Soccer Boy

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.

Young, 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. A teenager 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 traveled 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 colors, 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 teenage 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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written by nlopndo