Author: Aardvark
Email: losingthewill2live@gmail.com
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 15
`Return of the Prodigal...(1)'
The telephone rang. From the alarm clock beside my bed I could see that it was gone two-thirty. In the morning.
Again.
It was way too much - the fourth time this had happened within the past week. Fortunately, I have the ring tone in the bedroom set to a melodious, if tinny, rendition of something vaguely baroque...which makes being dragged from sleep by its ringing a gradual process, and not quite as shrill and brutal as it might be otherwise.
But, even so.
The first time, I'd thought it was a wrong number. Although, the fact that it was also a `number withheld' made me wonder, slightly. And then, two nights later, the same thing. And, this time, I didn't end the call, but sat up in bed, listening to the silence on the other end of the line, with the uncomfortable sensation that somebody else was there, also listening to my silence at the same time. Part of me wondered if this was what a `heavy breathing' call was like, but the experience was so removed from any sense of the erotic that it seemed pretty unlikely. Three nights later, the ringing stopped, just as I reached to answer it. And now, again the following night, here we were again.
I'd had enough. I don't know what it was that prompted my reaction, or if there was any logical basis to it at all. Certainly, it didn't reflect any particular thought process on my part, or any conscious conclusion that I might have come to. But, after the silence on the line had extended this time for ten seconds or so, in irritation, and without thinking, I snapped into the handset: "Fuck off, Leo!"
At the
other end, there was a small noise of some kind – I don't really know what - and
the line went dead. It was impossible to know whether my instinctive response
had been correct, or not. And, the following morning, I reset the system so
that after
I wasn't woken any more by calls in the middle of the night.
*
Which wasn't to say that they ceased completely, as I could tell afterwards from the call-history on my answering machine, sometimes with a blank message, merely wasting space on the tape, and more often than not by the call being shut off as soon as the machine had cut in.
And then, there was the occasion when I came home, late one evening, having been out for dinner, and somebody had been in the house in my absence. Or, at least, I thought they had. Well – I sensed they had. Nothing had been taken; nothing had even been moved, that I could see...but somehow, I couldn't shake the idea that somebody had been present while I'd been absent. The doors were all locked, as I'd left them, but I was fairly certain - although not a hundred per-cent so - that I'd switched off the lamp in the dressing room, which I'd found switched on, on my return. Maybe it was a lingering scent, or some small thing which had been moved from its usual position, I don't know...but, whatever it was, I couldn't shake the idea that the atoms in the place had been disturbed by somebody else's presence while I hadn't been there.
Or, of course, it could have been merely that I was imagining it. Or, that I was losing my marbles.
*
I generally sleep with the radio on. The World Service. Turned low, so that it's little more than a low murmur in the background. I can't remember when or why I first started to do it, but it's been that way for years; I suppose, if I wake in the night, it's something there to wake to. Possibly annoying for the other person, if I'm not sleeping alone – but I always have earplugs available for them, if necessary. The only issue is that, with internet radio, if the connection drops, for some reason – and, this being Italy, it can, and often does – then I find myself being woken by the sudden silence.
As I was, on this occasion. The silence woke me, and as it continued, I found myself emerging further and further into wakefulness.
Resigned, I extricated myself from under the duvet, and padded off to the office, to re-set the connection. I was dressed in my usual winter sleepwear: briefs (always white), and a white t-shirt. The house is well-heated, and I've never found the need for anything warmer.
I switched on the desk lamp, and sat and fiddled with the relevant settings on the computer.
And then, from downstairs, a noise. A chair. I thought, being shoved. Slightly. In the kitchen. The sort of noise that would happen if somebody, walking carefully, in the dark, misjudged their clearance, and knocked into the chair. And then stopped, dead. To see if they've been noticed.
I switched off the lamp, and sat there, the office illuminated only by the glow from the computer screen, and I waited, and listened.
A slight thump, which I knew from long experience meant that somebody had caught the edge of the door at the foot of the stairs as they reached for the first step. Whoever it was, seemed to know precisely where they were going. And, surprisingly for a burglar, they hadn't bothered with any of the silver which is arranged on the shelves in the scullery, or the georgian glasses and armorial porcelain in the display cabinets in the dining room. I strained to hear, and quite unmistakably I could make out the quiet tread of rubber-soled shoes as they climbed the stairs. Cautiously.
If they turned right at the top of the stairs, then they would find me, sitting there in the half darkness. But instead, and with no hesitation, whoever it was turned left and went instead into the Salone. Silently, I rose and moved across the office, to the doorway. From there, I had a clear view across the small landing, and through the doorway into the Salone; and against the light which filtered through from the dressing room door, I could see him perfectly, from behind, in silhouette. Perfectly recognisable
Leo.
All along, somewhere inside, I'd known it would be Leo.
As he dithered, unclear whether to go forward, I moved quietly until I was just inside the Salone doorway, and then I reached for the switch, and the room was unexpectedly flooded with light.
"What are you doing here?" I'd mastered any surprise at his sudden presence, and my voice was merely controlled, and cold. He spun round. A look of shock, and maybe also of fear, on his face. He was wearing a hoodie - drab olive in colour, and the hood not pulled up - along with tight jeans, and sneakers. From beneath the bottom of his hoodie, the tail of his shirt hung free, over the waistband of his jeans. I recognized it. A shirt of mine. And in fact, as I now realized, it was the shirt I'd removed when I was changing to go out to dinner that time when I'd thought somebody had been in the house...my instinct had been right all along, even if my precise memory had been shit, and what I'd subconsciously recognized on my return had been the absence of the shirt from amongst the clothes I'd left lying in the bedroom.
"Is that my shirt?" He'd said nothing, and a note of real anger entered my voice. "Is that my fucking shirt? Take it off, you thieving little shit!" He was visibly trembling, but still he said nothing. "I said: take...off...my...fucking...shirt!" I was practically shouting at him now. And as he continued to stand in front of me, motionless and silent, I stepped forward, and in one move I took hold of the tag of the zipper on the front of his hoodie, and it came undone all the way down. Without a pause, I grasped the collar of the shirt - a lumberjack style, with a check in blue and green - and with some force I pulled angrily at it with both hands. It gave under the force, and came open, all the way, as buttons popped and fell, leaving the shirt hanging open. Leo seemed incapable of reacting, and his passive acceptance of what I'd done only incensed me further. Beneath the shirt, he wore a white t-shirt, and without pausing to consider what I was doing, I grabbed it by the neck, and tore at it. With a ripping sensation, it gave somewhere around the back of the neck, and seemed to hang loosely from his right shoulder...until I gripped it again in both hands and savagely pulled at it, so that it tore apart right down the front, and it hung in tatters, showing his chest and exposed stomach beneath. I could feel a confused welter of emotions rising within me, and it seemed that it was only through physical action – violent physical action – that I could give them any voice.
His breathing was ragged and audible, and his chest heaved, as he stood there, it seemed as though waiting for me to hit him across his face. And the impulse to do so, just to elicit some kind of reaction from him, was strong – but I withstood it.
Instead, I grabbed at his belt, and in a second had it undone; deftly, I pulled it from the loops in his jeans. Without stopping, I grabbed at the button on the waistband of his jeans, and the force with which I pulled at it meant that the buttons of his flies all came open, at the same time, and under the strength with which I yanked on the open waistband I could feel even some of the stitching give way at the base of his opened fly.
I spun him around, roughly pulling his jeans to his knees, and in the same move I pushed him down and against the arm of the sofa, so that he was effectively bent over it. To steady himself, with his left hand, he grasped at the back of the sofa, and his right clutched at one of the sofa cushions. And still, not a word from him.
Under his jeans, he'd been wearing his expensive white briefs, and they now presented to me, stretched tight over the vulnerability of his lean and muscular buttocks, the swelling just visible between his legs where his balls rounded out the bottom of the pouch of his underpants. I shoved all of his upper clothing up towards his shoulders, and the crack as I brought the belt, doubled in my hand, down upon his arse made him yelp with both pain and surprise. Although, when I did it again, he made no further sound.
I dropped the belt, and instead rained blows with my open hand down upon his buttocks. I needed that degree of direct physical contact. But, even so, I was conscious of a sense that somehow I wasn't reaching him. In frustration, I grabbed at the right leg of his briefs, and although I tore at it, pulling it up and towards me, away from his body, the leg elastic didn't give way. So, instead, I grasped a handful of the fine cotton that covered his hip, and once again, I yanked – and this time, the seam ripped, and the seat of his briefs tore open under my grip. The waistband stayed in place, but beneath the tatters of his underwear, his arse cheeks were suddenly exposed, marked from my beating an angry red against the white of his speedo-tan-lined buttocks. One further yank, and the seat of his briefs was entirely open, leaving the elastic at the waistband and at the legs framing his arse cheeks and the crevice between them, which I knew so well. Leo's feet were firmly on the floor, as his hands gripped the sofa in order to keep himself upright against my onslaught, and like that his arse was presented, rounded and vulnerable, and available.
And I fucked him.
I gave it no thought, I just reacted to the circumstances, and to the sudden hardness of my cock...and perhaps also to my need to reach him. Which I'd always previously done most effectively, I suppose, in the course of fucking him. Words were all very well - and with Leo they'd always been a joy to use - but if I'd really wanted to communicate something fundamental, then it was best achieved by my cock delivering the message deep inside him, as he'd shuddered to his own orgasm in receptive response.
I pulled down the front of my briefs, and with only the most perfunctory swipe of saliva over my cockhead, and then again at his arse, I thrust brutally into him. On reflection, I don't think I wanted to cause him pain, but I did want to communicate to him the level of hurt that he'd caused me – although at the time my thoughts were nowhere near so clearly organized. He shouted out, at the first thrust, but after that, he restrained himself to a series of grunts and instinctive yelps of complaint at the fierceness with which I was banging into him. Well, as far as I could tell, anyway, as my fucking was accompanied by a series of verbal assaults on him in time with my cock penetrating his arse: "You bastard!"... "You little shit!"..."You fucking thief!" ..."You lousy little cunt!" As my fucking built in intensity, though, I could feel a change, and by the time I climaxed inside him, the verbal insults had given way instead to just one word, which I uttered hoarsely in time with each of my final thrusts, as my cum flooded his insides: "Why?"..."Why?"..."Why?"
And as I lowered myself, spent, down on top of him, it would have been difficult to tell whether I was breathing hard from my exertions, or whether I was just sobbing.
*
All that came from Leo was a low, keening sound, like that of a wounded animal. On and on and on.
I was horrified. Appalled. The sound indicated a level of distress that few words could articulate.
From behind, I wrapped my arms around him, and slowly, like that, I raised him to a standing position. My cock slipped out of him, and instinctively, I reached down to tug my underwear back up and into place.
I turned him in my arms, but still held him. His face was a mess: tears coursing down his cheeks left a dirty trail in their wake, and snot ran unchecked from his left nostril. He was completely incapable of speech. The expression on his face was one of utter misery. His World had ended.
"Oh, God, Leo! I'm so sorry. I am so, so sorry. Please forgive me...I ..." But what was it that I was trying to say? I didn't know what I was doing? I didn't mean to hurt you? I can't bear to see you in such pain?
I pulled him forwards, against me, and he allowed himself to be enfolded in my arms, his face against my neck. His little moans finally gave way to an unbroken series of sobs, as I held him, and tried in vain to soothe his distress.
"Shhh...carissimo...shhh...Leo. I'm sorry. Please...shhh...please...it's ok...please..."
Please...forgive me.
Please...understand.
Please...let me help you.
Please.
To be continued...