courtyard, is a perfect suntrap at this time of the year, and has the added benefit of being entirely enclosed and shut away from the world outside: on two sides, the terrace is enclosed by the house, with the crumbling brickwork of the church looming above on the third side, and the trees to the west thickly obscuring the view of the back of the Priest's house. In summer, I generally keep one of the wooden recliners up there. In preparation, before he'd arrived, I'd laid out a white towel on the recliner, and left a bottle of dark tanning oil at the ready. I wasn't clear in what sort of state he intended to sunbathe – but I feared it would be just in his knee-length shorts; I'd realized, by now that he was comfortable being naked with me, as long as it was in private and indoors, and he was more than comfortable engaging in rampant sex in a state of complete undress – but, he still seemed to have some reservations about being less than properly `presentable' when outside the house, as though he was nervous that somebody might suddenly appear and catch him apparently in an embarrassing state of semi-undress. Unless, of course, his hormones overrode his sense of decorum, as had happened both that first time I'd fucked him, under the plum tree, and again when he'd readily removed his shorts for me, when he'd found me sunbathing, near the barn. I didn't want to push him on this, but the idea of a knee-length tanline was definitely not on my agenda for him.
"What are these?" he asked, as he spied the trunks, which I'd left dangling from the inclined head of the recliner. Like that, it wasn't possible to see exactly what they were.
"Oh. Those? Something I bought. But I'm going to have to take them back – they're the wrong size." He snagged them, and held them up for inspection. And his interest was clearly piqued. As whose wouldn't be – even empty, the contour of the pouch, and the low slung waist and narrow sides made clear how sexy these things would look once they were properly filled out.
"They look...pretty hot." He clearly approved, as he examined them front and back. I slipped off my nylon shorts, and stripped down to the red speedo I'd been wearing underneath; I'd put it on, on purpose...if I was dressed like that, then there was no reason why he shouldn't follow suit; if I'd stripped down to a pair of briefs, on the other hand, then there was every likelihood that we'd end up heading straight for sex, without passing `Go', and that would be the end of my getting-Leo-into-the-striped-trunks strategy.
"What size are they?" he searched for the label.
"Not sure. On the packet, it said they were my size, but they must have got mixed up in the shop, and ended up in the wrong box." He'd found the label, which clearly showed they were the right size for him. I stretched out, and began lazily to rub oil onto my shoulders. I could tell he was slightly suspicious about the trunks, and half-believed they were intended for him, but unless I confirmed it he couldn't be sure.
"Can I ...try them on?"
"What? Well..." I pretended to give it thought. "It's not a good idea, if I'm taking them back. You might stretch them."
"Oh. C'mon. I won't `stretch' them; they're my size. And it'll just be for a minute, anyway. I just want to see if they look any good on me."
"Well." Reluctantly: "I suppose you can. If you're careful." And I swung myself round so I was sitting on the side of the recliner, my forearms resting on my knees, and I looked at him. Ready to watch as he put them on. I think he'd thought he'd go indoors, into the bathroom to change, and just see in the bathroom mirror how they looked on him – but my stance clearly indicated a different expectation on my part. "Just for a minute, though."
Coyly, he turned his back to me – I loved the fact that he still did that, even after all the times I'd seen him in all his natural glory, by now – and slid his thumbs into the elasticated waistband of his shorts, as he slipped off his sneakers. Then, in one go, he shoved his shorts and underwear down together, took them off, and dropped them onto the marble table that stood against the wall, giving a flash of the teal colour of his briefs, still tangled inside the shorts as he did so. His arse cheeks looked cute, visible beneath the bottom of his singlet, and slightly dimpled as he stood there, naked below the waist, and turning the trunks in his hands to get them in the right position to put them on. It was an image to treasure.
He stepped into the legs of the trunks, and pulled them up his thighs, and then up and over his bum. And then he did that thing that blokes do, unthinkingly, when they're pulling on a tight pair of briefs, and he slightly dipped and splayed his legs just enough so that, as he pulled upwards, the legs of the trunks slipped into place between his thighs and snugly on either side of his balls, before he stood up straight again. And then, he reached down to arrange himself inside the pouch, which he proceeded to straighten to his satisfaction. And then he turned around, to face me. With one hand behind his neck, he grabbed the top of his singlet and in one easy movement he pulled it up and off, and dropped it onto the deck.
I thought I'd died and gone to heaven! The vision before me was as good as I'd hoped it might be...and then some! The muscles in his thighs led the eye up and to the point where the sharp line of the legs of the trunks cut across it and angled up and across his hips, and from the other direction, the `v' of the muscles behind his gloriously tanned and flat tummy plunged down suggestively beneath the waistband of the trunks...and both of them led inexorably to that place where the vertical yellow and white lines were so distinctively pushed out of alignment by the contours of what nestled beneath.
I say `nestled' but even as I looked, I could see movement there, as his cock appeared to grow and to harden beneath my gaze. Either his awareness of where I was looking, or the way he'd touched himself as he adjusted himself into the pouch, or the fact that displaying himself so blatantly to me made him feel horny...whichever it was, he was quite clearly rising to the occasion.
"Yeah...they're not bad." I said, dismissively. I allowed my gaze to travel up his body, until I met his look. For an instant, our eyes fenced – his, challenging me to admit this whole thing had been a set up, and mine, challenging him to make me do so. I'm not sure who won...and I suspect that my look surrendered into one of pure and unmitigated lust just at the moment when he scooped up his shorts from the table beside him – for want of any more accessible missile – and threw them in mock frustration - but laughing, at the same time - at my head. I caught them, and deftly scooped out his underpants from where they were tangled inside the shorts, and then I threw the shorts back at his head, in turn. By the time he caught them, it was to see me holding his briefs, initially up to my face, and then my hand dropped and his underwear was casually being held against the bulge in my speedo, as if by chance.
So. Now we knew exactly where we were in the game.
"How do they feel?" I asked him. Innocently.
"Oh...'not bad'," he quoted back at me. I grinned.
"Do they... fit ...properly?"
"Well...maybe, you'd better check." And he moved the two paces forward that were all that was needed to bring the pouch of the trunks directly before my face. I reached out, and ran my fingertips along and down the right leg, to where his balls filled and pushed out the pouch, and I gently pushed my hand beneath them and between his legs. I pressed my hand against him, there, and ran my fingers back and forth, rubbing him between his bum and his balls.
"They seem ok," I said. Nonchalant. But we both knew by now that beneath the wordplay there was a whole different game being played out. I leant forward, and with my free hand, I took the price tag which was still attached to the waistband of the trunks by a slender plastic tie, which I proceeded to sever with my teeth.
"I thought you were going to take them back.." His voice trembled, at the pressure I was applying between his legs.
"I don't see how I can...Not now you've bent them all out of shape in the front, like you have." And I squeezed the hardness of his cock, that was by now clearly visible under the tight fabric. He thrust gently back against my touch, probably without even realizing that he was doing it.
Enough of the game. Now, I just wanted him.
I reached up and pulled his face down and into a kiss that felt as though it should have required planning approval. Deep, and structural. And he gripped my shoulders as he bent forward and gave back as good as he got – perhaps we were battling for prime position? I can't say, but whatever it was, it went on, and on.
We broke apart, and as he stood, I pulled him in again, but this time I went for his nipples, which hardened under the onslaught of my lips and tongue. And teeth. As I bit into his hardened nubs, he breathed hard, and then groaned deeply – but he made no attempt to pull away. While my hand grabbed him hard, between his legs, and I mastered him as he thrust back against me.
And then, it was my turn.
He extracted himself from my hold, and pushed me back and down, So that he could concentrate on my nipples.
This was a different proposition. As he had already come to learn, that part of my anatomy has been honed over time to respond intensely to the sort of treatment that he now had in mind to give it...and in seconds, he had me panting, and gripping the sides of the recliner with my hands as I fought not to collapse entirely before the attention he was giving my nipples with his tongue and his teeth. And this wasn't about him attempting mastery – this was about him giving me pleasure.
While I was still practically floating from the sensations he'd caused within me, I realized he'd already moved further down, and was spreading my thighs, to allow him full access to my speedos and to what lay within. He pushed my knees apart, and held my legs splayed, as he concentrated on groping and massaging the hardness that was pushing the nylon of the speedo away from my body...and then, he leant in further, and began to lick and suck, working his mouth from the base of my cock, to the tip. Soaking and sucking, all the way. I didn't know whether to push him away with the thrusts he was generating in my crutch, or to hold him by the back of his head and to pull him in, even harder and closer. And then, he was pulling at the fabric, and exposing me directly to his mouth, as he held onto the shaft of my cock like some kind of pospsicle, the end of which he was licking and sucking like a starving eskimo. My speedo was yanked down, and somehow, between us, we managed to get rid of it. Which meant that he had full access to my balls, shaved and churning, and he nuzzled them – first one and then the other, while he then alternated between sucking them into his mouth, and bathing them with his tongue.
Leo. Was. Incredible.
I raised him up, right up, for a kiss – which was as much for a pause to regroup as it was for a moment of pleasure. As his mouth clamped firmly to mine, he pushed his arse down and against my cock, while he humped his own cock against my mid-section; then, reaching round, he positioned my hard shaft, pointing upright, so that as he worked his own cock back and forth against me, he made sure that the head of my cock was positioned, thrusting up and down against the fabric which directly covered the crevice between his arse cheeks. I encouraged him to move even further up, until he was straddling my chest, and I kissed the tip of his erection, standing resolutely proud inside the striped trunks. I pulled them down at the front, so that I could take him fully into my mouth, as my hands worked up between his legs, to grope and work him first outside and then inside the trunks. They were pulled halfway down his cheeks, by now, and so there was plenty of opportunity to push a hand up and inside the trunks and to play with his arse as my mouth on his cock was driving him frantic.
Reaching down, I found the bottle of tanning oil, and managed to flip the cap open. Momentarily disengaging my hands from him, I poured some of the oil into the palm of my right hand and then closed the bottle once more. My hand, I slipped back and up inside his trunks, and crudely I applied the oil to his arsehole, smearing it generously between his legs, and up and over his tight rosebud. Never again have I been able to smell the coconut scent of that particular oil without immediately getting a hard-on at the memory it conjures up of Leo on that occasion, as I fingered him, standing over me! As my finger slid easily right up inside him, and then back down again and almost out, over and over again, he moaned, his eyes closed in ecstasy, and he fucked his cock into my mouth, working it against my tongue and the roof of my mouth.
I pulled his trunks down, and got him out of them. I wanted him naked and entirely mine. I think he was probably beyond articulating what he wanted – his body just knew that it wanted whatever it was. I pulled him down on top of me, and held him tight, as he slid his body, slick with sweat, up and down against mine, making hard thrusts with his groin at the same time. We kissed deep, and intensely, and I groped his buttocks, teasing his arsehole with the fingertips of first one hand and then the other.
Without letting him go, I turned him, so that he lay on his side, and then I knelt up between his legs. One of which – his right leg - was flat on the recliner, bent slightly at the knee, and the other I brought up with me as I knelt up, and I held it, straight, against my shoulder. Like that, his legs splayed and open to my gaze, his arsehole was visible and available – although clenched - and I took my cock and positioned it against him. He held onto the wooden frame in readiness, and I rested my hands on either side of his head. I'd thought we were beyond words, but as I thrust into him, I lowered my head towards his and growled throatily "My God, Leo! " And then, I let him have it, fucking deeply into the oiled slickness of his arse, as he wrapped his arms around himself, somehow inviting me, as he did so, to enter him even more deeply.
And it was with a cry of release that I let go, slamming hard into him repeatedly, and I came.
He turned, carefully, on the recliner, lowering his raised leg, as I stayed in position above him, as though I was about to do press-ups. My cock slipped out of him, and he made that moue of disappointment that always accompanied that precise point of contact being broken. He smiled up at me, as I rained beads of sweat down onto him, and I smiled back, through my ragged breaths. Carefully, I lowered myself down, although still bearing my own weight on my hands, until I could touch my nose to his. I kissed his lips, lightly.
"Shall we go to bed?" I murmured. Knowing full well what the answer would be.
To be continued...