Lost Ball 11

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.

Lost Ball: Part 11

`Leo – Vignettes...(2)'

"Michael?"

I'd come to recognise that tone of voice. When Leo said my name, interrogatively, like that, it generally meant only one thing. It meant that Leo had been `thinking' about something, and that now he wanted to place whatever it was on the table, as the subject for broader discussion. It might be something as straightforward as "Why don't you play tennis?", or "What would happen if Prince Charles announced he was gay?"...but it was just as likely to be something a great deal chewier, and probably more personal, and where I'd be put on my mettle.

We were sitting in the barn, where he'd found me when he arrived half an hour or so earlier. I was busy with the remnants of my coffee, and the pages of The Economist, and I'd told him where he could find himself some ice-cream, in the freezer, if he wanted. Which he did. It was probably the hottest day of the summer to-date, and there was no hint of a breeze. Leo was in his basketball whites – pretty much the same as he'd been wearing the very first time that I'd seen him – and he was sporting a new haircut (under parental pressure) that left his hair relatively long and muss-able on top, but close in at the back and sides, almost like moleskin. I thought he looked adorable...but I'd held off from telling him so.

I wasn't particularly surprised when he spoke – as the background to my reading, I'd been conscious that his silence as he addressed himself to the dish of ice cream was of the contemplative sort, that very often presaged a `Leo' type of question.

"What is it?" Mentally, I girded my loins. In readiness.

He withdrew his ice cream spoon from his mouth, slowly and in a way that might otherwise have got my attention for other reasons, as he appeared to consider exactly what it was that he was about to say.

"Are we `boyfriends'?" he finally said. He used the English word; I'm not entirely sure why.

I was stumped. My immediate reaction would have been to say: No...of course not. But that would have been more a reaction to the word than a qualitative judgment on our relationship. So – fortunately – I didn't say it. Instead, I stalled. "That depends on what you mean by `boyfriends'," and I thought I'd neatly served the question back over to his side of the net. He considered. His brow creased into a frown, and he chewed on the edge of his thumb as he did so.

"Well. We're friends, right?" Clearly, this was going to be an iterative process.

"I think so. I hope so."

"But, we're more than just `friends', friends...aren't we?" I bit back a retort about the increased frequency of my bed-sheets going into the laundry as proof of that, and instead merely agreed with him. "So...what more is there beyond that, but to be `boyfriends?".

I cast aside any number of words that could have suggested themselves, including `catamite', `paramour', and `lover'. And I also realised that I had to move beyond my usual position of `don't analyse, don't rationalise'...which also had a third part, which was `don't categorise'. This clearly mattered to Leo; I owed it to him to take his question seriously.

"I'm not sure that `boyfriends' exactly covers anything and everything beyond being just `friends'. You need to define your terms more precisely. For a start, I don't think that at my age I could exactly be described as a `boy'." With that, he had to agree. "And so, I don't see how I could be anybody's `boyfriend'." This was getting more complicated than he'd expected, and I feared the conversation was doing the opposite of providing the clarification he sought. In true Leo-style, he had the tail-end of an idea in his mind, and he needed to pin it down so that it could be appropriately filed, four-square, within his worldview.

"I suppose you could be my `boyfriend'," I suggested, trying to find a way out of the problem. "Just based on the meaning of the words, I mean."

"But you couldn't be mine?" Clearly, that wasn't going to work. Not to his way of thinking.

"I honestly don't know what the word means," I pleaded. "It gets used about people all the time, and often it seems to me to be quite inappropriate...like when you see it used of, say - I don't know – a couple of filmstars, who are in their thirties. And, to me, it means something entirely adolescent ...not something you'd use to describe a couple of mature adults. It makes me think of kids in the playground."

"Like me, you mean?" There was an edge to his voice. This risked going downhill, fast. I reached across the table and took his hand. He let me do so, but the fact that there was no answering pressure from his hand against mine showed in what a sensitive place we suddenly found ourselves.

"What we have...the kind of `friendship' that we have.." I said, after a moment or two of thought, "is not something I would describe as being `boyfriends'. That's a term which seems to me so wide and shallow that it means anything and nothing." He let his hand rest in mine. So far, so...ok. Then, I thought I saw my way clear, to a satisfactory resolution.

"What about `fidanzati'?" I asked. It's the word in Italian which is used for a second-stage relationship, when the boyfriend-girlfriend, or boyfriend-boyfriend (or girlfriend-girlfriend, I guess) state of affairs has clearly matured beyond sweaty hand-holding, and looks possibly set for the longer-term. Or, at least, the medium-term. I don't think we have an equivalent term in English – ok, we can talk about being in a `serious' relationship, but nobody would be so crass as to introduce their girlfriend or boyfriend to a third party as `my serious boyfriend...' ; so, other people are generally just left to draw their own conclusions about the exact nature of the relationship. In Italian, at a certain point, `-friend' relationships somehow gain the status of being `fidanzati'. It doesn't mean `engaged', but literally translates as `faithful' or `loyal', I suppose. It implies a subtle degree of commitment, but without loading the relationship down with the declared baggage of being formally `committed'. It's a rather nice distinction.

"Mm." He considered. But I was conscious of the slight pressure of his hand against mine, as he did so.

"Leo?" He looked up.

"I would be honoured if you could think of me as your `fidanzato'," I said. It was as close to a formal proposal as I think I've ever made. Under his tan, it was difficult to be certain, but I thought I saw a blush cross his cheeks. It was more of a statement than he'd expected...much more of a clearly-defined position. His hand squeezed mine, in answer, and I made to raise it to my lips, for a kiss, as though to seal the agreement.

He recovered his usual poise almost instantly. "And how are you going to demonstrate this?" he asked, his tone throwaway. But in spite of his attempt at a joke, his eyes met mine, and he didn't look away. At the last moment, as I brought his hand to my lips, rather than kiss it, I took first one of his fingers, and then a second, and slid them into my mouth. Meeting his look, without wavering, I slowly – and meaningfully – sucked on his fingers, before removing them from my mouth and carefully kissing his fingertips. He gleamed. Excited.

"Oh," I said, folding his hand once more inside mine. "I expect I'll think of a way."

The day of the thunderstorm was epic.

In general, the weather systems we get come from the West, sweeping down from the mountains, and often they bring with them the last traces of clear alpine air. But sometimes, for a change, we get a weather system that comes in from the sea, only two miles or so distant, to the East – and those can be gloriously dramatic.

The heat had been steadily climbing for days – which isn't of itself a problem – but, during the previous twenty-four hours, the humidity level had risen to become deeply oppressive. That day began with the usual blue sky, but by mid-morning, clouds had piled in, and they towered above us, sulphurous and threatening - as the sky darkened, I went round the garden collecting in all of those things which had accumulated outside during the weeks, and weeks, we'd had of unbroken sunshine: the croquet set, in its wooden box, which had languished under the rose pergola for ages now; wicker chairs, grouped near the well-house; the wood-chipper, with its cable snaking off and into the socket inside the romitorio, from where I'd gradually been dealing with a backlog of small branches and other garden detritus. I considered doing something about the hammock, slung between two of the southernmost pine trees, but decided that it could probably withstand a drop or two of rain.

Which first appeared just at the point when I got a text from Leo. `Leaving now'. That was it. Not unusually. And, as this was a tennis day, I knew that he'd be arriving in less than ten minutes. A long and low growl of thunder rumbled menacingly in the sky. He'd be lucky to make it before the storm broke for real. The pre-storm wind was already bending the poplars, and leaves gusted along in its path; a shutter, improperly fastened, began to bang against the frame of the guest-room window.

Fat drops of rain burst intermittently against the ground, as the storm still couldn't quite make up its mind to get started. The heavens were dense with the sound of thunder, as it growled and rolled overhead. And, then, suddenly, one massive clap of thunder, which sounded directly overhead...and the skies opened. With the intensity of a monsoon.

Two seconds later – although I couldn't hear his approach for the sound of the rain – Leo, half-soaked, sprinted down the walkway from the garden gate and burst into the comparative shelter of the terrace. Panting, and grinning, he bent over to catch his breath, one hand clasped his tennis racket in its cover, while the other held his side, to ward off an incipient stitch caused by his sudden dash for cover. He wore tennis shorts, and a pale blue Lacoste, the shoulders of which were soaked through, and the almost ubiquitous sneakers – which he kicked off, to leave outside, before he came into the house.

"God – I love thunderstorms!" he declared, his eyes bright with excitement. And just at that moment, it sounded as though the sky was being ripped open, with a long and dramatic roll of thunder, which grew in intensity and resolved itself into a deafening thunderclap, so loud that it seemed to cause the house to shake. He grabbed my hand. "Let's watch it from upstairs!" And I found myself being tugged up the stairs behind him, as he made at speed for the office balcony, which would give the best view of what was happening outside.

Over in the direction of San Francesco, forked lightning speared downwards, against a backdrop of almost continuous sheet-lightning, and the crashing and low rumbles of thunder grew, as the centre of the storm came ever closer. Over the first section of the balcony is a section of metal roofing – not a thing of beauty, but I'd retained it when I'd moved in on the basis that it provided shelter as necessary from the sun or, as now, the rain – and the sound of the rain beating incessantly down upon it drowned out all other noise but that of the storm itself. The French windows to the balcony were wide open, and Leo braced himself with his hands against the door frame on either side, as he gloried in the dramatic intensity of the thunder and lightning. As I rested my hands on his shoulders, I could feel the excitement coursing through him, and I slipped my arms around his shoulders, from behind, and fitted my body against his. His hair smelt damp, and slightly of shampoo, and I planted a light kiss on the side of his face, as I held him. In his excitement at the storm, I think he hardly noticed.

But, that was about to change.

The buttons of his shirt were undone, and so it was easy for my right hand to slip inside, and for me to make contact with his left nipple. Which hardened at my touch, and in that instant I felt Leo's excitement translate itself in one go from excitement at the elements, to an even more intense excitement at the onset of sex. As I gently rolled his stiffening nub between my finger and thumb, he pushed himself back and more firmly against me, and I nuzzled his ear.

Removing my hand from inside his shirt, I reached down with both hands, up and under the front of his Lacoste, and in a second or so I'd unclipped the waistband of his shorts, and deftly unzipped his fly. The shorts dropped around his ankles, and I squeezed him through the fabric of his underwear, his erection standing proud inside the thin cotton. Without removing his hands from the doorframe, he pushed himself back and against me, and gave the impression of an embrace, even without moving his arms. Still braced in the doorway, he quickly kicked his shorts aside, and then bent slightly forwards, pushing his arse back and out, towards me.

I squatted down behind him, and rested my hands on his hips as I did so. Under the tail of his shirt, his briefs showed white, against the deepening tan of the top of his thighs, and they were clearly still damp from his recent exertions on the tennis court. I pressed my face against his arse, and through his underwear I drank in the scent of Leo.

With both hands, I pulled on the legs of his underpants, and took them down, in one go, to his ankles, for him to step out of. And then, bunched in my hand, firstly I pressed them to my face, and then I dropped them behind me, onto the floor. So that I could hold his hips once more, as I pushed my face back against him, in the same position as before. The globes of his arse looked amazing, presented like that, and I drew back slightly to admire them, as my hands came back and kneaded and pushed up against the top of his thighs. Spreading his cheeks as they did so. My thumbs sliding in and opening his arse to my gaze. And to my kisses. And to the invasion by my tongue.

With the tip of my tongue I repeatedly stabbed at his pucker, and then I swiped it, up and down, generously coating it with my saliva. If the noise of the rain had allowed it, I would have heard him moaning in time with my movements against him. As it was, his leg muscles were taut, and I could feel him trembling slightly as he held himself in position for me. With my left hand on his left buttock, pulling it to one side, I sucked on the first two fingers of my right hand, and then, pushing them tightly together, as one fat digit, I placed them at his slicked arse. And watched intently, as I pushed them slightly into him, and then carefully worked them in and out, going deeper and deeper each time I pushed back in. All the while, the thunder continued to growl and roar overhead, although its intensity seemed to be diminishing. Leo had no choice – if he'd even have wanted one – but to continue to brace himself against the doorframe, as he would almost certainly have fallen forward if he'd relaxed his grip with either hand, and he was entirely at my disposal. The sight of my fingers working in and out of him like that was so exciting that I almost came in my shorts as I looked on.

But, I had other plans.

Slowly, I took my fingers from his arse, and I stood behind him and gathered him into my arms. Still quivering from the intensity of his feelings at what I'd been doing, he allowed his hands to drop, and he turned, within my embrace, and pushed his tongue hungrily into my mouth. As we kissed, I reached under his shirttail and clasped his gorgeous bum and pulled him close against me – and it was probably as much his doing as mine that he was lifted, in my embrace, with his legs wrapped tightly around my waist, while my hands supported him under his arse and held him tightly against me, his arms clasped around my neck. And still the kiss continued, unbroken.

Behind him was a small metal table, circular and about three feet across – I used it sometimes if I wanted to work outside rather than at my desk. Now, I lifted him up and onto it, and allowed his arse to come down to rest against the tabletop, while, slowly, I laid him back down so his upper body was lying on the table, his arse presented, effectively in mid-air. His ankles, I held, splayed wide apart, in my hands. He gripped the sides of the table, to support himself. Lying there, dressed just in his pale blue shirt – naked, otherwise – his arsehole visibly slicked and ready, his cock rigid and pressed against his belly, he was an image of pure, obscene, sexual intent. He looked up at me, and the expression on his face was one of unmitigated lust, and want...and need.

Letting go of his ankle for a minute, I reached down and thrust my shorts and briefs down, at first to my thighs, and then – realising that I needed more freedom to move than that - I thrust them further down, so they dropped to my ankles. Then, I returned my hand to Leo's ankle, to push his legs back, and further apart. His look as he met my eyes was urgent, and pleading.

Holding his ankles up and apart, I manipulated my hips so that I could position my cock at his arsehole. And then, with determination, I pushed into him. Slowly, at first, and then with more force as the physical connection became established. He held onto the side of the table for dear life with both his hands, as I began to thrust in and out...but he still worked to maintain the contact of his eyes with mine. As I did with his. And as he could feel matters working towards a conclusion, he risked letting go of the table with one hand, with which he then reached down and grasped his cock, in order to navigate himself to his own climax.

He wanked himself furiously, as I fucked into him with an uncontrolled intensity that took me right to the edge. And then beyond it. As he cried out, and shot volley after volley of cum over his own extended torso, clamping down on my cock with the muscles of his arse as he did so. His first cry seemed like one almost of anguish, and the ones that followed were of deep, deep satisfaction.

We'd got there.

To be continued...