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.

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 hope the following is up to expectations.

 

Lost Ball: Part 3

`Tomorrow...'

 

 

`Tomorrow...' We'd said.

 

And this was... `Tomorrow'.

 

Except, that of course the Idiot Child hadn't specified any particular time as he'd skipped off. He'd merely dropped the appointment loosely into his schedule for the future and presumably assumed that that would be enough of a basis to work on. Which it probably is, if you're fifteen, and your life - all of it that isn't structured and organised for you by adults, that is - mostly flows along, free-form, with things either slotting into place and stuff happening, or not. In which case, if it doesn't...well, then...whatever.

He hadn't been an Idiot Child the night before, of course, when I'd sprawled in my bed and re-played in detail my memories of the afternoon, dwelling to intense effect on those images in my mind of the things which had given him and me particular pleasure at the time; or again, this morning, when I'd awoken to the realisation that there was still more `dwelling' to be done, and in fact the Boy had managed to give me a pretty thorough work-out even before I'd left my bed ... and this was without him even being present.

But, he was an Idiot Child now, as I realised that I had no idea when and therefore, implicitly, if I would be seeing him. Might be seeing him. Today...or, whenever.

Sighing, I decided that I would just have to stick close to home for the entire day, in order not to miss him. I had to assume that he would make his way back to the house, as and when he could; I certainly wasn't going to leave the garden gate unbolted for him for the whole day, or to hang around the well-house, like some love-sick schoolgirl. He'd managed to climb the wall from the schoolyard once before; he could manage it again. If he was going to be so disorganised in making appointments, then he'd have to deal with the consequences.

For some of the morning, I carried on with the work in the garden that I'd left unfinished from the day before sorting out the debris from the trees behind the church. I half-thought there might be a replay of yesterday's football game over in the schoolyard, but instead, there seemed to be just a group of girls, seated under the large plane tree, and all I could make out from the distance was the sounds of their voices and occasional laughter. It was too hot anyway, now, for games of football at this time of day...and really, it was too hot to be working out in the garden. I decided I'd have to start my summer schedule the next day of getting up very early to work outdoors, and of retreating indoors later to siesta, and to sleep through the heat of the afternoon. None of the boys seemed to be part of the group today, and I wondered if they'd maybe cycled off en masse to the beach...my mind instantly populated with the idea of lithe, tanned bodies, playing on the sand, and of beach shorts, and even possibly of speedos (a guy can dream!). Slightly annoyed with myself at being so readily distracted, I went back indoors, to check my email inbox, and to see if I could manage to have some kind of a productive day, even despite the fact that my mind was unproductively being pulled elsewhere.

As chance would have it, there was an email waiting for me, from the office in London. The issue was unexpectedly chewy, and needed urgent attention; somebody had screwed up on a deadline - and as a result, something needed to be drafted to be filed before the end of the day. I was completely caught up for the next couple of hours or so, as I worked on it, and by the time it was done, it was the middle of the afternoon. The French windows out onto the balcony were wide open the entire time, and if the Boy were to arrive unannounced on the terrace below, while I was still working, then there was no way I wouldn't hear him.

Yes, I know...he was still `the Boy'. In all of what had happened, the afternoon before, we'd never actually got to names. Maybe that was part of what it had been about, though - to keep the experience not entirely grounded, to maintain some level of `other-ness', for him. Names might have risked reducing it to the mundane. To me, he was still `the Boy'...and idly I wondered what word he had in turn for me. Perhaps he didn't have a word, though? Perhaps he just had an `idea' that didn't actually resolve itself into a word and, perhaps, it was an idea that made his cock thicken in response every time it came to his mind? Well...with any luck it did.

Timing was tight, and as I finished off the draft, I suddenly realised that the copy of the document I needed to attach with it I had only in hard copy, and not as an electronic file. Bugger! I checked the time. If I was quick, I could get the thing scanned at the copy-shop in Via San Lorenzo, and need only be away from the house for ten minutes or so; the copy-shop kept odd hours, and if I went immediately, I could probably still catch them. Grabbing the document I needed to have scanned, I quickly ran round and closed all of the open doors and windows, to stop any of the local cats intruding while I was out. I didn't actually lock the door, so that, just in case he arrived in my absence, he should understand that I'd be back imminently. I should have written a note and left it for him. I didn't.

Yes, you're right - he wasn't the only fucking idiot in play, that day!

And of course, inevitably, I got back, twenty minutes later, to find a scrap of paper on the table on the terrace, weighted down with one of my gardening shoes, that I generally left beside the kitchen door. It was a till receipt, screwed up from having been inside somebody's pocket, and carefully printed on it, in block capitals, apparently in pencil, was the brief message: `SORRY. YOU WEREN'T HERE'. And that was it.

Not half as fucking sorry as I was!

Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit.

 

No signature. So I still didn't know his name. And no way to contact him, either.

 

Quickly, I went across the garden, to the corner of the church, to see if maybe he was still in sight. But, no such luck.

 

Cursing, I made my way back to the house, and decided that, summer-heat or no, the only thing to do was to take out my frustration in hard labour, and I spent the remainder of the day at the top of a ladder, hacking frenetically at tree branches.

 

*

 

My bad mood lasted for several hours or more - although by the time I'd polished off a couple of glasses of grappa after my solitary supper, I'd just about stopped kicking the furniture, and myself, for having been so stupid. I'd more or less reduced my condition to one of resigned acceptance. He'd come; I'd missed him. Would he try again? I had no idea. Had he had to screw up his courage to come, this time, and he wouldn't have the strength of will to try a second time? Could he come again? Maybe he'd only been visiting and didn't live locally? Maybe he was about to be sent off to summer camp, for the rest of the school break? Or to be sent around the World with a travelling Circus, for ever? I considered and rejected the idea of a third grappa.

On the table in front of me was the scrap of paper on which he'd left his message. Flattened out, and read and re-read over and over again. It was dated from three days previously, and was for a packet of potato chips, from the small supermarket in Via San Francesco; with the idea that it had been in his pocket, and nestled for all that time against his crutch, separated from that part of him only by his pocket lining and his underwear, I pressed it to my nose...but got nothing back from it. Lucky piece of paper! Definitely, no third grappa for me! Growling with impatience at myself, I consigned the scrap of paper to the bin, and went off to bed. To read.

 

*

 

The next day? Nothing. No sign of him.

As I'd decided I would, I began my summer regime, and by the time I went off for siesta that afternoon, I'd pretty much resigned myself to the fact that I was unlikely to see him again. It had been fun. Who am I kidding? It had been beyond excellent. But, unless I accepted that it was unlikely to be repeated, I risked polluting the quality of the memory by negative associations.

And the day afterwards, again nothing. Admittedly, I was out and about for much of it, on errands, but in the absence of any further scraps of paper, I could reasonably assume that he hadn't passed by in my absence. Briefly, I considered leaving a note for him, out on the table, where he would find it, if I wasn't there, maybe asking him to give a definite time when he could be there...and leave details of when I wouldn't be able to be there...and...and...and. That idea got binned, too. This smacked of becoming besotted. And I don't do `besotted'. What I do, is `horny', and that is much, much easier to deal with.

 

So, by the time it got to the day after, it's fair to say that I'd moved on. A heavy-duty session early in the morning clearing out the rhyll which goes round two sides of the North Lawn had left me pleasantly tired by the time the day was sufficiently advanced to be thinking about siesta. Early afternoon: I closed the shutters and switched on the a/c in my bedroom, and while I gave it time to cool the room down to an agreeable level, I sat on the terrace, drink in hand, as I worked through as many of the clues as I could manage in yesterday's crossword. I've never really got to grips with cryptic crosswords - although it frustrates me that I haven't and I'm generally cheered when I can work out that the clue actually refers to an anagram, even before I've started to work on what the anagram itself might be. Thirteen letters. An anagram of `nurses' and `fetters'. I did that thing you do, where you write down all the letters, but jumbled up, and then, like in `Hangman' you draw the relevant number of blanks, in a row, and then try to work out what the hell it might be. Deeply engrossed in moving the letters around in my brain, and trying on and discarding various possible options, I was looking out across the citrus lawn, but not focusing.

 

And, suddenly, there he was.

 

Standing just to the right of the mandarin tree. Dressed in a pale blue singlet, and the same white shorts he'd worn the first time I'd seen him, and the same white sneakers.

 

Sod `nurses' and `fetters'! I tossed the newspaper aside, and stood up. I could feel the broad grin on my face, as I acknowledged his presence with a wave, and beckoned to him to come closer. Which he did. Although, in a way which suggested that perhaps he hadn't been certain he'd be welcome, but was relieved all the same that he was.

He stepped up from the lawn onto the terrace, and as we stood facing each other, I reached out and with both hands grasped his shoulders, and held him, at arms length, but not at arms length. If you know what I mean. I could feel I was still grinning foolishly, and he grinned back, visibly gaining confidence. White piping edged the shoulder straps of his singlet, and against the blue and the white his tan looked glorious. For something to do, I picked up my glass, drank from it, and then offered it to him. He took it.

"Lemonade?" he asked, although he could see from the colour that it wasn't.

"Kir," I replied, and could see from his expression that he had no idea what that was. "Try it".

He did. And, with a serious expression, gave it some thought. "It's nice," he said, after a pause. "It's alcohol?" And when I confirmed that it was, he said, with a teasing smile "I thought so. Are you perhaps an alcoholic?"

Little bastard was flirting with me. And I loved it.

"No," I said, carefully. "I just enjoy pleasurable things."

He laughed, and handed me back the glass, which I put down on the table. I reached up and rested the palm of my hand against his cheek. We continued to smile at each other. No words.

And then, I reached down and tweaked his nipple through the loose folds of his singlet.

"I was about to have a siesta." His face became serious was I sending him away? Until I added: "Would you like to join me?"

His reaction was simple, and straightforward. And exactly as I hoped it would be.

"Yes," he said.

 

*

 

I took him by the hand his left in my right and led him into the house, and across the small sitting room, to the foot of the stairs. Which are narrow, and steep, and he had to follow a step or so behind me, rather than us going up together. He didn't let go of my hand, though, and in fact at the foot of the stairs he adjusted his hold, so that his fingers were now laced through mine, our palms pressed together. Up the stairs and through the salone, and then down a couple of steps into the dressing room. The house is very old and, by most standards, rather eccentric rooms leading off from one another in a way you wouldn't necessarily expect, often with changes of floor level or ceiling height as you go from one room to the next. Across the dressing room, and then through into the bedroom. Leading him by the hand, all the way.

The a/c had done its stuff, and the temperature in the room was deliciously cool, after the syrupy warmth of the air outside; the internal shutters were closed, and, from the bedside lamp which I'd left switched on, a pool of light illuminated the bed and the floor beside it, and extended up the wall, washing dimly over the sloping ceiling and the roof beams above. It felt safe and secure and somehow appropriately secret.

I let the curtain drop back into place in the doorway through from the dressing room, and I turned to face him. With my free hand, I took his other hand, briefly, and then I ran both my hands up his arms to his shoulders, and from there down the sides of his body, until they rested on both sides of his waist. Deftly, I slipped them under the bottom of his singlet, and on each side I hooked a finger under the elastic of the waistband of his silky, white knee-length shorts.

"May I?" I asked, formally, and I smiled politely at him, as though I was asking him to dance, and we were at some kind of ball, dance cards at the ready.

In reply, I got from him only a frown and a gutteral expression of impatience, which made me laugh, and which I guessed translated roughly to mean: `stop arsing around, and take my fucking shorts off, before I have to do it myself!'

So. I did.

Sitting back down onto the chair that was immediately behind me, against the wall, I took his shorts by the legs and unceremoniously pulled them down, to the point where they fell and puddled around his ankles. Then, I hooked my hand behind his knee, first his left, and then his right, and indicated by doing so that he should lift his leg, so I could get his shorts properly off; and as I did so, each time, I slipped off his sneaker as well, and then, with my foot, I pushed his shoes and shorts to one side.

This time, his underpants were baby blue, pretty much to match the colour of his singlet, the bottom of which I lifted, in order to get a proper look. Not quite the same style as before, but very similar...very brief, and of a fabric that was light enough that it tended to emphasise rather than conceal the contours of his cock and balls, beneath. Inevitably, he was hard. His cock was clearly outlined as it snaked to the left. And his balls were snugly tucked up beneath it.

Running my hands round behind him, I clasped his buttocks, firmly, and drew him close enough that I could press my face against his crutch, feeling the hardness of his cock against my cheek, as I slowly rubbed my face over the pouch of his underwear, and lightly kissed the tip of his engorged cock through the fabric. Then I raised my face a little, just enough so that I could kiss him again, on the warm, exposed skin of his tummy.

I looked up, and smiled at him, looking down at me. "You," I said, hugging him to me, "are a true celebration of Life."

He didn't get it. I'd spoken spontaneously, and it was probably a good thing that he didn't understand. It was too heavy a thing to say, certainly for him, and probably, truth be told, for me also. But he looked at me, a puzzled expression on his face, and clearly expected clarification. To get past the moment, I wrapped my arms firmly around the top of his legs, and stood up, carrying him with me. He shouted with laughter, as I started to carry him across the room, and instinctively, his arms closed round my shoulders, and his legs parted and clamped themselves either side of me, for support. It was an arrangement of his limbs that I thought I could get to like.

Carefully, I lowered him down onto the bed, and as soon as he was safely resting against the pillows, I released him from my embrace. Although, I thought we wouldn't stop there, and in one continuous move from setting him down, I then reached for his ankles, and I raised his knees up to meet his chest. The move was blatant, and unambiguous, and the sight of his underpants stretched obscenely tightly between his spread legs, and moulded to the curve of his buttocks, would have probably caused heart failure in anybody of a weaker constitution. The laughter on his face changed from boyish giggles, to something a lot more knowing and a gleam of intent entered his eyes. With no prompting from me, he held himself purposely in that position, his hands behind his knees, as I bent down and very precisely planted a kiss at the top of the underside of each of his thighs, and then another one a little further round, between his legs and just below where the legs of his underwear parted on either side of the tight mound of his package. I love that area on a guy's body boy; youth; man...whichever it's so close to the entirely off-limits parts that nobody else is supposed to touch, that to touch there, delicately, is almost more intimate than just going for it and diving in for a full-on grope of the main event.

Quickly I shucked my shirt and shorts, leaving them on the floor where they fell, and, dressed only in my briefs, I indicated to him that he should move over, to give me enough room to lie beside him. And, once he'd done so, I ran my arm beneath his shoulders, and rolled him back against me, and then pulled him fully on top, my arms around his shoulders and his hands against on my chest. His mouth met mine, as my hands rested, as though meant, on the perfect mounds of his bum. We kissed long and intently, as though reinventing the process. He appeared to be working off three days of thinking about what we'd done when we'd last met, and I was happy to go along with it. Not urgent quite the opposite the kiss was long and deeply intense; I slowly worked the tip of my tongue along both sides of the inside of his mouth, as though I was counting off his teeth individually as I went, and explored every part of his gums and of the roof of his mouth. His breathing was slow and deep, as he worked his tongue against mine, and he held on tight to my shoulders, slowing grinding his crutch against my lower belly the whole time. My hands, by now, were actively massaging his arse cheeks, and I slipped them down and inside his underwear, so I could continue, but on a more personal level. With one of his buttocks in each of my hands, I pulled him harder against me, and let my fingertips slide down into the crevice of his arse, and lightly brushed over his puckered arsehole. And whilst his body responded to the touch, with a harder thrust of his crutch against me, I could tell that intellectually he wasn't yet comfortable with where he thought this was going. He drew himself up and away from me, his knees either side of my waist, and his hands resting on my chest. I withdrew my hands from his underpants, and rested them first on his tanned thighs, as he knelt over me, and then on his hips. I reached up and gently tweaked the tip of his nose, and he returned my smile, but still with an expression that suggested he was trying to process the implications of my fingers on his arsehole both what I intended, and the fact that, at some purely physical level, it appeared, strangely, that his body had liked it.

It seemed a good idea that we put that aside for the moment, and I raised the bottom of his singlet, which he tacitly and correctly understood as an indication to take it off. Which he did, by reaching behind him for the back of the garment with one hand, and in one movement drawing it up and over his head, and dropping it onto the floor. Now almost naked, apart from his pale blue briefs, he sat back, resting on my crutch, his hands at my waist, and I looked up in obvious approval at his tanned and smooth skin, and his lithe, athletic physique. I ran my hands over his chest and shoulders, and stroked his upper arms. As I pinched his nipple, and he let out one of his characteristic grunts of pleasure, I felt that I was beginning to learn the vocabulary of his body, and of how to play him, in order to produce the best effect; although, God knows, we were still at the beginners' stage, and I felt there was a whole vast dictionary of terms as yet undiscovered.

He watched, as I grasped the shaft of his cock through his pants, and played with it, rubbing the head, and grasping and squeezing it at its base. In response, he was gently pushing himself against my hand, and at the same time working his bum back and forth over my own stiff cock. Maybe he realised what he was doing, and maybe he didn't. Not exactly.

My fingers pushed up under the right leg of his briefs, and as they came into contact with the velvety skin of his cock, they curled directly around its hardness, and I held him, with my fingers inside his underwear, and my thumb still outside, grasping him through the fabric of his briefs, and gently starting to wank him as I did so. His rocking back and forth on top of me increased in pace, although not to any worrying extent. With care, I eased his cock and balls out of the leg of his underwear, and continued to stroke it as his cock stood, upright, proud and fully exposed. Still, he was watching what I was doing, his expression now serious, and a slight frown of concentration on his brow; I could see the tip of his tongue slightly extended against his upper lip.

I eased his foreskin down, and touched his piss slit with the tip of my finger, where one small perfect pearl-drop of pre-cum came away in a thin unbroken stream, as I lifted my finger away from where it had touched. Not enough to smear over his exposed cockhead - although he was clearly too dry there for me to play with him, as I intended, to optimal effect. If I could have done, I would have lowered my mouth to his cock to wet him down there, but I didn't want to move him enough to be able to do that, as it would have meant pulling his arse away from where it was generating such pleasurable sensations in my own cock. So, I reached across, and from the drawer in the nightstand I retrieved the container of lube that I kept in there. I flicked open the top, in order to smear a generous amount on my finger, and then snapped it shut again and pushed it for safekeeping under the pillow. He looked on, curious as to what I was doing. And then found out for himself in the most direct way, as I reached down and transferred the glob of lube onto the head of his cock, immediately rubbing it across the sensitive expanse of his glans, and at once eliciting from him a small gasp and then a groan of pleasure. I used the palm of my hand to smear the lube generously across the top of his glans, and then down his shaft, and I began to work his hard cock for real, wanking it, and teasing him on the most sensitive parts, and generating a series of moans from him as he increased the pace of his rocking back and forth across my groin.

"Not yet." I told him, and took my hand off his cock, to slow the event down ...which otherwise threatened to thunder to a conclusion when, as far as I was concerned, we were still only somewhere towards the end of Act One.

In an ideal World, I would have reached down, to pull the leg of his briefs aside, and my own underwear down sufficiently to allow him to impale himself on my cock, and then to ride himself and me to a glorious climax together, as I brought him off with the ministrations of my hands. But, that isn't reality. And although you hear people talk about the amazing sensation of plunging themselves deep and unexpectedly into a virgin arse, and of the whole experience as having been one of unalloyed pleasure, in fact they probably have no idea what the fuck they're talking about. Literally. Fucking a boy for his first time is a complicated business, and it risks being painful and miserable and generally not a lot of fun for anybody involved. It's something which needs thought, and planning, and even then is quite likely not to be a great success.

Which is why I gently eased him off me, and cradled him in my arms, as he lay full length beside me. I kissed him, and reached down and began gently to stroke and play with his cock, once more, but this time as the background to what I wanted to say. He looked at me, clearly wondering where we were going with this. I continued to play with him, and to stroke gently, as I found the words I needed.

"Do you know about Fucking?" I asked, eventually. By now, my hand had moved down from his cock, had slipped inside his briefs, and was resting inside them between his legs, beneath his balls.

"Yes. Of course." He was scornful that I might think that he didn't, and I realised that he might have misunderstood. I wasn't starting some conversation about the birds and the bees.

"Not men and women," I said. "Men and men. Men and boys."

"Yes," he said, again. But his tone was quieter, and the note of scorn had gone. We were straying into territory where he was uncertain of his ground. "I've seen it, lots of times. On the internet".

"Ok." I thought some more. "And, what do you think it's about...when men and boys fuck?" He appeared cautiously perplexed; it seemed like a trick question.

"Well. It's about fucking." He said. "About sticking your dick into a hole, and...well...fucking". And that was the point; he got that it was about making your cock feel good, because, like any boy, he spent most of his waking life being aware of the needs and possibilities of making his cock feel good. But that was as far as it went. The other part of the equation went entirely unconsidered. The hole that was having a dick stuck into it.

"And, what do you think about the other person, about the one who's being fucked?" I asked. He frowned, and there was no answer. What we'd done a few days earlier, and what we'd already been doing since we were in bed together today suggested to him that there was more going on in this than he understood, but the words and the idea weren't readily available to him for him to think it through. The pause lengthened.

"You remember, the other day, when I pushed my finger inside you?" I suggested, "and how it felt?" His eyes went bright at the memory. His discovery of the existence of his g-spot had been a major revelation for him. That hadn't featured in the biology text books he'd been given to read.

"It's like that?" he asked. Because... if it was like that. Then. Fucking Hell!

"Well. It can be." No point in telling him that it can also be unrewarding, bothersome, or even, frankly, just dull. "It depends on who's doing it, and how well they're doing it" He digested this information.

"And...you want to do it? To me?"

"With you," I corrected him. And I kissed the tip of his nose, and then his chin, and then, lightly, his mouth. My hand between his legs squeezed him gently, and in response he slightly closed his legs against it. He considered the point.

"Ok," he said, then. "Yes. If you want. You can." It was that trust thing which he'd displayed unthinkingly before; which I found more than merely endearing.

I tweaked his nose and corrected him once more. "If we want. And, we can." He grinned.

"Go for it," he said.

*

 

"It's not quite that simple, though." I'd taken my hand out of his underwear, by now, and was stroking his hair back from his forehead. Ok, I admit it he was physically irresistible, and I found that I just wanted to touch him, in some way, whenever he was within reach. So, shoot me.

"Why not?" How come this thing was yet more complicated, when by now he thought he'd made his decision, and so that was all that was needed.

"If you haven't done it before like you haven't then, it can hurt. Sometimes, quite a lot."

At that, he reached down and pushed his hand into my underpants, and grasped the shaft of my cock. Inevitably, I stiffened even more at his touch, and when I pulled my waistband down, to reveal him holding me, I could see that he might find the sight impressive. I'm not of pornstar proportions, but I'm well-enough built that I've never had any complaints. He explored, feeling my length and girth, and running his hand over my balls; none of which made the prospect of getting me inside him any more readily achievable, as was apparent by the second.

"It's big," he said, finally, as he gently worked his hand up and down. And compared to his - which was of no mean proportions, but he was still only fifteen it was.

Well. It's not too big," I told him, "I think we'll manage. But I think we need to get you prepared first, before we try putting it in you."

"Prepared? How?" He wrinkled his brow.

"With these," I said, and held up the index and fore fingers of my right hand, firmly pressed together, and I swivelled them in a circular motion, backwards and forward, so that he got the idea. "And with some more of this." I reached under the pillow and pulled out the container of lube. "We do it this way, maybe a few times, and after that you'll be relaxed enough that we can try the real thing." Probably.

"Ok." He said, in ready acceptance. More so than I think I would have done, in his position. And then, before anything else, and entirely without warning, he ducked down, and suddenly kissed the head of my cock, as he grasped the shaft still in his hand. Unexpected, but not unwelcome. He looked up at me, and as I raised a questioning eyebrow, teasing him, he blushed slightly and there was an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders. I got the impression that this action also had been something that he'd been harbouring in his mind over the past few days - something that he was prepared to be seen to be doing, in practice, but which, oddly, he found too complicated to put into words - and I wondered what else might be on his to-do list.

He returned to his earlier position, lying back against the pillows, and he reached to take the two fingers which I'd indicated were ready to do service in his arse.

"So?" he said. And this time it was his turn to raise his eyebrows, in question.

Oh, the impatience of youth!

I grinned. And slid slightly further down the bed, so my shoulder was about in line with his midriff. "I think these need to come off," I said, pulling at the waistband of his pants, and he obediently raised his hips from the bed, to allow me the opportunity to pull them off his arse and down to his knees. From there, he raised his legs, and I pulled them right off, to leave him entirely and wonderfully naked. He seemed to like me removing his clothes, and I certainly wasn't about to complain that I was doing all the work in that department. I took advantage of the role to put his discarded briefs to my face, and to hold them there, scrunched up in my hand, and to inhale his scent from them as I did so. He watched, and appeared to take mental note.

His legs were lazily spread, with his knees up, and as I took one of the pillows down from my side of the bed and pushed it up against his bum, he got the hint and raised his hips once more, so that I could push the pillow up and into place beneath him. Which, quite appropriately, presented his arse as the centre of the forthcoming attraction. He looked on, spectatorially, and almost absent-mindedly played with his cock as I began to busy myself with his arse. With mock efficiency, I parted his thighs slightly further, and pushed his feet further back up towards his bum, and then I took a large dollop of lube, and began to smear it carefully over and around the bud of his arsehole, gently pushing inside incrementally, as I did so. And very time I pushed inside, however slightly, he gave the slightest of moans in his throat. As I gently pushed my index finger in more deeply, maybe an inch or so, he dropped his hand from his cock, and reached with both his hands to pull his own knees back and further apart. Which I took as encouragement to go further... and I did. Carefully, I added the tip of my forefinger, and worked it in alongside my other finger, little by little, and was conscious of the increasingly ragged quality of his breathing as I went deeper. His moans were turning into a series of little whimpers, which were sexy as hell, but also worryingly close to indicating that it might be getting too much for him. Which was not what I wanted.

And at that point, I had not one but two bursts of inspiration.

The first, was fairly obvious, and was the bottle of poppers which I always kept alongside the lube in the drawer of the nightstand. I had a moment of doubt as to whether I should be introducing him to such things, but decided immediately that since he'd already travelled so far out into uncharted waters, then another illicit experience would be neither here nor there. Especially since it stood a good chance of translating the uncertainty of his test-drive penetration into something that could be mind-blowingly thrilling.

And the second. Was the shape of the lube container. Which I had never before considered in this way, but now realised was the perfect size and shape to work as a starter dildo: slightly less than an inch in diameter, and around five inches long, the cap was dome shaped at the top, and then tapered down to perfectly smooth, straight and frictionless sides. Ok, maybe I'm dim, and the secondary use of the container has long been obvious to lonely guys experiencing their own private moments of ecstasy, the World over, for as long as the product has been around...but I'd never actually used it before in circumstances where its possible use as a dildo would have had any relevance. Until now.

Wiping the lube off my fingers and onto the bedsheet, I reached across and retrieved the bottle of poppers fortunately, a fairly fresh one, that had arrived in the post only the week before, from Amsterdam and I unscrewed the cap. With my fingers removed from his arse, his whimpers had subsided, and he was lying back against the pillows, breathing heavily, but with his hands still holding his legs back and apart as he lay there, waiting. Before he relaxed yet further from that position, I reached across, and with my hand behind his neck I raised his head. "Here, breathe in", I said, as I grasped the bottle and held it to his left nostril, my thumb, at the same time clamping his other nostril closed. He did as he was told, breathing in a little, and then, when I told him to breathe in more, he inhaled deeply; and then I changed nostrils, and the procedure was repeated. As I released him, in order to replace the cap on the bottle, his head relaxed back against the pillows, but I could tell from his expression that already the buzz was beginning to take hold. Even as it did, I grabbed the lube, and unsnapped the top, to squeeze a very generous amount firstly onto my palm, and then, with the top flipped shut again, to transfer the lube once more from my hand to the outside of the container, which I coated liberally with the stuff.

As the poppers did their work, he was starting to move his hips slightly up and down, in time with the beat that was pulsing through his brain, and I worked quickly, in order to ride the moment, in time with him. Hunkering down beside him, I pushed his legs further back and apart, and placed the head of the makeshift dildo at the centre of his well-lubricated bud, and began to push it in. Once more his moaning began, but this time with an increased level of urgency, and none of the previous suggestion of anxiety. As the head of the container forced his muscle to open enough to let it slip inside, he let out a cry, and pulled his legs as far back as he could, and as the tube slipped further into him, and his arse muscle clamped down on it, he began to moan loudly, and with a clear and strong rhythm. Despite the a/c cooling the room, his body was bathed in sweat, and the bedsheets beneath him were drenched. Mixed in with his rising moans was a note of a kind of questioning wonder, both at the sensations coursing through his brain, and at the feeling of loss of control, of a wonderful loss of control, as he surrendered his arse to whatever it was that was invading it.

I began to slide the tube gently in and out, and as I did so, he grasped his hard cock once more and began to work it furiously. His legs scissored back and forth against my hand as I worked the lube container in and out of him, and his moans became ever more insistent as he approached his climax. With my free hand, I reached up and touched the side of his face, where I could feel the vein in his temple pulsing.

And suddenly, his thighs clamped firmly against my hand that was working his arse, and a bolt of cum shot across his chest, and his chin, and decorated the pillow and the headboard behind him.

"FUCK!" he screamed, at the same time.

"Fuck!....fuck!...fuck!", his body convulsing with each subsequent stream of cum. Until, eventually, he collapsed, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, panting, and his chest heaving as he clawed his way gradually back to the here and now.

His arse muscles had forced the lubed dildo out of him, in his moment of climax, and I brought that hand, now free, up to reach across and clasp his shoulder, wet, like the rest of him, with his sweat.

I pulled myself up the bed, to lie properly next to him,, and he slowly turned his face to mine. He looked exhausted, and was still working to get his breath back under control. But as I looked at him, a little concerned, a wonderful smile broke across his face, apparently shattered but triumphant.

"Fuck," he said his eyes unflinchingly meeting mine.

I pulled him into me, a little, and bent in to kiss him, through the trail of cum on his chin.

"Fuck," I agreed.

 

To be continued...