Lost Ball

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.

Comments are welcome. There's more to tell, and if there's any interest to hear it, then, you never know...

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I was sorting out the mess in that part of my garden which runs behind the church – I'd been thinning the trees, over the previous few days, and now it was a question of sorting out which of the branches could go through the wood chipper, and which were worth keeping to cut up for firewood. From the schoolyard that was beyond the hedge and the screen of trees at the end of the garden came the sound of a football game; school had already formally finished for the summer, and we were in that period when kids seemed still to populate the place, but only in order to amuse themselves, and not because there was any programme of lessons going on. Give it a couple of weeks, and they'd all have drifted off to the beach, or else would start to disappear on family holidays.

Their voices suggested a mixed bunch of teenagers – girls' voices interposed with the huskier tones of boys who were still getting used to the consequences of their balls having only recently dropped.

It was inevitable. It happened almost every time they struck up a football game in that part of the school grounds; and it pissed me off royally. This time, almost as though it had been aimed on purpose, the football suddenly came flying over the hedge, nearly hit me, and landed about two feet away from where I stood. Without giving it a moment's thought, I dropped an armful of brushwood on top of the ball, concealing it completely, and then carried on with the task at hand, feeding handfuls of small branches into the wood chipper.

Just as inevitably, about five minutes later, I saw movement at the far end of the North Lawn. They generally climb over the wall that separates the schoolyard from the old well-house, where I keep all the boxes of seedlings that I'm nurturing, and this lot was no different from all the others who'd come before. And no different either was my reaction when I saw them.

"What the hell are you doing here? This is a private garden. You have no permission to be here!" I shouted; they quailed, more or less. My Italian is pretty rough and ready, but they got the message, if only from my tone of voice. There were two of them: one, slightly ratty looking, in a drab t-shirt and dark knee-length shorts, and the other in white – white gymn singlet and what seemed to be white bermudas, intended for swimming or maybe basketball, and white sneakers While his friend looked frightened and said nothing, the vision in white answered politely, if nervously, that they were looking for their ball, which had come over the hedge. I ranted some more – I'd had plants broken too many times by footballs carelessly kicked that I wasn't going to soften my position just because he was cute. Or, not immediately, anyway. And he was. Cute. Tanned, with slightly wavy light brown hair, cut short and in a preppy style, and a face that was clearly going to become handsome as he grew older – for now, the promise contained behind his strong jawline and even features made him look merely `interesting'. Above his upper lip was a shadow of downy hair, which, although not aesthetically positive in its own right, suggested that other more interesting changes were probably going on elsewhere in his body.

My response had the ratty one heading back the way they'd both come, and he disappeared at speed, back over the well-house wall. His friend, though, stayed put, and merely kept looking at me with an attitude of uncertain challenge. Mentally, I gave him points for it.

"May I look for the ball?" he asked, eventually, his voice still slightly nervous, and with bad grace I said that he could, as long as he was careful. I carried on with what I'd been doing anyway, and from the corner of my eye I watched as he searched. And the more I saw, the more my interest was piqued. From the muscles on his golden tanned calves, to the hint of dark hair under his arms, and his obviously athletic physique, I found I was drawn to him; and at the point when he squatted down to peer beneath the shrubs at the edge of the compost heap, making the outline of his briefs strain clearly though the fabric of his shorts, I almost gave myself away with a sharp intake of breath.

He couldn't find the ball, which I knew he wouldn't since I was practically standing on it. In the distance, the sounds were obvious of his group of friends dispersing - it was time for lunch, and they were all leaving - and he seemed uncertain what he should do. He straightened up, and stood there, perhaps for the first time conscious of the way I was looking at him. And as he seemed not to be unnerved by it, then my look became increasingly direct, and he appeared to be increasingly aware of its possible meaning. His friends' voices disappeared in the distance, and as silence gradually fell around us, I let my gaze wander down his body, from the slight cleft in his chin, down past the point where the dip at the side of his loose singlet hinted at a tanned nipple, and down further to the folds where his shorts hung, which concealed who knew what treasures beneath. Slowly, I let my gaze rise up his body again, until in turn I met the gaze from his grey-blue eyes - unusual in an Italian, and I guessed at some northern European heritage in there somewhere. His look didn't falter. At some level, he knew what was going on. And he stood his ground. Ready to address what was unspoken in the atmosphere between us that suddenly seemed heavy with meaning.

"Perhaps you should come back and look again, later," I suggested, at last. There was no logic to the suggestion – if he was going to look some more, then what was the reason for not doing it now. But we both knew that that wasn't the purpose of my comment. What we were talking about was him coming back, when nobody else would know that he was here, when he probably wouldn't have a ratty-looking friend still waiting for him beyond the well-house wall.

"When?" he asked. And I was confident that I had him.

"Let's say three-thirty". Again, I wasn't asking him, I was telling him. It would be siesta time; everybody taking shelter from the afternoon heat; nobody wondering where he might be, none of his friends hanging around in the schoolyard to see him making his way back over the well-house wall. The World and the opportunity would be ours.

He nodded. I let myself look meaningfully down at his crutch, and when I looked up again, he was swallowing nervously.

"I should - ..." he said, and indicated with his head back in the direction from which he'd originally appeared.

"Ok," I said, and nodded in dismissal. I had got as much as I could hope for from him, in the way of commitment for later.

He turned and walked slowly back towards the well-house, giving a good view of a nicely developed bum, as he went, and I suddenly guessed that part of the reason for his halting gait was probably the presence of a ragingly hard cock pressing uncomfortably inside his underpants. From the shade of the well-house, as he gathered himself to scramble back over the wall, he turned and glanced back at me, and reached down unthinkingly to adjust himself through the fabric of his shorts. I raised a hand in a curt, rather official salute, and then he was gone.

I didn't really believe he would turn up. Most likely, he'd have made it back home, and – even before Mamma had served the pasta – he'd have found the chance to jerk his hard cock to urgent release, before putting the whole unnerving interlude firmly into his past. Or, then again, he might have jerked himself to urgent release, and then, ten minutes later, been just as urgently in need as he'd been before, and entirely torn about what he should do.

Just in case, though, I made preparations. Behind the cushion of my usual chair on the house terrace I concealed the elements of a standard `fuck-kit': lube, poppers, condoms. There was no way things were going to get anything like that far, but there's no downside to being prepared. You never know. And it would be pretty stupid not to be ready, just in case things were unexpectedly to race along at that kind of pace, and the last thing I'd want would be to have to go in search of relevant provisions just at the wrong moment and somehow to break the rhythm of the seduction.

And I mixed up a jug of chilled prosecco and limoncello – deceptively alcoholic, and almost credible as a thirst-quenching drink to be quaffed on a hot summer's day. I left it to chill in the fridge, along with a couple of glasses, until just before the time we'd agreed on for him to come back.

I showered, soaping and idly playing with my cock under the gushing water, images of the Vision in White playing through my mind as I did so. But it went no further than idle play. Just in case, I didn't want to find myself already spent and under par at a crucial moment. Just in case. And I dressed in a fresh pair of nylon running shorts, and a fresh polo shirt, both navy blue, and slipped my feet into my usual battered old deck shoes. I knew from experience that it worked as a look.

With five minutes in hand, I put the jug and glasses on the table on the terrace, in the shade of the balcony above, and made my way across the garden to the well-house. The gate from there into the schoolyard is normally kept firmly bolted, from my side, but now I slid the bolt back and left the gate just sufficiently ajar for somebody approaching it from the other side to see that it was open, from a metre or so away. And then, I waited, leaning against one of the pillars of the well-house.

How long would I give it, before I should decide that he wasn't coming, and that I should bolt the gate once more, and put the incident down to optimistic experience? Five minutes past the appointed time would be too little. Half an hour? Would that be too silly? But, how much do boys that age even think about time, anyway? Maybe half an hour would be a perfectly normal degree of flexibility if you're only fifteen? Was he fifteen? I guessed it must be around that...

And then, even as I was letting my mind wander, maybe even encouraging it to wander, to distract me from the minutes that were ticking past, I heard footsteps approaching the gate, from the other side. The only other sound that broke the heavy afternoon silence was that of the cicadas, coming from all directions; even the birds were silent in the summer heat. Footsteps. That came confidently closer, and then stopped, just on the other side of the gate. A pause, and then cautiously the gate opened, maybe a foot, just enough to reveal the Vision standing there, looking uncertain, but determined all the same.

For a second or so, I took in the sight – he was dressed differently from before, in beige knee-length shorts, quite formal in style, and a short-sleeved linen shirt, buttoned but hanging loose, which was white, with an open navy check pattern, and on his feet a pair of brown leather moccasins. I moved to open the gate wide enough for him to enter, and then closed it behind him once more, and slid the bolt back across into place. So that he knew that we were now somewhere secure, where whatever happened was somehow disconnected, removed, protected from the World beyond.

I hadn't stood back to let him pass, and although he didn't actually have to brush against me to do so – which would just have been crass – he passed so close that I got a clear scent from him of shower gel, and maybe also of shampoo. He was dressed like a nice well-brought-up boy going off for Sunday lunch with his grandparents, maybe, or - and I smiled inwardly at the realisation - like a well-brought-up boy going out on his first date. Freshly showered, and sweet smelling, and eager to make a good impression.

It worked, for me.

He sure as hell wasn't dressed to go searching for a lost football, which was yet further confirmation that we were there for some other reason entirely. Even so, I thought we might as well maintain the pretence.

"It's too hot to start looking straightaway," I said. "Let's get a drink first, over at the house". I kept my voice low, conspiratorial, and gently touched his forearm as I spoke. His skin was warm and smooth to the touch.

He nodded. It seemed appropriate to keep talking to a minimum, and even then to keep it low and private. To guide him, I rested my hand lightly on his shoulder, and kept it there as we made our way across the garden, under the pergolas, and round the corner of the church to where the house nestled, on the other side of the citrus lawn. He must have been about five foot six – is that tall for that age? maybe it is...- but in any event he was perhaps five or six inches shorter than me, and my hand easily rested on his shoulder as we walked. Through the ironed crispness of his shirt, I could feel his shoulder muscles flex beneath my touch, and as we neared the house, I gently began to work on the muscle with my thumb and the tips of my fingers. Nothing too obvious, but sending a gentle message. Of interest. And intent.

I poured two glasses and handed one to him, as we stood on the terrace.

"What is it?" he asked, indicating the glass, but only with a hint of doubt, and not of suspicion.

"It's a kind of lemonade. Try it," I said, and to encourage him to do likewise I drank from my glass and smiled at him. He took a cautious sip, and finding it good, he then downed half the glass in one nervous gulp; I reached across and re-filled it.

"To football!" I said, and raised my glass in a toast. It was a bollocks-nonsense kind of thing to say, but that wasn't the point – the point was to get him to drink some more. Which he did. "Yes," he said, with enthusiasm and raised his glass to his lips, and once again half the contents were gone in one go.

I didn't re-fill his glass this time – the mixture is pretty strong, and I didn't want him passing out, or throwing up, or having to explain at home why he had a hangover by the time he came to the dinner table. And, anyway, I was confident that by this stage he'd had more than enough to overcome any inhibitions he might have. Two glasses of that stuff, and even I can start to feel my focus slipping!

I sat, but didn't suggest that he do likewise, and I put my glass down on the table, so that my hands were free. He was standing perhaps eighteen inches away from me and slightly to my left.

Casually, I reached across and rested my hand on the back of his leg, just above his knee, and I began lightly to toy with the hem of the leg of his shorts. He stiffened instinctively at my touch – and I suspect not just his legs, either – and as I smiled up at him, he drained his glass entirely. I took it from him with my free hand, and after I'd placed it on the table, I reached across and with both of my hands on his hips I gently pulled him slightly towards me, so that he was standing before me, facing me, almost between my spread knees.

"I think it's too hot for all these clothes, don't you?" I suggested, and reached up for the top button of his shirt. To be honest, I don't think the words registered any more, and I could have been saying anything. His eyes were half closed and he stood there, clearly completely lost within the moment and within whatever it was that he was about to experience.

Efficiently, but without unseemly haste, I unbuttoned his shirt, working my way down from the top. I didn't want to go too quickly, or to seem too urgent - that might risk frightening him off, or, more probably, bring matters to a head far too quickly...and I was enjoying the whole thing too much to want it to be over any time soon. Button by button, his upper body was revealed: the beginnings of pecs, and a suggestion of muscle tone in his abs, with a trim waist, a flat and tanned tummy, and the clear `V' of his muscles disappearing into the waistband of his shorts. His shirt now hung open, and I reached with both hands and gently took his nipples between the finger and thumb of each hand, and as I grazed the top of my thumbs lightly over his nipples, he gasped and a slight moan escaped from his lips, the bottom one of which was now partly caught between his teeth. With my right hand, I reached up, and gently traced the tip of my forefinger along his lips, and was rewarded when they parted, and I could push my fingertip just inside. His breathing was laboured, and I was nervous again that he might be about to finish, before we'd even properly begun. I would dearly have loved to put my hand on the back of his neck and to bring his face down so that I could run the tip of my tongue where the tip of my finger had just been, but I was fairly certain that he wasn't ready for that. Not yet.

To slow matters down, I rested my hands back on his hips, and gently squeezed his waist, as his breathing appeared to return to normal. And as soon as it had, I transferred my attention to the button on the waistband of his shorts. He wasn't wearing a belt, and the waist of his shorts rested snugly low on his hips. One button, which was swiftly undone, and then the tag of the zip of his fly. Holding the waist of the shorts in my left hand, I gently unzipped him with my right, and as the zip came down it revealed the brilliant white of his cotton briefs beneath. The shorts seemed likely to fall down under their own weight, and so I gently lowered them to the level of his knees, and he seemed to know that he was expected to step out of them. First one foot, and then the other. And in steadying himself as he stepped out of his shorts, he rested his hand briefly on my shoulder – which, although slight in itself, suddenly communicated a degree of trust that jolted me; not just trust that I wouldn't let him fall over, but a trust that whatever he was handing himself over to me to do was going to be fine. Because he trusted me. Again, I felt that urge to kiss him, and this time I did give in to the extent that I pulled him close and pressed my face against the warm skin of his stomach, and kissed him just to one side of his navel. I drank in his scent, of body-wash and of boy: warm and sun-baked.

I looked up and saw that his eyes were still half-closed. With the tips of my fingers, I reached up and stroked his cheek. "Hey," I said quietly, to get his attention. I wanted this to be something that we were doing together, and for that he needed to come back from wherever his mind had gone, and he needed to connect with more than just what my hands were doing to him. His eyes opened, and he looked down; I smiled, and stroked his cheek again. He smiled back, and as I touched his lips with my fingertip, he kissed it, and we maintained eye contact. For the first time, I realised that the shadow of downy hair on his upper lip which I'd noticed that morning was no longer there, and that it must have been removed as part of his `first-date' preparations. I waggled my eyebrows and grinned at him, causing him to giggle...which was good - this was supposed to be fun, after all, and not some kind of religious experience. Well, obviously, it can be...but that's generally a level you work up to, later.

I roughly folded his shorts, and tossed them across onto another chair, and then rested my hands back on his hips. Onto the waistband of his briefs. Which were the stuff of dreams. Snug, with no front opening and cut low at the front and high at the sides, they were of a whiteness that suggested they were not long out of their packet. The leg elastic fitted tightly between his legs, but the pouch seemed generous – which, from what I could see, it needed to be. The cotton suggested a pair of balls, heavy and low slung, and above those, the fabric was obscenely distorted by the tube of his hard cock, which extended off towards his left hip and at its tip seemed to be forcing the tight waistband of his briefs out and away from his body.

I reached up and eased his shirt off his shoulders, and as it slid down his arms he got the idea and took it off entirely, tossing it across onto the chair where his shorts already lay. The sight of him, standing there, tanned and athletic, dressed just in his briefs and – incongruously – his moccasins, was incredibly hot, particularly given the way that his cock was so clearly straining against the fabric of his underwear. Once more, I pinched his nipples, giving rise to the same throaty groan as before, and then, while I kept my left hand on his nipple, I dropped my other hand, and slipped it between his legs. With the tips of my forefinger and index finger, I pressed hard against that area just beneath his balls, over his prostate, and as I massaged him there he cried out in involuntary response, at the same time parting his legs instinctively, to give me better access, and he leant forward, again resting both of his hands on my shoulders, for balance. In that position, his nipple was available to me, and I turned my head and deftly fastened my mouth onto it, instantly starting to suck and to flick my tongue over the hardened nub.

The fingers of my right hand slipped under the elastic of the leg of his briefs, and I continued to massage him beneath his balls, but this time with my fingers directly on his flesh, hot and slightly damp to my touch; the palm and lower part of my hand was pressed hard up against his balls. My other hand slid down the curve of his back, and came to rest on the firm muscles of his arse, initially feeling them through his briefs, and then, sliding my hand down under the waistband, I was caressing his bare buttock, while the tips of my fingers slipped into the crevice between his cheeks. He leant further forward, as though he was encouraging me to probe further, and my fingers suddenly went deeper, and grazed the tightness of his bud. A shiver went through him and he let out a gentle whimper; I raised my head from his chest, and found at first that his face was pushed down against my collar bone, and as I turned my face toward his, he also turned, towards me, and my lips brushed first his cheek, and then came to rest against his mouth. I hadn't intended it – I'd wanted to kiss him pretty much from the start, but had thought it might freak him out - and I'm fairly sure he hadn't intended it either; it was pure serendipity. His lips parted, and as my finger grazed his back entrance, the tip of my tongue started to make much the same sort of exploratory moves against his mouth. As my tongue made progress, and began to flick more forcefully against his, he seemed to push his arse back against my hand, and despite the tightness of his muscle back there, I suddenly found that I'd penetrated him, at least to the first knuckle of my finger. God alone knows how, given how tight he was.

A kind of frenzy seemed to take him, and even as he was on the receiving end of my mini-spit-roast, my finger inside him at one end, and my tongue working inside his mouth at the other, he seemed to want more of both. As he kissed, he whimpered rhythmically, and he reached round behind him, to hold my hand against his arse (as though I had any idea of taking it away...!). Then, while holding me with one hand tightly at the back of my neck, he must have plunged his other hand into his underpants, and seized his rigid cock; I didn't see him do it, but from the urgent movements in the area of his crutch, pressed against my stomach, I could pretty much work out what he was doing.

Eventually the kiss broke, and as he came up for air, I looked down, to see the front of his pants pushed down beneath his balls, and his hand furiously pumping his cock, his legs braced either side of my thighs, his entire being apparently focused on his impending orgasm. As his breathing got faster, and the whimpers turned into a series of low and increasingly urgent moans, I pushed my free hand back between his legs, and held him tightly there, while the index finger of my other hand pushed harder against the resistance of his virgin arse.

And then, almost without warning, we were there. With a kind of strangled noise in his throat, he suddenly convulsed, and shot maybe half a dozen ropes of cum, over my forearm and stomach, and over his own hand and the front of his pants. With each shot, he jerked, and made urgent little noises, gradually diminishing, until he was finished. At which point he collapsed against me and into my arms, a dishevelled and sweaty heap of exhausted and very, very satisfied boy.

An hour or more later – after a clean-up operation that was at least as enjoyable as what had gone before (as you'd expect, given the standard recovery time of most horny fifteen-year-olds) – we were making our way back across the garden, for me to let him out and to wave him on his way. Nothing was said as we walked, but the silence was comfortable; I think he was just beginning to process what it was that he'd done, and who knew how complicated that was going to be for him over the next days, weeks and months.

As we passed behind the church, I detoured slightly, to the place where I'd concealed the lost football that morning. I pushed aside the branches which covered it, and without a word picked up the ball and handed it to him. For a second or two, he looked at it, and then at me. His only comment was a succinct "Hmm", which somehow seemed to convey that he understood exactly what had happened, and he tucked the ball under his arm as we continued back to the gate.

After I'd slid back the bolt, but before I pulled the gate open, we stood, wordlessly regarding each other. He wasn't the same person he'd been when he'd come first through that gate, earlier in the afternoon, and I was conscious of the part that I'd played in that change.

He handed me back the ball. I raised a quizzical eyebrow, and in response he said "I think that maybe I'll need to come back again and look some more for this ball."

"Ah, yes," I said. "After all... a good ball is hard to find".

Almost, he laughed, but he managed not to. He got the joke, but he wasn't going to give me any credit for it.

"When might you be thinking of coming back to look for it?" I asked, but without trying to sound too eager at the prospect.

"I think perhaps...tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?" I pondered, and let the pause linger. "Yes, that ought to work".

And with a sudden forward lunge, he'd given me a quick and intense kiss. A snog, I suppose you'd call it. And he'd pulled open the gate and run through it and out into the schoolyard. As he ran, he turned and waved. Smiling, happily.

And after I'd closed the gate, I began to consider where might be the best places where a lost ball could be concealed. With any number of future searches in mind.