WARNING: This story is about an affair between a boy and a young man. Do not read the contents if it will offend you. If accessing this story causes you to break local laws (village, town, city, county, province, state, or country, etc.), please leave now.
Any characters portrayed in this story are fictional and not representative of anyone living or dead.
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By John T. S. Teller.
It's 1.50 and you're beginning to get worried that Rebel won't return after he's had his lunch when, through the front window, you see him stop by the front gate, dismount as quickly as he can, and wheel his bike up the path and out of sight round the side of the cottage. The back door is open, so you don't bother going to him. Instead, you sit in one of the two easy chairs in the lounge and watch the racing cars start on their warm-up lap. Rebel has good manners. He doesn't barge into your home; he knocks on the door and waits for you to invite him in. You shout, "Come on in. Take your shoes off. Hurry, they've just started the warm-up lap."
Rebel grins when he walks into the lounge and you wave an arm at him, inviting him to take a seat. He chooses to sit on the three-seater sofa, which is where you hoped he would sit. It went through your mind before he arrived for you to sit on it and for him to join you, but in the back of your mind was his original fear that you might be a monster in disguise. This way you can enjoy his company knowing that he won't be feeling stressful about the situation. He has his own space for as long as he wants it to be that way.
The cars arrive at the starting grid; Rebel leans forward, watching intently, and when the race starts, he's almost off his seat shouting at the drivers. Apparently, his hero is Sebastian Vettel, and it crosses your mind to ask him later why he's supporting a German, rather than Button or Hamilton. After about ten minutes, you see Rebel putting his hand at the side of his face, and realise that the sunlight streaming in from the front window is reflecting on the plasma screen, spoiling his vision, so you ask him, "Would you like me to draw the curtains so you can see better?"
He looks at you, grins, and nods. "Yes, please."
After you've drawn the curtains, you go to the kitchen, pour Rebel a Coke into a tumbler, add a couple of ice cubes and take a cold beer from the fridge for yourself. When you take them back into the lounge, you place Rebel's Coke on the occasional table in front of him, and just as you're about to return to your easy chair, he says, "Sit here with me."
You turn and see him looking into your eyes, the tumbler in his right hand, and he's pointing to the seat beside him on the sofa. Because you would have liked to have sat there with him since he arrived, a second invitation isn't necessary, so you go and sit beside him, change your beer to your left hand, lean back - half-turned against the arm - and stretch your right arm across the back of the sofa behind him. This is a good position. Because the TV is to the right of the fireplace and Rebel is looking away from you, it gives you the advantage of being able to look at him without him knowing you're doing so.
He's changed out of the cut-off denim jeans and is now wearing a pair of white soccer shorts and a blue and black, vertical striped, FC Barcelona soccer shirt, which contrasts well with his lovely hair. You can see his profile, too, and notice that the lock of hair that falls over his forehead is almost over his eyes, so you take your right hand from the back of the sofa and gently stroke it away. He turns and looks at you. You smile at him. He turns his head away and leans into you, snuggling his shoulder under your arm. You drop your hand onto his other shoulder and wrap your fingers around the delicate bone structure. He relaxes and rests his head against your chin. You stroke his collar bone with your thumb. He relaxes even more into you. You kiss his soft hair, and then rest your head on the top of his.
Because Rebel is no longer shouting at the TV, you're thinking he's probably thinking the same as you; that the contact is comforting, and noise from either of you would be a distraction.
This is a situation that you've fantasised and dreamed about: a beautiful young boy on a sofa or a bed, cuddled in your arms. In those fantasies and dreams you've slowly undressed him and made love to him, and he has been the one demanding the sexual act. Reality is different. You've got your young, beautiful boy on the sofa, but now you realise how vulnerable he is, and how he should be treated, which means you should not allow your hand to slip down his curvaceous body to fondle that you desire. Others might, but you're not made that way. Up to yet, all he's responded to is affection and touching. You've always fantasised that your `conquest' is gay, but Rebel has not said he is. KISS MY ASS! Words on a polo-shirt, and those words – you think – are there more for bravado than desire. Rebel isn't old enough to be so completely forward to someone who is, in reality, a stranger to him... is he? He's played his part in you being together. He wants to be here with you; he's enjoying being cuddled, and it's quite possible that he's wondering what it will be like to be pleasured even more. But for now, you're content to bask in his closeness, gaze upon his beauty, and fantasize about what could be.
Rebel finishes his Coke, leans forward out of your arms, places the empty tumbler on the table, and returns to the position he was in before. You push him away, place your own empty bottle of beer on the table, go back to your own position, and gently pull him back to you. When he's snuggled into you, he lifts his head and smiles at you. You smile, kiss his forehead, and then his cute, freckled nose. He screws up his face, pouts his lips, and you plant the softest of kisses on the inviting mouth. He sinks into you again, but now he's not watching the TV. Instead, he puts his arm around your chest and hugs you tightly, and with your head resting on his, you return the hug with both arms around him. Your heart is racing, and you're wondering if he can hear it. When his right hand comes across you and touches your left thigh, the blood races to your penis, causing it to become aroused. Then you breathe a sigh of relief when he picks up the TV remote-control, which is nestled between your thigh and the end of the sofa. He points it at the TV, switches down the volume, and then replaces the remote back where it was before. He looks up at you again, and says, "Can we talk?"
You smile at him. "Of course we can. What would you like to talk about?"
He changes his position so you're holding him with one arm while he looks at you, and replies, "Us. How much do you like me... I mean, do you really like me?"
You use your free left hand to stroke his hair while you're looking directly into his eyes, and you're smiling when you say, "Yes, I really like you, Rebel."
He looks puzzled. "Rebel?"
Your smile grows wider. "It's my pet name for you. When I was watching you, before we met, I always looked on you as a young rebel. It's your age... you're getting to the age when you want to do your own thing and not be told everything you should do. Am I right?"
He grins. "Yes. That's why I'm here, because I want to be."
He shrugs his shoulders. "Because I like you."
"Why do you like me?"
Another shrug of the shoulders. "Because I do. I have since I first saw you. I don't know why. I just think you're..." He stalls there for a moment, and then continues, "... handsome. And nice."
You realise that this is the perfect opportunity to ask the question you've been wanting to put to Rebel for some time, and you ask, "Are you gay, too?"
He nods his head. "I think so. But I'm not sure."
You smile and stroke his hair. "That sounds about right. I wouldn't expect you to be sure about anything at your age. I didn't know if I was gay or not when I was your age."
"When did you know?"
You shrug your shoulders. "I pretty much knew I was, but I wasn't sure. I liked other boys, and not girls. I never really liked girls that way. Then, as I grew older, I was sure I was gay."
"Have you had a boyfriend before?"
Have you had a boyfriend before? How beautiful! If you're not mistaken, it looks as though Rebel is thinking of you being his boyfriend. You shake your head. "No. You're my first one... that's if you want to be my boyfriend?"
The question has embarrassed Rebel, and he grins a silly grin. Then he shrugs his shoulders again. "Do you want me to be your boyfriend?"
"Yes. But I'm not sure what sort of boyfriend you want to be to me. And before you answer, if you just want to be my cuddling boyfriend, then that's fine with me. I could stay here all day just cuddling you."
Rebel smiles. "Me too. I feel nice and safe with you." Then his face becomes serious. "Don't you want to... err... touch me?"
You know exactly what he means. You can ask him to explain so you can be sure, or you can just accept it to save him from being embarrassed, so you say, "Yes, but it's not necessary."
Rebel's mouth and throat must be as dry as yours, because he swallows hard and licks his dry lips, and his beautiful eyes are almost pleading when he says in a whisper, "I know that, but I want you to. Please!"
Decision time. Rebel is just reaching puberty; his hormones will be screaming; he wants sexual satisfaction, and if he is gay, then he's in the perfect situation to have it how he desires: with another male doing the satisfying. You're different than Rebel. You like younger males to satisfy your desires, but it seems as though Rebel is the opposite: he likes older males, and he particularly likes you, so why shouldn't you do as he asks? It's what you desire, and it seems as if it's what he wants, so you smile at him, and nod your acceptance that you'll do as he asks.
Immediately, he grabs the hand that is stroking his hair, buries his head in your neck to hide his embarrassment, and pulls your hand down.
To be continued...
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