Lost Ball 13

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 13

`Leo – Vignettes...(4)'

It was the afternoon of the day before Leo was due to leave on holiday, and we were neither of us in the best frame of mind.The weather was in tune with my mood, and although it was hot, the sun had disappeared behind cloud-cover; no storm threatened, but the day felt sombre and flat and uncomfortable.Already, since the evening of our `date', the week had been chaotic. Both of his parents, unusually, had been at home all day during that period, and Leo's movements had immediately been under much greater scrutiny than before, with sudden and unexpected demands on his time throwing to the four-winds any prior arrangements he'd made with me. Only the day before, he'd been told he had to go with his father to help carry some unwieldy items that were needed from the local OBI, which had put paid to his previous plan for us to spend the afternoon together, and today, he'd arrived having had a row with both his parents, when he'd been told he had to stay at home and do his packing for the holiday, and not to go off and `play'. At least the row had given him an excuse to storm out, and make his way over – a device I dimly remembered from my own teen years, but one which only ever has short-term benefit, and leaves the shit to be faced when you know you eventually have to go home again. He was pensive, partly on account of the row – but, as he admitted, also because in the course of it his father had aired the view that Leo's recent strange behaviour must mean that he had a girlfriend...and Leo, seeing the possible advantage to be had from the misconception, hadn't denied it. Which made him feel like crap. Contained within it was the whole, lumpy uncomfortable truth that would have to be addressed at some point: that he didn't have, and was pretty unlikely ever to have, a girlfriend ...and he had no sense at all of how that was going to play out, as... when... if... it, and the reason underlying it, became a topic of conversation between him and the two people to whom he'd always been closest in the World.

And then, there was the fact of him being separated from me for the next three weeks. "It's half of the entire time since ...well, since ...I first ...came here," he complained. Generally, he avoided words, or statements, that might sound to his ears uncomfortably mushy; he hadn't yet developed the confidence to speak easily about his feelings, or at least his feelings concerning what there was between us. As a result, his references were often framed as euphemisms. `Since I first came here' was Leo-speak for `since I first met you', and `since we first kissed', and `since you first held me', and `since you first got into my pants'. Luckily, I had no such problem, and while I avoided loading him with over-colourful endearments, I was quite direct in communicating to him, in words and actions, how it was I felt – and, from my easy confidence with the subject, I think he was growing into a surer acceptance for himself of what the situation comprised.

"It's only three weeks," I told him. While at the same time thinking to myself: `three, whole, fucking weeks! Shit!' In the period since Leo had first launched himself into my life, we had spent at least some time together on almost every day – occasionally, meeting on a particular day had not been possible, but in practice he'd been present, in person or in spirit, throughout the entire time. My life had re-defined itself into `before Leo', and `since Leo'. And `before Leo' now seemed rather strange and distant, and it was odd to realise quite how recently that had ceased to be my daily reality. Three weeks without him was a dull and unwelcome prospect.

"Here," I said, sensing that the moment was appropriate. "This is for you." We were in the kitchen, me leaning back against the counter-top, with my arms clasped loosely around Leo's waist, comforting him – I hoped - by holding him, as he unburdened himself of his woes. I'd intended to give him his present as he was leaving, but it seemed that it might help his mood if I gave it to him now. I'd wanted to get something for him as a tangible sign of how I felt, but not something that might be difficult for him by being too obviously loaded with meaning, or that would be inappropriate for his parents to see amongst his possessions. Not easy. And then, I'd thought of his string and bead bracelet; I doubted his parents would notice if the one he'd been wearing for the past few weeks suddenly morphed into a newer version...and, even if they did, it would be simple for Leo just to tell them that he'd bought himself a new one. And whilst the newer one was distinctly superior to the mark-one version, in that, rather than cheap beads on woven string, it was comprised of small shells interspersed with some pieces of polished turquoise, plaited onto a dark leather cord, it was credible that they wouldn't notice the substitution. Wrapped in tissue paper, and inside a small box, it was sitting within reach on the counter-top, and I took it, and handed it to him.

He was delighted. More than delighted. At once, he took off his bead bracelet, and held out his wrist to me, along with the new bracelet, for me to fasten it onto him. Which, with some difficulty, I did – in the end, I decided that the cord should just be knotted, and he would need to sort out later whether or not he should tidy up the ends with the use of some scissors. He held up his wrist, for us both to admire, and his eyes, as he thanked me, were suspiciously bright. Although, at the same time, he bit his lower lip, concerned.

"I didn't bring you anything," he said.

"Oh, yes, you did," I assured him, and I slid my hands from his waist, up his back to his shoulder blades, pulling him to me, close enough that I could kiss just the tip of his nose. My hands then did the reverse journey, and this time I didn't stop at his waist, but I pushed my hands easily beneath the elastic waist of his blue basketball shorts, and inside his briefs, and I clasped his buttocks inside his underwear, as he rested against me, between my legs. We smiled at each other, and the location of my hands was more a demonstration of the relaxed intimacy that had established itself between us than any message of sexual intent.

He picked up his discarded bead bracelet. "Would you like...?" he was uncertain that his second-hand goods would be an appropriate gesture – clearly forgetting the pleasure I'd taken in appropriating various pairs of his second-hand, and recently discarded briefs – and I smiled in pleased acceptance of his proffered gift.

"Very much," I said. I took my hands from his underwear, and now it was my turn to hold out my wrist for him to fasten his bracelet onto me. Which was more complicated than he'd expected, as my wrist is larger than his, and he had to loosen the strings, and generally re-space the beading before it could be got to fit. But, eventually – by dint of Leo's determination to make it happen - it did. I think I was probably even more delighted than he had been. "Now, I'll have a bit of you with me, all the time," I said, and he beamed. I leant in to give him another kiss, of thanks, but this time directly on his mouth. After a second or so, the tip of his tongue pushed into my mouth, and then he drew my tongue back with his into his mouth. Without breaking the kiss, I slid my right hand down and under the front of his shorts, again pushing right down and into his underwear, but this time so that I could cup his genitals. As I'd suspected, there was clear sign of life, down there, and as I squeezed him, his cock came to full mast in an instant, while his tongue continued with its game against mine.

Without removing my hand from his shorts, I withdrew from the kiss just enough to be able to murmur into his ear "It's time for siesta, I think". And in response to his grunt of agreement, I led him, my hand still holding his cock, hard inside his underpants, to bed.

One of the things I liked most about the developing nature of our relationship was the fact that we could now be naked together, and touching, and talking, and it didn't necessarily mean that we were about to descend into a maelstrom of raw sex. Not that, more often than not, it didn't do just that... because that was exactly what we both wanted to happen – but it wasn't always the case...or not immediately, at any rate. Initially, Leo's system instinctively had responded to my touch almost anywhere on his body with a message to his brain that said we were now heading for orgasm by the quickest and most direct route. And that was that. He'd learned, over our time together, though, that sensuality could exist independently of sperm. And the amount of time we could now spend exploring each other's minds at the same time as we explored each other's bodies had become a significant pleasure.

Of course, there were certain moves that came with a no-going-back policy. If I touched – or licked - his nipples, for example, that was a sure indication that sex was imminent...and the same was true if I started to play with his arse – those were both parts of his body that remained hot-wired exclusively to physicality, and in starting on either of them it was all-but certain that Leo would, sooner rather than later, be succumbing to the ecstatic demands of his own orgasm. But there were other parts of his body which for me were above all sensual, rather than sexual, and I delighted in touching and caressing them, when we lay together, often post-sex, and we indulged in a stream of words and thoughts and sharing: I loved being able to rest my hands on the inside of his thighs, just below his balls, for instance, or to stroke his taint, and that area at the top of the back of his thighs, just below the curve of his buttocks. Best of all though, probably, was when I could fondle his balls and his cock, and even play with his foreskin, and it would be so overtly non-sexual that he could manage not to get hard while I was doing it; which, admittedly, wasn't often...but when it did happen, it generated in me a sense of intense closeness with him that I'm not sure I've ever felt otherwise.

That afternoon, in bed, Leo was a mass of confusion.

He wanted to fuck; he wanted to talk; he wanted to make love...he wanted intimacy, and he wanted hard sex...but he couldn't seem to arrange what he wanted in any sensible order. And as a result, he was all over the place. I could feel his earlier sense of upset still bubbling away beneath the surface, and it combined now with a disorderly need to make as much as he could of this, our last meeting for some time to come. And, all things considered, it was not a good combination – too much seemed to be riding in his mind on this afternoon being memorable and perfect, and in consequence he was too stressed merely to allow the occasion to unfold at its own pace. His mind was racing too much to allow him just to lose himself in sex – although he tried to go that route, more than once...only to abandon the attempt in frustration, when he realised that it wasn't taking him where he wanted to go; it felt too contrived; he was trying too hard.

I could sense his growing disappointment...and it didn't help that he had one eye on the clock the whole time, knowing that he couldn't leave it too long before going back home to face parental wrath. It seemed appropriate to try and calm him down. So...we talked. I asked him about the things he'd be doing while he was away, and he relaxed noticeably and even cheered up slightly as he described what a fantastic time he usually had when they were in Sardinia: his cousin Marco, ten years older than Leo – and somebody I could see he'd hero-worshipped his entire life – would be there for part of the time, and had promised to teach him to wind-surf; other friends that he saw there every year would be back again, as usual; days at the beach...beside the pool...friends and relatives dropping by or coming to stay...parties and picnics and games and barbecues lasting into the night. It all sounded idyllic. "You'll have a great time," I reassured him. He was lying in my arms, stretched out on the bed, the conversation murmured and easy. The occasional kiss, and caress, along the way...and his stress level visibly diminished.

"Yes. I guess." He turned and kissed me, and frowned. "But, you won't be there."

"That might be a little difficult." He conceded the point.

And then, we had `the conversation'...the one about safe-sex. Carefully, I suggested that he might find himself, while he was away, in situations where sex was on offer – sun and sea and sand...and swimwear... can do that, I told him...particularly when a hormonally-over-active fifteen year old is involved, and one whose cock has only recently discovered the pleasures of coming out to play, and is disinclined to be put back again into the toybox. He started to protest that he wouldn't dream of doing any such thing, and I silenced him.

"This," I hefted his cock and balls, "is not attached to a vestal virgin. And, I know how much you like sex." The idea that somebody might make a move on him seemed highly likely – God! I thought, anybody at all inclined in that way would be fucking mad not to! And, therefore, it was better that he was properly informed about playing safe. I explained why it had been ok for us not to have done so, given that I had recently tested negative, and he had never been exposed. But, if he was going to play away, then he needed to know how to do so responsibly. He listened, and confirmed that he'd understood.

"But, I still won't, anyway," he said. And I understood his real meaning, which was that I shouldn't feel that I could take my pleasures elsewhere, in his absence. If he stated that he wouldn't, then that ought to call-forth a similar undertaking on my part.

"Are you being possessive?" I teased him, and ran my finger down the cleft in his chin, and then tweaked the chin itself. He pondered this.

"No," he said. "I don't think so. I just think that if you're having sex with somebody else, then it's a terrible waste if that person isn't me."

"That's a fine argument," I laughed. "Is it next year that you get round to studying sophistry, at school?"

"Hm." He snuggled his face against my armpit, the subject clearly shelved for now, and we lay there, with any further words for the time being completely unnecessary.

He drowsed, and then he slept. It seemed a good idea, as the most likely way for him properly to re-establish his equilibrium. I knew that he would argue that to spend our last afternoon together asleep was a completely wasted opportunity. But I disagreed. Having extricated myself from under him, I sat there, arms around my knees, and contemplated the sleeping form beside me. He was beautiful. It was as simple as that. Lying there, on his back, slightly turned towards me, innocently naked as the day he was born – all apart from the leather wristlet which he was wearing with such pride – and his chest rising and falling evenly with his breathing. I felt myself swell with my feelings for him, and for an instant I felt as childishly resentful as he had been about the fact that I wouldn't see him again for all those coming weeks.

Partly to avoid waking him – which would have been inevitable, had I sat there contemplating him for any longer - and partly because I was actually thirsty and needed to get a drink, I eased myself off the bed, and quietly left the room, not wanting to disturb him. And it was for the same reason that, on my way back from the kitchen, glass of water in hand, I went into the office, ostensibly to check my email, rather than head straight back to bed and the sleeping Leo.

And, twenty minutes later, I was still there. Reading email.

From the corner of my eye, I registered Leo's arrival in the office doorway. Although he might have been asleep for only half an hour – perhaps less – he'd obviously slept deeply, and seemed not yet entirely awake. His hair was bed-messy, and with one hand he cupped his genitals in that time-honoured fashion of naked men and boys the world over.

I watched as he made his way across the room and around the side of the desk towards me, where I sat, equally naked. Suddenly, I became conscious of the leather of my chair under the bare backs of my thighs and my arse, and my cock thickened slightly, registering Leo's approach as he came towards me. Not a word was said by either of us. As he stood next to my chair, I pushed it back from the desk, enough to allow him to climb astride me. Which he did; and then he lowered himself onto my lap, and rested his hands on my shoulders. His feet were firmly on the floor, which allowed him the freedom to move around on top of me however he wished. My hands rested on the top of his thighs, and I tilted my head back in order to look up and meet his silent gaze. He appeared to have got his thoughts in order, at last, and his demeanour was now one of uncomplicated and serious determination. He smelt of recent sleep, and of Leo. His chest was level with my face, and seated as he was, his groin was only slightly lower than my shoulders. I dipped my head, and took the velvety thickness of his half-hard penis in my hand, and I kissed it, gently...the first time, on the end of his foreskin, and then a second time. And then, I uncovered him, and I kissed the tip of his exposed cockhead. By which time, he was entirely hard, and his rigid cock pulsed in my hand.

I looked back up at him, and he leant down, and kissed my face: the bridge of my nose, and then the tip, and then he ran the tip of his tongue over my upper lip, and then my lower. My lips parted, and he began to nibble at my upper lip with a series of tiny bites, which gave way to the tip of his tongue, flickering against my mouth, and then working its way inside. All the while, he was lightly moving his groin against me, back and forth, and stimulating my cock, which was trapped beneath his balls, to a very full erection.

He sat back up, leaving me breathing hard from his kiss. He was in full control of the situation, and his expression as he looked down at me was grave.

Only at that point did I realise that he hadn't arrived empty-handed, and that clutched in his left hand the whole time had been the bottles of lube and poppers which he'd brought with him from the bedroom. Now, he carefully put them down, within easy reach, on the desk.

He raised himself up sufficiently that he could reach down and manoeuvre my cock beneath his balls and back between his legs, so that it rested ramrod straight in the crack between his arse cheeks. He lowered and raised himself a few times, so that my cock rubbed between his arse cheeks, and I was conscious of my own breathing quickening inconsequence.

His eyes left mine only in order for him to open the lube bottle and to coat his fingers, but by the time he reached back and round behind himself, they were once again latched onto mine, in order to read my reactions. His fingers found my cock, and I gasped, and even jumped slightly, as he began to smear lube over my glans, knowing exactly how to provoke the most extreme sensations in the process. He'd learned well, during all those times when I'd done exactly that to him. As he rubbed his palm over my cockhead, I whimpered and rested my face against the warm skin of his muscled pec. My mouth found his nipple, and I began to suckle him as his hand continued its work. I knew better than to pull him against me; he was in control, and the most I could allow myself to do was to grip his thighs tightly with both my hands, as I pushed my cock up against his hand in a series of small and rapid thrusts.

He took some more lube on his hand, and this time he raised himself up, once more, but high enough that I knew he was reaching between his cheeks and getting his arse ready. Not for me... but for how he intended to use me. And after he was satisfied that he was properly lubed, he took the shaft of my cock, once more, and moved himself up and back, until my cock was positioned precisely where he needed it to be, exactly at the entrance to his arsehole.

I watched as the poppers were uncapped, and obediently I breathed in as he held them to my nose. And then, to his. The hit for both of us was almost simultaneous, and just as I felt myself harden and twitch against him, and instinctively pushed up against his arse, he groaned, and pushed himself down onto me. Hard. I grasped his hips, and attempted to mirror his movements, as he rode me. Taking his own weight on the balls of his feet, he worked his arse up and down my shaft, fucking himself on me, and supporting himself with both hands on my shoulders as he did so. I think I was groaning in time with my thrusts up and into him, while Leo was emitting a rather structured series of whimpers and moans that was attuned entirely to what my cock was doing to his prostate. I reached for the poppers, and this time it was my turn to hold the bottle to his nose, for the home straight of his ride. He leaned back, and as the new hit of poppers got to him, he reached down to start wanking himself as his motions on top of me speeded up. As much as I could, I continued to fuck him, but his position on top of me limited how much I could do, and it was up to him to bring himself to climax. As I judged he was about to do so, and he reached the point of no-return, I leaned in and I took his left nipple into my mouth...and as I sensed his orgasm begin to rise within him, I bit. And he cried out, as I felt him jerk, and a wave of his cum washed over my chest and then up against the side of my neck, and then he wrapped his arms around my neck and collapsed against me. Breathless, and panting.

"I love you," he declared, into the side of my neck. Clearly, a major statement.

I don't do the `L' word. I resist it, and always have done. Whatever emotional riptide might be coursing over me at the time, the `L' word is to be avoided, at all costs. Fraught with problems and complexities which bring nothing but trouble.

"I love you, too." I replied, my nose and mouth pressed into his hair, above his left ear. I inhaled his scent, and my arms tightened around him, in response to the way his were clasped around my neck, as though holding on for dear life. "I love you, too."

to be continued...