Soccer Boy

From: North Lopndo

This work is entirely fiction. Its characters and
situations exist only in my perverted imagination. If
you’re offended by sex between different generations,
you won’t like this. Otherwise read on, and let me
know (cropn4@yahoo.co.uk) what you think

I knew that there would a teenage son when we arrived
at the house in New Hampshire on a fall evening. But I
thought, even as I took in a couple of mountain bikes
in the drive and a basketball hoop in the backyard as
I parked up the car, I thought that he’d be pimply,
unengaging, ugly. Maybe I hoped he’d look like that
because I knew I wouldn’t be able to help myself.
Show me the right teenage boy and I have no self
control.
At the front door the family gathered to greet
their visitors. My researcher doesn’t know of my
perversions, but she could hardly have missed my
rising excitement at what I saw. The door to an
all-American home, father, mother — the people I was
here to see and interview, grandparents, a young
daughter — and her brother.
Fifteen, translucent pale skin, green eyes, a mop
of blond hair, high cheekbones, a flashy grin
revealing teeth in the last-stages of braces.
“Hi I’m Andrew,” he reached out his hand, with the
tiniest of blushes in his cheek, I looked down at his
bare, hairless forearm, grasped the firm, fit, sure
hand for the first time, “Phil” I said.
“Hi Phil,” said Andrew, his eyes exactly meeting
mine like the polite kid his posh parents want him to
be, “I’m wearing a Newcastle soccer shirt in honour of
you English guys.”
This time he did blush. The shirt was rugby-style,
its three buttons undone, so you could see the
beginnings of his chest. Not a hair in sight at the
base of that beautiful pale neck. Fifteen and six foot
already. I looked down: black trackie bottoms, white
sports socks to wear around the house. Bloody hell, I
thought, here’s one.
“Sure, like the shirt, Andrew, cool,” I was
wrong-footed by his beauty but his parents were
hurrying us indoors out of the cold.
Andrew’s mother gave us a glass of wine. “Tell
Phil about your soccer tour, honey,” she said to her
son.
Andrew turned his full enthusiasm on me, “Our
school team played some matches in England, we
travelled round by bus. Saw Newcastle play.”
A teenage high school soccer star. Smooth,
beautiful, and waiting on my attention.
“Leave Phil alone honey, I have to talk to him,
we’ll have supper in just a bit.” Andrew’s mother was
waiting to be interviewed for the book I’m writing
about New England. I can hardly say in the hour of my
questions and her answers, that she had my full
attention.
My researcher caught my eye every now and again
as she took notes. Afterwards she said, “You’re
somewhere else this evening.”
Damn right. That neck, Those forearms. That
smooth skin.
Another glass of wine as Andrew’s mother prepared
supper. Then, the sounds of a guitar being expertly
picked at, from another part of the house.
“Oh, that boy, he’s so determined in everything,”
she said.
“I like the guitar,” I said.
She laughed, “Andrew loves to play for people, go
and talk to him.”
She didn’t have to tell me twice. I was already
halfway down the hallway, following the sound of the
picked guitar. Past the bathroom, then there he was,
bedroom door wide open. Perched on his bed over the
instrument, an acoustic guitar, all concentration,
hair flopped forwards over his eyes, legs splayed
apart.
“Oh hi,” again that huge grin before his eyes
turned again to the strings. I could just hear still
the murmuring voices from the kitchen.
“Love the guitar playing,” I looked at the
soccer posters on the walls, the balled socks thrown
– even in this tidy household — into the corner.
Soccer boots, newly muddied, poked out of a cupboard.
He followed my stare and grinned widely,
stopping his guitar-picking. “We won! 4-1 in the mud
this afternoon. You should have seen us, I play
fullback, so you can imagine how dirty I was after the
game. Look here’s my shirt.”
Andrew put the guitar aside, and picked, from
the floor, a filthy soccer shirt, red and black, the
colours, apparently of his school.
“I’ll put it on for you.”
Before I could say anything he was stripping off
his Newcastle shirt, still sitting on the bed, looking
up at me standing over him as he pulled the shirt over
his head, a flash of the first hair under his arms.
Then his torso was bare, skin so pale it
shone, that white, white skin, hairless of course,
taut over the young muscles of the school soccer first
team fullback. His arms swelled a little towards his
shoulders, the biceps of a sportsman.
I felt my cock getting hard, harder still
because I could still hear those voices of his family
from just down the hall.
“Here look,” he pulled on the dirty shirt,
snagging a lump of mud in a strand of his hair.
I reached out to his head to clear the lump
from that blond hair, still standing over him, just
the responsible adult. My hand in his hair, through
it, once. And then once more just to settle his hair,
just to take a bit of a risk.
I let my hand lie for just a moment at the
back of his neck.
“Stand up, let’s see you,” I said. Eye to eye
again, a lad in a muddy shirt, reeking a little of
schoolboy sweat.
I moved a little towards him, middle-aged man
towards fifteen-year-old boy, his eyes bright and
eager to please.
“Wanna see the shorts too?”
He was already shucking off the trackie
bottoms, no mistaking on this boy the footballer’s
legs, dark with the hair the rest of his body lacked.
Then for the first time the hint of his dick through
his boxers, the curve of his back as he bent to pick
up the dirty shorts, and beneath it the muscle of his
arse under the boxers.
Then the shorts were on, black no-nonsense
cotton, American-style, streaked with mud, high on his
thighs.
“How do I look? I’m the star, aren’t I?”
Andrew was waiting to be admired.
“Are you guys alright, supper’s nearly
ready?” I could hear his mother coming down the hall.
I was breathing her son’s breath inches away from his
face.
“We’re fine, just chatting, boys’ stuff,” I
called.
Andrew raised his chin a little as he
called out, “Yeah, mom, just regular guy’s stuff, I’m
looking after our guest.”
He returned his gaze to mine for
inspection, unruffled. I took a step back, “It’s
pretty disgusting, that mud,” I said.
Andrew laughed, “Yeah isn’t it?”
He pulled off the top, slipped off the
shorts, stood there in his boxers, hand idly beneath
the waistband, barefoot now too, scarcely able to stop
himself from preening his six-pack.
“You know, Phil, I really should have a
shower before supper,” then the All-American
politeness, “you’ve showered haven’t you?”
And before I could answer , “Mum I’m
lending Phil a towel, you know he’s not even showered
after that long drive?”
Again footsteps started down the hall,
“Andrew, get him a good towel, you hear, and show him
how that shower of yours works. And don’t be long
boys, there’s dinner to eat!” The footsteps stopped
just before Andrew’s doorway.
“It’s okay Mum!” Andrew rolled his eyes at
me as if I was just another teenager. Exactly what I
wanted to be. He stood in his boxers waiting, hand
still under the waistband, that torso above, the man’s
legs on this boy, below.
“Come on, leave your kit in here, I’ll bring a
towel.”
My jeans were already down, I felt his eyes
flash to the hard shape in my y-fronts as I pulled off
my shirt and shoes, took the towel from him, followed
briefly into the corridor, those voices still chatting
in the kitchen just beyond, a teenage boy and a man he
doesn’t know, in underwear, walking into the bathroom.
“Jump in with me, it’s what we do at
school,” Andrew was already switching on the shower,
the sliding door back, his boxers discarded on the
bathroom floor. I caught his smooth white arse, none
of the hair of his legs in its crack, as he turned to
adjust the temperature.
“Come on don’t be shy,” he said. I pulled
down my y-fronts, my cock now fully hard.
The bathroom door was still open, I could
hear those voices. What if he called to his Mum and
complained about my erection and about molesting him?
My cock got harder.
I stepped into the shower. Andrew turned,
and there was his dick, uncut, hanging long between
his legs, balls dropped, but still boy’s balls, just a
little hair, skin pale beneath.
“You need a pull Phil don’t you,” Andrew
was laughing at my hard-on. And then suddenly without
warning his hand was on my dick, “Here I’ll do it for
you like we do in the showers after a match. Do mine
will you, I pull it four or five times a day.”
His hand was rubbing up and down my shaft.
I reached out for his cock, but turned him at the same
time so my hard dick was against his smooth pale arse.
Not much time, his mother would be calling again.
I soaped up his cock, hard immediately, his
hand still reaching behind him to grasp mine. I had
other ideas, pushed him roughly against the wall of
the shower unit, got some soap up his crack, a finger
up that arse. The other hand alternately on his dick
and rubbing soap over his chest, just to feel those
young muscles.
Soaped up my own dick a bit and then it was
in. Up his fucking All-American arse. I put a hand
over his mouth but I needn’t have worried. He was too
startled to shout. Suddenly scared too, this little
soccer star.
Well fuck him. I pushed my dick all the way
in, no holding back now, ramming it in as hard as I
could, fuck feel that young muscle. The steam rose in
the shower, the water soaking us, his voice a little
whimper, my hand back over his mouth, let him pull his
own fucking dick.
Fingers to the back of his throat, holding
his jaw from below, using this boy. The bathroom door
was still open. “Richard shut that door, for goodness
sake, what you boys doing in there.” His mother’s
voice.
He was wanking himself now, maybe just to
offset the pain, maybe out of real pleasure, what the
fuck did I care? My cock was up a teenage arse while
his mother was in the hall.
I slipped it out, just managing not to come,
turned him again, pushed his head down, pushed this
boy down to his knees to fuck his mouth, choke on it,
while he wanked off, the back of his head against the
wall.
I turned the shower off. Looked him in the eye,
wanked off in his face. Cum streaming all over over
him, face glistening with water, he leaned backwards
wanking furiously. It didn’t take him long, with a
grunt that I was sure his mother would hear. I stood
over him as he finished off, a lad at my feet.
Then I left him, shut the shower door on him,
dried myself off, retrieved my clothes from his room,
joined the adults.
“What’s Andrew been doing with you,” his
mother asked, another glass of wine ready, a smiling.
“He’s got another match, you know, tomorrow, why don’t
you come and see him play before you leave?”

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