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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Lost Ball: Part 6
`Gather ye rosebuds...'
He was late. And I wasn't entirely surprised. Leo, I was coming to realize, worked to a timetable which was all his own and which required a significant degree of flexibility – if not of constant readiness – on the part of others. There was no point in getting irritated.
While I waited, I stretched out, book in hand, on one of the wooden recliners which, in the summer months, are set out on the gravel area between the house and the barn. It was a rare occasion that I was actively lying out in the sun, rather than merely catching it as I worked in the garden, and I stripped off my shoes and shorts in order to work on my tan as I lay there. Dressed only in a pair of Armani briefs – white, and intentionally sexy – I stretched out and enjoyed the strength of the rays from the afternoon sun. I'd liberally applied tanning oil to all exposed parts, and the coconut scent of the stuff lingered. From the copse of pine trees on the other side of the barn came the rhythmic sound of the sprinkler, shooting out great jets of water as it went round and round, and, as it did, generously soaking the dense under-planting of hydrangeas and camellias which covers that part of the garden. The afternoon somnolence was broken by no other sound, apart from the constant and endless sawing of the cicadas.
I wouldn't normally lie around like that in my underwear if I thought there was any risk of somebody else materializing – the woman who delivered the post, for example, or any of the maintenance team from the church – but there was negligible chance of that happening, and somehow, I thought Leo wouldn't mind. That he'd take it in his stride. Possibly, even, that he'd think it was a plus.
I was alerted to his arrival – maybe twenty-five minutes or so after the hour – by the crunch of his shoes on the gravel, as he made his way across from the terrace, having spied where I was lying. I lowered my book, and shaded my eyes from the sun, to look up at him appreciatively as he approached. I'd found myself thinking of our appointment for this afternoon in the light of a date – I hadn't chosen to, but that was clearly how it featured in my mind – and so, to an extent, it seemed, had he. Gone were the casual shorts and the singlet, and instead he was smartly dressed in formal knee-length navy shorts, and a crisp white shirt, sleeves folded neatly back almost to the elbow, to reveal his tanned forearms, with the tails of the shirt hanging free, outside his shorts. On his feet were a pair of canvas shoes, navy also, with white soles and laces. They looked new. To complete the `cool' look, he sported a pair of black ray-bans, which emphasized the fact that his cheekbones, now still bearing a slightly puppyish softness, would resolve themselves, as he matured, into a classically handsome profile, strong and defined.
With one finger marking my place in my book, as he approached closely enough, I reached out towards him with my other hand. His silhouette now blocked out the sun, and I no longer needed to shade my eyes in order to look up at him. I slipped his hand into mine, and, in response to my touch, he squeezed. He was upset that he was late, and he was keen to apologise – there was some story about some kids he knew from school having been hanging around in the school grounds, and how he'd had to leave again, and circle back round, so that he'd had to wait until they'd gone before climbing the wall, unobserved, into the well-house and thence into the garden. The vagaries of his time-keeping, I was beginning to understand, more often than not were the result of `things happening', rather than as the consequence of any thoughtlessness on Leo's part; Leo was just the kind of person that `things' happen to. Which – if I was to consider myself one of those `things' – I didn't see I was in a position to complain about.
As he was explaining his tardiness, I gently rubbed the inside of his wrist with my thumb. "It doesn't matter." I pulled him slightly closer, and brought his hand to my mouth, and lightly kissed his wrist, where I'd been rubbing it. "You're here now."
"Yes." Apparently, for the first time, he looked down and properly took in that I was lying there, before him, almost naked: my knees raised, and my legs casually parted. He raised his own right knee, and rested it on the edge of the recliner, pushing lightly against my hip. His free hand, he placed on my right knee, while I dropped my hand to the back of his calf, and gently caressed him.
"Don't come a centimetre closer," I warned, as he moved forward, apparently intent on either sitting or lying against me; and, as he tilted his head, in surprise, I indicated the sheen of tanning oil across my mid-section. "You'll get oil all over those very smart shorts of yours."
He looked...considered...and shrugged. Standing upright, once more, and with an aplomb that seemed way beyond his years, he said, merely: "Oh, that's ok. I'll just take them off." His logic was unassailable.
I watched as he undid and removed his shorts, and it was clear that the way he was doing it was significantly for my benefit. I couldn't see his eyes behind the sunglasses, but I knew even so that he was watching my reaction, as, with a series of purposeful moves all of which seemed slightly exaggerated, he undid his belt and the waistband of the shorts, and then carefully unbuttoned his fly and lowered the shorts sufficiently that he could step out of them, navigating his feet, still clad in the navy shoes, through the leg openings. He folded the shorts, and then took a couple of steps, in order to put them on the table in the barn, before he returned and stood before me once more. My eyes had followed him, all the while, and as he'd reached forward to deposit his shorts on the table, his shirt had ridden up enough that I got a flash of the kingfisher blue of his underpants stretched across his buttocks. Now he was standing in front of me again, and he slowly unbuttoned the shirt, in order to reveal them and him in – almost - his full glory. The muscles of his tummy showed firmly against the waistband of the underwear – brief, as ever, but this time with a y-front opening. I felt like applauding his sense of theatre, as he stood there, with the white shirt hanging open, and the blue of his underpants and his shoes setting off the deep bronze of his tan. I made do, instead, with an appreciative smile, and I held out both of my hands to him, to take both of his, and I drew him towards me.
In an instant, grinning, he'd straddled my midriff, and was seated astride me – fortunately, still taking most of his own weight on his own feet, but at the same time making distinct and direct contact between my crutch and his. I'd dropped my book onto the ground, by now, and held his hands in mine as he leant forward, finally, for a long-awaited kiss. My hardening cock flexed, and I pressed up against him, as my hands moved round, under his shirt, to clasp the small of his back as he settled against me. His arse felt firm against my groin, and I could feel his muscles there contract as they came into contact with me.
He pulled back slightly from the kiss, several seconds later. "Hello," I said, in a voice that was both warm and low, and private. I reached up and removed his sunglasses. `Cool' was all very well, but I wanted to see his eyes; and their expression when I did so was serious – not in a bad way, but they certainly conveyed a depth of emotional intensity, as he met my look with his own clear gaze. As he raised himself up and sat back from me, a little, I slid my hand between his legs and cupped his balls; the gesture was one of intimacy rather than something overtly sexual, and I thought how far we'd come in the week it had been since the very first time that I'd touched him. Apparently just as naturally, he lifted himself a little away from me and then sat back down, settling himself into my hand as I held him there.
My other hand slid up the outside of his left thigh, and my fingers slid inside the leg of his briefs, where they rested easily, my hand half in and half out of his underwear. He leant in once more, to plant a whole series of precise kisses on my face: my nose, my chin, my forehead, on my temples, and then, lingering at the last, on my mouth. Even now, there was a chaste intensity to his kisses – no hint of his tongue as his lips gently kissed mine – and the firmness of his embrace clearly had more of an emotional than a blatantly physical quality to it. I reached up with both hands and held his shoulders, as the kisses to my lips continued, wordlessly.
Again, he pulled back a little, and looked down at me.
"Can we go to bed?" he asked. And I smiled. Definitely, we'd come a long way in the past week.
"Why?" I teased him. "Are you tired?"
"No." He frowned at me in mild irritation. "Yes," he then corrected himself. "I was up very early, this morning, for a run."
"Yes." I traced the tip of my finger down the length of his nose. "I remember that bit."
"And you were up very early, as well."
"That's true." My finger now traced a line below his nose, and above his upper lip. "I remember that bit, as well."
"So, you must be tired, too." I considered his statement.
"Maybe". He was unused to being teased.
"And anyway..." he added, in desperation, "I really, really want you to fuck me."
"Now, that," I said, manifestly coming to a decision "sounds more like an argument!"
This time, he went up the stairs ahead of me, taking the steps two at a time, in his enthusiasm to get to the bedroom and all that it promised. At each stride of his, I had a glimpse of the blue of his pants, tantalizingly exposed beneath his shirttail, and I hung back, properly to take in the sight. When he'd reached the top, I was still almost at the bottom of the stairs, and he turned, impatiently.
"Ok?" he asked, confused by what seemed like reticence on my part.
"For sure," I said. "I was just enjoying the view." And so stimulating had it been, that by the time I joined him at the head of the stairs, my cock was clearly rigid, pushing out the front of my briefs as it thickened and curved upwards. As I came up alongside him, I slipped my hand between his legs, from behind, and as I caressed him there, he reached for my cock, and groped me, squeezing energetically. I ran my hand up to his shoulder to pull him hard against me, and we kissed, this time with my tongue very definitely pushing into his mouth, and I thrust my cock against him at the same time, humping gently but insistently against his hip. The last part of the journey to the bedroom was a complicated process of groping and kisses, with, the entire time, both his hands and mine probing and squeezing the other wherever we could get purchase.
"Here we are, again," I said, as I manoeuvred him through into the bedroom, letting the heavy curtain fall back into place in the doorway. In keeping with my underlying feeling that this was a date, and one of some importance, I'd prepared the room for what was to come. Anything that had been carelessly left lying around had been tidied away, and the bed was arranged, with the top sheet carefully folded down at the sides, and the pillows plumped and arranged meticulously against the headboard. In making the bed, I'd transferred the pair of his baby-blue briefs from under my pillow, where they'd spent the past three nights, to the drawer of the nightstand. Both bedside lamps were switched on, this time, which gave the bed – not inappropriately – a sense of a stage-set that was only awaiting the arrival of the performers.
And, here they were. Right on cue.
I slid his shirt from his shoulders, and he stood, allowing me to remove it. As I put it on a hanger in the wardrobe, he unlaced his shoes and pushed them off, leaving him standing there in just his briefs. For an instant, I stood and just looked at him, as though having just undressed him for the first time; and the look I gave him was at the same time, appraising, approving, and – frankly – undeniably wanton. Before my gaze, and not for the first time, he suddenly looked as though an attack of shyness was washing over him – which I found bizarrely endearing. Before now, at different times I'd had my fingers, my cock, and even my tongue up his arse, and he'd allowed me intimacies with his body which had almost certainly never been allowed to anybody else in his life... and yet, even so, even having traveled together that far, he suddenly seemed prone to an attack of shyness with me, as though we'd just been introduced for the first time at some daunting social event. It was odd; but at the same time it was absolutely fucking adorable!
It seemed appropriate that I didn't merely lunge at him, as I could so easily have done, but instead I took his hand and led him gently to the side of the bed. When we'd fucked that morning, out in the garden, under the plum tree, it had been an incredible experience – for both of us, I think – but what was about to happen now was going to be completely different. Where the earlier experience had been raw and necessary and urgently physical – it might be more accurate to have described it as `rutting' rather than `fucking' – this was going to be what I had had in mind all along as his first time. Something measured, and intense, and – I hoped – on some level as much to do with his mind as with his body. To do with `him'.
And although, normally, I would have wanted to play with him for a while longer inside his briefs, and to have made the process of removing them an integral part of foreplay, on this occasion, it seemed appropriate that I carefully remove them from him, and that I make him naked. The spell hadn't been broken, yet, and he was still looking down with an air of awkward shyness, as I grasped his briefs by the legs, just beneath the curve of his buttocks, and I slowly and carefully pulled them down. Making him naked. And available. And gloriously, sexily vulnerable to whatever might be about to happen.
As his cock was released from the confines of his underwear, it sprang out and upward, and my nostrils were assailed with the heavy scent of Boy. With his hand on my shoulder for support, as I squatted before him, I held his briefs at his knees, for him to step out of, and then I carefully folded them – ceremony seemed appropriate – and I reached round to place them on the nightstand. I rested my hands on his hips, his cock standing stiff before my face, and pulsating gently from the extreme degree of his hardness. His foreskin was already half retracted, and I reached to peel it back fully, exposing the shiny cockhead beneath. Still wordlessly, I held his shaft in my fingers, and then I leaned forward and lightly kissed the head of his cock, before I pressed my face hard against his groin, pulling him against me, and I inhaled the richness of his scent: dense and complicated and musky.
I stood, and held both his hands in both of mine. His shyness appeared to have passed, and he angled his face towards mine, for a kiss. Which, all too readily, I gave him.
"I think it's time for bed," I murmured, my hands now cupping his cheeks, while I could feel his hard cock in front jutting out against the underside of my balls.
"Yes," he agreed. And at my prompting he climbed onto the bed. He didn't immediately lie down, though, but knelt there, facing away from me and holding himself firmly upright. His shoulders angled backwards, with a parade-ground firmness, and his buttock muscles clenched, as if for inspection. His arms hung by his sides. The image was stunning.
I slid my hand between his cheeks, and ran the tips of my fingers through between his legs, to press against his perineum, and with my other hand I held his left shoulder, and then ran my hand up to the back of his neck, which I caressed with my thumb. He didn't move, and made no sound. I leant forward and kissed the back of his neck. Once, and then again, and then I worked my way around to his jawline, kissing as I went. He turned his face to meet mine, and as I climbed onto the bed behind him, I wrapped my arms around his chest, and found his lips with my own. To which he happily surrendered, and his lips parted, to allow my tongue to slip inside and seek his. My right hand moved down his body, and as the kiss lengthened, I grasped his hard shaft, as it throbbed upwards, jutting out before him.
Eventually, the kiss broke, and he allowed himself to fall forwards, initially onto his hands and knees, and then he lay flat, and rolled onto his back, looking up at me, as I now knelt astride him. With his right hand, he held his own erection, and he pushed his other hand against the swelling in the pouch of my briefs, and then slipped his fingers inside the leg, so that he touched my balls. His fingers made a pulling motion at the bottom of my underwear, and I got the message. Quickly, I stood back up, and as he watched, I pulled off my briefs and tossed them aside. Just as he had done to himself, my hand instinctively took hold of my cock, as I stood there, and his gaze of inspection passed over my body. I smiled at him, and he responded in kind.
The fact that he'd not stripped me himself was in keeping with where he was in this process – learning, all the time, but not yet sure enough of himself to grab the initiative. From what I'd already understood of his character, though, I had every sense that that would change, in time – and that when he did become sure enough of himself, I could be in for quite a time.
I indicated to him that he should move across, to let me lie alongside him, which his did, his head on the far pillow. When I stretched out next to him, lying on my side, my arm crooked behind my head, he turned his head on the pillow to face me and he snuggled in. We kissed, and I dropped my hand onto his tummy, and explored his belly button.
"When do you have to be home?" I asked, mindful of his dramatic departure the last time he'd been in this bed.
"I don't," he said. A pleased smile. "Well – I do...but not at any special time. They're both away, tonight...and I've said I'm out with friends for the evening. At the pictures. So, I can stay until I want to." I smiled at him, also pleased. "If that's ok...I mean...?"
"Very ok." A kiss, on his lips, and my hand ran casually up the inside of his thigh As it came to rest on his balls, he spread his legs a little, and pushed against my hand. I moved down to kiss his nipple, and nuzzled it, as I began gently to wank his rigid cock. His breathing intensified at my touch, and he began to move his cock in time with my hand, his legs spread even wider. And then, I moved yet further down, with a trail of kisses that covered the smooth skin of his tummy, until I was directly confronted with his cock, which I held and contemplated, before I took it into my mouth. He groaned, and his hands came to rest on my head, as he brought his knees up, and I began to suck him. Long, slow motions, up and down his shaft, working his cockhead against the roof of my mouth, and then pulling back, so that my tongue could wash over his glans, before descending fully on him once more. Initially, my hand gripped the base of his cock, and then, as his cock became firmly anchored in my mouth, my hand moved down, to his balls, and then between his legs, where I massaged him, in that precise place which I knew worked so well for him. My forefinger worked down, and, lightly, I touched the pucker concealed in the crevice of his arse.
I looked up at him, letting his cock, now slick with my saliva, fall from my mouth.
"Is everything alright, back here" I ran my fingertip over his arsehole. "After...this morning...I mean?" After my cock had been plunged deep inside him, I meant, and for the first time in his life he'd been properly and thoroughly penetrated by a man. After I'd fucked him. "Maybe... I should check?"
He kept his legs apart, and looked down at me, still reeling slightly from the sensation of his cock in my mouth. "Perhaps, yes, you should, " he said.
I didn't particularly believe him. I had no reason to suspect there was any problem down there – not least since I'd been groping and touching him over the past hour in a way where it would have been obvious if he was in any pain from his arse – but, it seemed a good opportunity to move the script on, before he risked shooting in my mouth, too soon...and anyway, if he wanted to `play doctors' with me closely inspecting his arse, then I certainly wasn't about to complain.
"Ok. I'll take a look." I moved down, right between his legs, and pushed his ankles back and apart, so they nearly touched his bum, and then I lifted them, and pushed his knees to his chest. "Assume the position," I told him – although I knew it was a joke I'd have to enjoy on my own, as it would be far too complicated to try and explain to him right now. He pulled his own legs back – in a way that seemed to be coming naturally to him, by now – and I reached up for a pillow, which I proceeded to stuff beneath his hips, which he raised, to give me access. Then, he settled back down, his legs splayed as far apart and back as he could manage.
Resting on my elbows, I leant in close, and - from a distance of about three inches – I inspected him for possible damage. There was undeniably a puffiness to the lips of his arsehole which hadn't been there before, and I touched it gently with my fingertip, running the tip up and down against the opening.
"How does that feel?" I asked, in my role as Chief Medical Officer.
"It's...ok," he said. Cautiously. I leant forward, and ran the tip of my tongue, hardened to a point, over the place where my finger had just been. Against my tongue, I could feel the tiny ridges of his pucker as I did so.
"And, now?" His voice sounded strained, as he replied again in the affirmative. I pushed my fingertip against his hole, now shiny with saliva, and applied just enough pressure that he gave a slight groan.
"It does look a little bruised," I said, as my finger slipped very slightly inside him. "I think maybe I should put some cream on it."
I scruffled around on the bed, until I could reach up and open the door of the nightstand, where I knew there was small tub of a cream that I use sometimes on my hands when my skin gets dried out, in the winter. Back in place between his legs, once more, I levered the top off the tub, and took a generous amount on my finger.
"This might feel cold," I warned him, still in character, and I gently smeared it over the puffiness of his arsehole, and began to work it around and into his pucker. As my finger slipped in more deeply, he began, very slightly, to move his arse beneath my touch, and to press himself further onto my finger, urging me, by doing that, to go deeper. I removed my finger from him, to get some more cream, and this time I took it with two fingers, which I then carefully pushed back inside him. He exclaimed, and searched to meet my eyes, an expression in his that was a mixture of slight alarm, and, more obviously, of raw desire. I raised one eyebrow at him, in question.
"I think..." he was breathing heavily, "I think maybe you need to go more inside. Maybe it needs some of that stuff ...in there."
"Ok." I appeared to consider, even as I was working my fingers in and out of him. "But, my fingers aren't long enough to go any deeper. For that, I have to use something else." In response, he merely whimpered, and pushed his arse up and against my hand.
Kneeling between his legs, I reached across and, with my free hand, I retrieved from the nightstand the bottle of poppers that he'd first tried the last time we'd been here. It was going to be necessary. Then, carefully, from his arse I withdrew my fingers, which were generously covered in the slickness of the cream, The latter, I quickly transferred to my cock...and then took a little more from the tub, to add to it, for good measure. Then. I positioned the head of my cock against the bud of his arsehole, in readiness.
As I'd done the previous time, I reached behind his neck, to raise him enough that the poppers wouldn't be spilled. And then, I held the opened bottle to his nostrils, first one, and then the other. He knew, to a degree, what to expect, and as he relaxed back against the pillows, he looked up at me. Wanting. I dropped the bottle, tightly closed once more, onto the bedsheet, and I pushed back behind his knees, pushing them firmly to his chest. The expression in his eyes changed, very slightly, and as they dilated, I knew it was the right moment, and I pushed my cock, slicked and rock hard first against and then into him. He cried out, and reached up to hold my shoulders, as I began to work myself more deeply in. I took his feet, and placed them against my chest, and with his knees pressed down against his own shoulders, I began to fuck down and in, building up to a slow and regular rhythm. In that position, I could tease the opening of his arse with my cock, pushing in and out with a series of rapid, shallow movements, that felt amazing on my cockhead, and which clearly drove him to a frenzy of distraction...and then, every fifth or sixth thrust, I would suddenly go deep, really deep, and elicit a gasp or a cry from him at the intensity of his reaction. With his legs locked firmly into place between us, I reached for his hands with mine, and as I fucked into him, I laced my fingers through his, and I searched to meet his eyes with my own. When they met, he locked his eyes with mine, and gripped my hands tightly, as though holding on for dear life. I started to lose sense of how long we'd been rocking back and forth in that way, and of how long my cock had been playing him, deep inside his body.
I relaxed the pressure on his legs enough that they spread, and then I reached down between us and took his cock in my hand. He reached back behind himself, to grip the pillow, as I began to fuck him faster, and worked his cock in time with my own thrusts deep into his body. Whimpering and gasping, he pushed himself back up against me and clearly entrusted me entirely with his impending orgasm. And then suddenly, the noises he was making went up in tone, and I realized he was very close. Still with my eyes in contact with his, I quickened the pace of my thrusts, and as he shouted out and began to spill all over himself, I felt my climax arrive. Even as he was still cumming, I felt myself detonate inside him, and I must have cried out hoarsely as I thrust as hard as I could into him. Again, and again.
Slowly, we both came down.
Slowly, I relaxed my grip on him, and allowed my cock to slip out of his arse. He lay beneath me, completely spent, and unmoving - although, even now, his eyes stayed in contact with mine.
My breathing was heavy and rough, and I knelt between his legs, both of us bathed in sweat. I rested my hands on the pillow, to either side of his head, and I lowered myself down over him, so that I was only inches away from his body, and I pressed my lips to his forehead, wet with sweat which was already cooling on his skin. Then, I moved slightly to one side, so as not to crush him as I lay down properly, and I gathered him tightly into my embrace. In turn, he wrapped his legs and arms tightly around mine, and we melded together as one.
To be continued...