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.
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Many thanks for your comments. I only hope that it's as rewarding to read as it is to write.
Lost Ball: Part 4
He slept. Tired out.
I dimmed the bedside lamp, so that it wouldn't disturb him, and watched him. Sprawled on his front, one knee slightly drawn up, and his left hand underneath his chest, while the other was stretched out on his other side. His face, on the pillow, was turned towards me. Eyes closed and his expression, in recuperative sleep, was calm. I let my gaze wander the length of his stretched form, and took in the curve of his back, and the way the mounds of his arse rose up and then resolved themselves into the muscles at the top of his parted thighs. The backs of his legs showed the merest flush of blonde hairs, just visible in the light from the bedside lamp His tan-line was distinct at the top of his buttocks – a clear line below the small of his back that sharply delineated the deep golden tan of his back from the whiteness of his bum – but on his legs, there was no such clear demarcation; I presumed that when he was out in the sun, and often shirtless, he wore a whole variety of shorts, of varying lengths, and because of that there was no one specific point on his legs at which `public' became `private'. I considered how delicious his arse might be if it presented, naked, as an area of pure white, with speedo lines just above and below his bum, to highlight the areas of most intense interest...well, of most intense interest to me, at any rate. But, then, his arse was delicious in any event, tan-lines or no, and it was as much as I could do not to reach down to touch it, and to re-connect with him once more in that way. Except that I didn't want to wake him.
I expected, with resignation, that once he started going regularly to the beach, as the summer progressed, and the tan-line on his legs would firm up to reflect the cut of his preferred beachwear, that it would probably be a pair of knee-length swim-shorts that would come into play, typical now for teenage boys, and that they would leave him with a tan line something akin to that of an Edwardian butterfly collector. And then, I realized, with a sense of resignation, that this thought assumed an expectation on my part that I would be still be enjoying the sight of his naked body, that much further into the future. Resignation, because it brought with it a nagging thought that I was setting myself up to be disappointed.
Pushing that to one side, I told myself to live in the moment, and to savour for now, and to the full, the hand that fate had been spectacularly good enough to deal for me.
Lying on my side, facing him, with my head on my own pillow, I looked at his face, from a distance of maybe a foot away. The light from the lamp gently highlighted the curve of his lips, and emphasized a set of long and dark eyelashes that any girl would kill for. His breathing was regular, and seemingly untroubled.
In my turn, I dozed.
When I woke up, probably not much later, it was to find him with his eyes open, his position unchanged from before, looking at my face. As I now also looked at his. In the dimmed light, we stayed like that, unmoving, for perhaps a minute or more...just looking; I don't know, and didn't know even then, whether it was in an attempt to read something from the face of the other, or merely to appreciate the closeness. In the end, it was he who broke the spell, when he reached across, and placed his finger against my lower lip. I kissed it, and then took his hand and placed his palm against my mouth. Gently, I bit.
His eyes gleamed, and he grinned. Animal behaviour.
I took his hand from my mouth, and smiled back at him. I laced my fingers through his and played with his hand for a second, and then, more seriously, I said what had been on my mind for some time. "I don't know your name". It was a statement... which he could treat as a question, if he wanted to.
Now, it was his turn to look serious. Dropping my hand, he swung himself around, and in one smooth movement he was sitting up, cross-legged, on the bed next to me. From my reclining position, I had a perfect view of his cock as it nestled above his balls – and for the first time I was actually seeing it entirely in repose; maybe four inches in length, smooth and quite thick, and with a long foreskin that wrinkled a little at the end, hiding his cockhead. It was pretty. A small bush of dark pubic hair completed the picture.
I was intrigued whether he would answer what I'd said, or merely pass it by, unacknowledged. I wouldn't be offended, not exactly, if he did - I thought - but I would certainly be disappointed, in the implication of very clear limits he was placing on what might be developing between us: if this was an immovable boundary for him, then so be it; there were plenty of other boundaries that I knew were there to be moved, even if they might only be purely physical ones.
"It's Leo," he said, at last. "Leonardo." This last was pronounced with a flourish, giving it its full baptismal force. His eyes met mine. It seemed that in that statement we'd cleared a hurdle, and had raised our game to another level.
"Leo. Leonardo." I tried it out. "Like Mr Da Vinci, you mean?"
"Like Mr Da Vinci," he agreed.
I wanted to acknowledge what had happened, but at the same time to lighten the moment.
A thought struck me, and I also sat up, cross-legged, and reached round behind me for the pile of books that had accumulated on top of the nightstand (I always have at least three or four on the go, at any one time). In one of them, one down from the top of the pile, was a bookmark I'd remembered, which I took out, to show him. It was a marketing piece from the bookseller from whom I'd bought the book, and at the top they'd used that image of Da Vinci's that has become hackneyed, worldwide, as a representation for learning and wisdom: the naked man, inside a circle, with his legs and arms both spread wide, and at the same time by his sides and standing upright. The image probably has a name, in learned circles...but if it does, then I've never known it. I pointed at it: "Leonardos seem to like naked men," I said.
"Yes." He was amused, and bit his bottom lip, as he pondered. Looking behind me, he rocked forward on his knees and reached across for a pen he'd seen beside the pile of books; in doing so, he pressed against me, and after he'd snared the pen, he lingered momentarily in that position, and then dared a quick kiss on my lips before he got to work to deface the bookmark. After a moment's work, he held it up for me to see; he'd scribbled out the upright legs and the arms which hung down beside the figure, and had left just the spread arms, and the spread legs. "It's better like this," he announced.
I grinned, and took both pen and bookmark from him, and reached for the book itself to use as a surface on which to lean as I defaced the image even further. By the time I passed it back to him, the legs of the manikin had been re-drawn, so that they were bent and curved upwards towards his chest; blatantly presenting himself for sex. "Don't you prefer it like that?" I teased him. And he had the grace to blush.
There was a pause.
"So." He said. "I'm Leo. And...?" He pointed at me.
"Michael," I said.
"Hello, Michael." He held out his hand, which I took, in both of mine.
"Hello, Leo." I said. And I leaned in for a kiss...which he leant forward to meet halfway.
His hands, both of them, were clasped in both of mine, and as the kiss extended, our combined hands ended up in my lap, resting on the bulge in the front of my briefs. His hand was pressed against the shaft of my cock – which inevitably responded to his touch - and even as we continued with our mouths locked, he began to rub the back of his hand against the increasing thickness of my shaft. Eventually, we drew apart, initially to the extent of merely the tips of our tongues dueling, and then finally to the point where we had only eye contact, and then where we seemed to be regarding each other appraisingly, from a distance of all of six inches apart. Meeting his eye, I made an appreciative noise, as though my appraisal of him was complete – for now – and that I'd liked what I'd found.
We both looked down, at where he was pressing his hands, still joined to mine, against my cock. I disentangled myself, and, placing my hands slightly behind me, I rested back on them. It was meant to convey to him that the field was his and that he was free to do to me whatever he might want. And he seemed to get the point.
Through my underwear – white briefs - he grasped my cock, and he worked his hand up and down the shaft; I shifted position slightly, uncrossing my legs and stretching them out so that they were on either side of him. At the same time, I pushed myself upward and forwards a little, in order to give him greater access and to make myself as available to him as I could. He leant forward in turn, his head bent over my crutch, and he focused his undivided attention on what he was doing down there. The front of my pants was pulled down, and he resumed the exploration of my cock and balls that he'd first started earlier, when he'd been considering the feasibility of me fucking him. As he explored my balls, I pushed up against him, and spread my legs, to encourage him to slide his hand further down, and to work at the area between my legs. And as he did so, he dipped his head, and, holding my rigid cock in his other hand, he lowered himself, and suddenly my cock was engulfed in his mouth, and I was on the receiving end of an enthusiastic frenzy of sucking and licking that had me falling back to rest on my elbows, as I instinctively started to fuck my cock up into his face.
It couldn't last...and it didn't. Not because I couldn't hold off, but because in his inexperience, he over-reached himself, and after only twenty seconds or so he went too far, and choked; suddenly, he was pulling off me, as he sat up, gagging, and with tears streaming down his face. Which I wiped away, with my thumb, and I gripped his shoulder, to let him know that everything was ok.
"I want to do something," he said, at the end of the period it took him to recover. I assumed that he meant `something in particular', rather than just `anything', and I understood also that this was a statement of intent rather than a request. By my expression and the dip of my head, I indicated to him to go ahead – there was nothing I could think might be within his range of imagined possibilities that was likely to be beyond my limits...so...Be my guest!
He scooted round, and deftly slipped his legs under mine and then raised his knees behind mine, so that, in an instant, as though performing some routine by a couple of Russian gymnasts, we were coupled together as if in some kind of sailor's knot. His crutch was hard up against mine...mine, still tightly encased inside my briefs, and his, splendidly naked, and with his cock once more, and entirely inevitably, as hard as a stick of rock. There was no way this was something that had occurred to him on the spur of the moment, and I had a strong sense that this was another item from the list of wank fantasies that he'd been working on, at least during the period since we'd first met.
He reached down and pulled up the leg of my underwear, sufficiently that he could push down with his other hand and introduce the head of his cock into my pants through the distended leg opening. Once it was inside, and the elastic was once more allowed to drop back into place, tight against his shaft, he pushed his hard cock further in, and up and alongside the shaft of my own. Reaching across and holding onto my shoulders with both of his hands, he began to rock back and forth, and in doing so, to rub the length of his hard cock up and down against the length of mine. It was electrifying. In turn I reached across and took his shoulders, before I then allowed my right hand to drop down and to work on his nipple. As he rocked, so did I, which doubled the level of friction between both our cocks, and I gripped the sides of his torso with my knees. As the movement got faster, he began to make a noise in his throat, somewhere between a growl and a purr, and as he got louder, I pushed back ever harder against him, my crutch against his. Still holding him firmly with one hand behind his neck, I reached down with the other hand, and thrust it into my briefs, to encounter both cocks working against each other, and I grasped both of them together. My cock was leaking generously, by this stage, and I covered my fingers with my own pre-cum, which I then proceeded to smear over his cockhead. As he leaned away from me, as far as my grip on the back of his neck would allow, I began to wank him, inside my underwear, and he fucked up into my hand with increasing speed. His moans indicated that he was nearing his climax, and suddenly, he thrust up and into my hand, which he covered with a flood of his cum, and which washed hotly over both our cocks and entirely flooded the pouch of my underwear. Making little noises in his throat, he carried on thrusting against me, his hands holding onto the back of my neck, until the gush of his cum had stopped, and he dropped his face onto my shoulder. Finished.
No need for words. Slowly, he relaxed against me, and we disentangled legs and arms, until he dropped back onto the bed, alongside me. My left arm was around and under his shoulders, and with my right I pushed my underpants, sticky with his now rapidly-cooling cum, down my thighs, and from there managed to get them off my feet, where they disappeared into the tangled mess of the bedsheets. Free of them, I spread my legs; I still hadn't cum, and my hand instinctively began to work my cock, which was lubed wonderfully with the outpouring from his cock. He raised himself up on his elbow, and his other hand slid down my body, until he was holding my balls, and massaging them gently as I drew my knees up, and I began to breathe more heavily as I jerked myself faster.
With my hand behind his head, I inclined it towards my chest, and – dreamboy! – he understood immediately what I wanted, without my having to instruct him. He shuffled across slightly, to get properly into position, and then fixed his mouth on my nipple, at the same time as my hand slid down his back, to cup the marbled smoothness of his bum. I groaned with deep pleasure, as the tip of his tongue flicked back and forth, and he sucked my hardened nipple into his mouth. My hand on his bum pulled him hard against me, pressing my fingers against his perineum - although I was careful to avoid touching his arsehole, which I suspected would be feeling very sensitive from our earlier activity. Despite that, I was conscious on my hand of the heat that was being generated from that part of his body.
It didn't take long, and I wasn't surprised that it didn't – the things we'd been doing over the past hour or more had been building the level of stimulus within both my brain and my balls, and in many ways what I was engaged in now was purely a mechanism of relief for me. The combination of his suckling my nipple, and the feel of his body pressed against mine, his hand on my balls, and my own hand wanking myself to climax had the desired effect, as with a deep and satisfied groan I came all over my hand and belly.
He traced his fingers through it, making patterns in the pools of cum, and then he looked up and watched as my features returned to normal, from the contortions caused by the intensity of my orgasm.
"So," he said. "You can do it? I thought maybe there was a problem...?"
Cheeky little fucker. I looked at him, and narrowed my eyes in mock threat.
"Oh, yes. I can do it, alright. As you will have good cause to find out." I growled. "In fact, I think you'll find that I can do it, very well indeed."
"That's good," he replied with a sweet smile, as he folded himself into the embrace of my arm, snuggling his face against my shoulder, and let out his own, smaller sigh of contented satisfaction.
To be continued...