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 8
`It's good to talk...'
Leo. His name appeared on the caller-id. But, anyway, I knew it would be him - I'd told him to call me on my cell-phone once he'd got home. It's the sort of thing you say to people you care about. And so, I'd taken my cell-phone back to bed with me, after he'd left, and I'd finished locking up. So as not to miss him.
"Hello". I cradled the phone against my cheek, and thought about cradling him. About Leo. "You're home?" It must have been about forty-five minutes since I'd ushered him out of the gate onto the piazza – the school grounds were locked by this time, so he couldn't leave by his normal route, and he'd had to leave by the front gate. I hadn't been able to resist a pat on his rump as we said goodnight, but there'd been no chance for a full-on hug or kiss, since we were in the full glare of the real world. Not that there was anybody there to see...but, you never know.
"I'm in bed," he said.
"That's just about my favourite place for you."
"Alone." His voice held a note of accusation...as though it was my fault.
"That sucks." And it did. Especially since I was also lying in bed, alone.
We both tuned in to the meaningful silence on the other end of the line.
"Michael?" he said, eventually.
"It was...today was..." He couldn't find the word. The silence hung.
"Yes," I agreed. "It was." But he hadn't finished; there was more to say, but he needed the precise words.
"It was..." No...he couldn't get there. "It was ...mega," he finished lamely. We both knew that the word fell far, far short of what he meant. I could have teased him. Teen-speak. I'd rather have cut my tongue out. Beneath his words, I could sense tension. There was a pause.
"Are you ok?" I asked, with slight concern. "Are you ok...with this, I mean? With ...everything?" I was making about as good a job with the right words as he was.
"Yes," he said. And then, "Yes...I think so." But there was doubt in his voice. A pause. And then he said, "Honestly..?"
"I think, maybe...I think...I'm feeling a bit...scared." Wow. That was honest. I chose my words carefully.
"That's understandable. You're doing things that you've never done before. It's all very new. And they're not trivial things...they're life-changing things. You have to come to terms with what this all means for you." Another pause.
"It's not those things," he said, finally. "Not...what we do when we're together, that I'm... scared... about." His voice sounded slightly teary. I so wanted to hug him to me in reassurance. He was tired. It was late. There was so much stuff that he was having to deal with. And, at the same time, I felt pressure on me to get this conversation right, and to steer him out of his apparent crisis. "It's about...what I'm ...feeling," he said. I contemplated how I could do this, far away, at the end of a phone line.
"Leo?" He sniffed, audibly. "Leo – turn out your bedroom light; talk to me. I'm there with you – we're there together – in the darkness. In your bed."
"Ok," he said. And I presumed he'd turned out the light, as I'd bid. "But, you aren't," he complained. "That's the whole point. And I want you to be."
"I am, in the way that it really matters. In the way that you're feeling. You don't need me to touch you...or you to touch me...for us to be able to be together. Not so we can talk about these things." He considered this.
"No," he agreed, at last. And then added, bullishly: "But it would be a fuck of a lot better, if we could!" I sensed that he'd moved a half a pace or so back from the brink.
"It would. You're right. It would always be better." He waited.
"I'm holding you, carissimo. Holding you close," I told him. In the silence at the other end of the phone, I thought I could hear his breathing lengthening as he relaxed into me. "You know...you can always talk to me...or ask me...about any of this stuff. Anything that might be worrying you. Anything that makes you feel scared. At all. Any of it."
"Mm" He accepted this. And thought some more. He sighed. "I'm not sure that I get it. I don't know ...I don't know how I'm feeling. I just know that it's...no..I don't know," he finished, helplessly.
"Hey – I've got you. Beautiful boy." I embraced him, I hoped comfortingly, with my words. He sighed again, but this time with more of a sense of resignation.
"I thought this was just going to be about fucking," he said, after another pause. Well – he hadn't been alone in that!
"And...?" I nudged. I didn't want to lead him down an unhelpful path – but, then again, I needed to help him to work it through, for himself.
"Well. There's all the bits when we aren't fucking. And I'm not sure they aren't even better." He sounded confused. "You know..." he stopped.
He plunged in, then, as though sharing a confidence that maybe he thought he shouldn't: "You know...I've been thinking about you, nearly all the time, since that first day." I felt a jolt off happiness, and I smiled at him, into the darkness and the distance that lay between us.
"Well, that isn't entirely surprising. It was the first time you'd had sex... with anybody. It can stick in your mind."
"No, I didn't mean that," he corrected me. "I meant, the first time we met. When you were being an arsehole. In the garden. With the football."
"Ah." That was different. A pause. "Can I tell you something...?"
"I've been thinking about you, too, nearly all the time, since then." Ok – I'd said it. I, too, was casting off from the shore. And, implicitly assuming a responsibility, in the process.
Silence. I could almost hear the cogs going round in his brain, as he took this idea on board.
"Leo?" I tried another tack.
"You know...sometimes it's better to just go with how things are, and not to try too hard to understand what they mean, or how they fit in." I could sense his frown of incomprehension at the other end of the conversation. Leo was the kind of person who nailed his thoughts to the ground, and habitually wrestled them into clear shapes. "Tell me...in all of this...the spending time together, and doing the things together that we've been doing...does it feel good?"
"Are you kidding?" His voice was incredulous. "Fuck, yeah!" I smiled.
"Well, then. Maybe... for now, you should just concentrate on knowing that. And let the rest kind of fall into place, along the way."
"Mm." He appeared to agree, or at least to consider what I'd said. Somehow, though, I sensed his thoughts were still back with the `I've-been-thinking-about-you-too' line, which he was still working through.
The pause lengthened, until I began to wonder if he'd fallen asleep.
"I'm hard," he said. And, at that, we were firmly once more back on familiar ground, and I gave a shout of laughter.
"That," I said, "is your natural state. You must spend around ninety eight per-cent of your sentient existence with a hard-on." I could hear him grin in rueful – or maybe proud – acknowledgement of this fact. But what I'd said had reminded me of something. "By the way, you left your briefs here." I'd found them, when I'd come back to bed – still folded neatly on the nightstand where I'd placed them after I'd so carefully removed them from him, all those hours before. Lying in bed, I'd unfolded them and examined them, thoroughly. A rich blue, the inside of the pouch was marked with the clear evidence of the pre-cum stains from a healthy teenage boy. I'd looked, almost forensically, at the inside, particularly at those parts which had come into contact with his balls, and his arse, and the strip which had stretched right between his legs. With a sense of triumph, I'd discovered – and liberated - a solitary pubic hair, which I'd found attached to the elastic of the leg, just beneath where his balls would usually snugly lie. Inevitably, I'd pressed my face to all the parts of the fabric which had been most intimately in contact with his most intimate parts...and I inhaled the slight muskiness that I could still identify that had come from him.
"They're very fine," I said, with an exaggeratedly innocent tone. "The colour is beautiful."
"Yes." His voice was starting to betray the excitement he felt whenever I obviously lusted after his underwear. "They're my favourites, I think." So, that was why he'd worn them, today.
"Were they clean when you left home?" He acknowledged that they had been; he didn't find it odd that I was talking to him in that way about his underpants...he realized that the question was leading somewhere, even if only to fuel my erotic imagination. "So, did you put them on when you got dressed, just before you left, to come here?" The image in my mind of him dressing himself, carefully, in these very briefs was working its magic, as I imagined him pulling them on, and adjusting himself inside them.
"Yes." His voice thickened as he related to the effect this conversation was having on me.
"And did you have a hard-on, inside them, while you were walking here?" As I asked him, I traced my finger over the telltale stains inside the briefs.
"I guess so," he confirmed. His voice seemed slightly deeper, and his breathing more noticeable. "I was thinking about what we'd be doing together, so I must have been. I get hard whenever I think about you." The pause lengthened, as we both considered what he'd said.
"Are you playing with your cock, now?" I asked.
"Yes." There was no reticence between us when it came to that subject.
Again, a pause, as I thought about his hand on his hard cock.
"Michael?" He broke the heavy silence, his voice low and intimate.
"Yes?" Although I was fairly sure I knew what he was going to ask.
"Make me cum?"
"Again?" I asked, and there was a real note of incredulity in my question. "You've already cum three times, today." I knew that, as far as I was concerned, I was already beyond my limit, and although I was stroking my own erection as we talked, it wasn't going to go anywhere.
"Four," he corrected. And as he sensed that I was adding up all of his orgasms of the day, in my mind, he added : "I jerked off in the shower after I got in from my run, this morning". Ye Gods! He really was a horny little bastard. I was impressed.
"And you think you can go again?"
"Please." He was pleading. How could I refuse? I organized my thoughts.
"Are you naked?" I asked, and he gave a small grunt of satisfaction that I was going to give him what he wanted.
"No," he said. "I'm still wearing the fuck-pants you gave me." That was what he'd called the new white-and-blue briefs, after I'd christened them, with him inside them. After he'd come down from his last intense orgasm, I'd used one of the towels carefully to wipe his cock clean of his cum, and I'd tucked his cock back inside the fly – but he'd insisted on continuing to wear the briefs, as he got properly dressed, and had set off home, with my cum still inside him, and his cock and arse still tightly encased inside the tight lycra.
"I think you should take them off".
"Hang on. Let me just..." and he disappeared for a moment or two, during which I could hear distant sounds of movement, off in the background.
"Ok. I was just putting in my ear-piece, and microphone, so I have my hands free!" he explained, when he returned to me. So, not merely a horny little bastard, but an organized horny little bastard.
"Are you sure you're quite ready...?" He got the sarcasm, but, rightly, decided not to rise to it.
"Yes," he said, meekly. "I am."
"Those briefs – your `fuck-pants' – should come off. But...slowly..." I warned. And I told him exactly how he should do it. "Raise your hips, and slide your briefs off and down to the top of your thighs...ok?"
"And now, take them to your knees...and lift your feet, and slide them off..."
"So. Now, you're ready." I gave a moment's thought to how I was going to do this – I could either just straightforwardly dictate what he should do with his hands, and bring him off that way...or, I could inject some fantasy into the event. As part of our pillow-talk-fest earlier, I'd elicited from him some of the things that he finds particularly sexy – images, ideas, memories, fantasies...that sort of thing – which I could now use to turn him on even more than he might be otherwise.
"You might need some lube," I warned, and he confirmed that he'd already retrieved it from under his pillow. "And the container, too?" We both knew what that was about, and he confirmed that all was ready for him to apply his makeshift dildo at the appropriate moment.
Ok," I said. "I'm going to tell you a bedtime story. And at the end of it, you have to go to sleep – it's late."
He objected. "I think I'm a bit too old for bedtime stories..."
"Not this kind. It's about you... getting fucked."
Now, he sounded interested.
"So...you were on a train..."
"Shh! Don't interrupt. Just listen."
"Ok." I could tell he was getting into position, lying there in the darkness, his hand already starting slowly to wank his cock, in readiness.
"You were on a train, alone – several weeks ago...recently, anyway – because you'd been dared by some friends to travel all the way to Genoa, and back, without paying for a ticket. You'd thought it was an easy dare to accept – there'd be no problem about getting on and off the train, at either end, and so all you'd have to do is avoid the ticket collector during the journey, probably by hiding in the bathroom or wherever. In fact, it was such an easy dare, it was almost dull.
So...you were sitting there. It was one of those old-fashioned kind of trains, with separate compartments, each of them for six people or so, and a corridor. There were three other people in the compartment you were in, and you were reading a magazine you'd found. And suddenly, without warning, the compartment door slid open from the corridor, and there was the ticket collector, in person."
"What did he look like?" He was clearly interested in where this was going.
"He looked like that visiting science master you had at school, last year, that you told me about – the one all the girls found so hot...and you did, too. The one who looked a bit like a younger Justin Trudeau."
"Ok." Clearly, the image worked.
"You considered for a second saying that you had to go to the bathroom, and escaping that way...but you realized that you had no hope you'd get away with it. And so, you sat, while he checked the tickets of all the other passengers, and then he came to you. You didn't know what to do. You said that you'd lost your ticket, which he didn't believe. The other passengers were all trying not to notice, looking out of the window, or concentrating on what they were reading. He said that you'd have to go with him to his compartment." Leo's breathing was discernibly heavy, by now, as he engaged with the story.
"He marched you along the corridor, gripping your arm tightly as you went, all the way to where he had a little compartment, further down the train, which he used as on office. It was really small, in there – once he'd pushed you inside, and slid the door closed behind him, he was standing right up close, almost against you. There was a kind of shelf, fixed to the wall, that was set up as a desk, and a chair, in front of it, and some other shelves above the desk with stuff on them. He was still gripping your arm, and he said that you'd have to pay the full fare for the entire journey, as well as a fine for having tried to cheat. He told you how much it would come to... and you knew there was no way you could pay it. You showed him your wallet, and told him that you didn't have the money to pay the amount he'd said. He emptied your wallet onto his desk, and then tossed it aside. And then, he said he'd have to go through your pockets, to check that you weren't lying."
"And...did he?" His voice was uneven, and I guess that by now he was wanking, in earnest.
"He did. He pushed his hands into both of the front pockets of your jeans, and pulled out what he found there – a handkerchief, some keys, a few coins. And then he pulled you forward, and shoved his hands down and into your back pockets, which were empty. You were in too much of a panic to register that he was groping you as he felt inside your pockets...his hand roughly pushing against your cock through the pocket lining, and squeezing your arse as he pretended to be searching your back pockets. And then, he said he was going to have to search you properly, and he took the bottom of your t-shirt and pulled it up and over your head. He did it so quickly that you didn't realize what he was doing, until after he'd done it, and you'd even automatically raised your arms to let him pull your t-shirt off. After he'd stripped it off you, he just threw it on the floor."
"Oh, yeah..." Leo muttered, apparently to himself, getting lost in the image I was conjuring for him.
"In a way, you knew what he was doing, but, because it was so much not what you'd thought this was about, the way he was starting to touch you just didn't compute, and it didn't occur to you to object. He felt your shoulders, and he squeezed your nipple, before he reached down and undid your jeans, and then roughly pushed them down to your knees, and he quickly groped your cock through your briefs."
Leo's breathing was faster now, and in an odd but regular rhythm, that I guessed was somehow in time with the rhythm of his hand jerking his cock: one outward breath, in four jerky exhalations, and then two, deeper breaths inward.
"With his hands under your arms, he half-pushed and half-lifted you back and up onto the desk." I was getting quite into the story myself, by now, and the pace picked up, as I imagined Leo being sexily man-handled in this way. "Then, he reached down and raised your feet so that they were up on the desk as well, pushed tightly up under your bum. Then, he yanked your jeans right down to your ankles, to your sneakers, and he pushed your knees apart, so your cock, inside your underpants was fully available to him." Ok, there was an element in some of the detail here that was as much – if not entirely – for me as it might be for Leo. Who was starting to make little Leo-noises, as he began to build a head of steam. At one moment, he let out a groan, slight but distinct, which suggested to me that he'd just inserted the head of his dildo into his arse, to heighten his pleasure. I thought it was probably time to head into the home straight.
"He reached under you, and took the waistband of your pants, and he roughly yanked them out from under your arse, and free of your cock and balls; and then he pulled them right down your legs, too, to join your jeans, at your ankles. You could tell he was really turned on by the way he was groping at you, as though he'd completely lost sense of anything but the fact that he wanted to fuck you.! You didn't realize it, but at the same time as he was pushing you around, he'd managed to undo his trousers, and his cock was sticking out, under the bottom of his shirt. "
"Don't cum yet!" I warned, as I heard a groan begin to rise in Leo's throat. " Just a few seconds more."
"And then, he pulled you forward, so your arse was right at the edge of the desk. And he reached up behind you, where he had a tin of Vaseline on a shelf, and he took the top off the tin, and greased his fingers, which he then put at your arsehole, on the edge of the desk". Leo was starting to moan, and I guessed he was working his dildo in and out of himself, as he felt himself begin to work up to a climax.
"And he forced his fingers deep inside you, fucking them in and out a few times." Leo groaned deeply, almost in despair. "And then, he took his fingers out, and put his cock against your arsehole. Just in the right position to fuck you. And he put his arms behind your back, and he pulled you forward, hard. So you came off the edge of the desk, just enough that his cock went up inside you, and you were impaled on him, as he began to fuck up into you..."
Leo's groan turned into a kind of a wail, drawn-out, and high-pitched.
And, we were there! Mission accomplished. I smiled at Job-done, and waited for him to recover at the other end of the line.
"Jesus, Michael!" he panted, after the longest pause.
"Was that what you wanted?" I asked, innocently.
"It was incredible!"
"Well...we aim to please. This establishment seeks to meet the needs of our customers at all times and to the highest possible standards".
"God!" His breath was still laboured. "You've certainly done that!"
"Go to sleep! Tomorrow is another day."
"Go to sleep!"
"Thank you...for...everything." It was back again.. How did he do it? He sounded suddenly and adorably shy.
To be continued...