Oscar - 14. Part 14

It’s easy to see that at eighteen I wasn't living a virtuous life.

Like most teenagers I had my motives and kept them close to my chest. Trust and openness and honesty weren't my strong suits, but unlike most, if I acted on my vices, I didn't have a best friend or concerned parent to help.

To bury me in guilt and shame or encouragement and advice until I learned a valuable life lesson and became a better person. I had no one.

And as far as I was concerned, virtues were for the weak.

I got a rush from lying and manipulating. A thrill from using others to get what I wanted. I believed it was Darwin's Theory of Evolution at work. The strong survive and the feeble perish. I craved the control and power my actions gave me. The feeling like I mattered.

Like I existed.

It was a toxic way to live. I was lost and confused. Cynical and uncaring. Angry at the world and everyone in it. But at that puzzling, exciting and petrifying age, not yet a man but one in law, it's easy to lose your way. Especially if you're alone.

Patience, however, was a virtue I didn't outright reject. It was one I battled with. Daily.

When I was a kid, when my folks were still together, every report card had said the same. “Oscar needs to slow down”. “Needs to be more patient”.

I’d never listen. Didn't for years. And it wasn’t just at school. When my parents had split and I'd started to secretly explore my sexuality online, I'd always wanted more. A new guy. A new experience.

Now.

Then it had all changed. After I'd been caught in the bowling alley toilets and word had reached the corridors and classrooms. After they'd circled me in the school quad. After I'd limped fifty minutes to hospital and explained away my broken bones as a rugby injury.

It had been there, sat on the cold, sterile plastic hospital bed, seething with rage and hatred, before swallowing it down into the deepest, darkest recesses of my mind, was when I’d truly realised the importance of patience.

Soon.

That’s what I told myself every morning and every night. Soon. Soon it would be over. Soon school would end and I could leave. Jump on a train. Find a job. Go to university. Somewhere sprawling and exciting and as far away from this dead-end town as possible. London. Edinburgh. Manchester.

Anywhere.

All I had to do was wait. Wait until I was old enough. Pass the time. Patiently.

Sat on the bus home from James’s mansion, messaging two different boys, my balls empty and my cock asleep after a hard night’s work, I had less than a year. Less than a year to ride out the misery.

Unsurprisingly, James and Adam were great distractions, even if the former was a concern. The next day, James texted endlessly. Asked how I was doing and what I was up to from the moment I’d woken up. Bombarded me with the kind of pointless drivel I'd done my best to avoid from kids like him.

My apprehensions soon vanished though. It turned out his parents were out more often than not: their social status dictating all sorts of dinners and fundraisers. After another superb night of ginger twink fucking, it seemed to me that if meaningless pleasantries meant an almost daily window to work on his tight, perfect hole, I had no objections.

Over the following two weeks, nine times out of ten, we had his place to ourselves. Every room. Every enormous space and expensive surface.

Once his brother was home, but it wasn't a problem. He stayed in the living room playing his Playstation. Gun shots and explosions ricocheting through the old, empty house. Completely oblivious.

Oblivious to the slurping and swallowing in the kitchen as his big brother practiced relaxing his gag reflex with my cock and fingers. Oblivious to my moans and groans as James took me deeper and deeper down his throat. Oblivious to the praise of his efforts dripping from my lips.

‘Such a good boy.’

I was impressed with how quickly he applied himself. He wasn’t just a fast learner, he was capable too. One finger became two. Two to three. Doggy to cowboy. Cowboy to reverse. Sideways. Standing. In the shower. Bent over the sofa, the bannister, his father's desk. Ankles behind my shoulders. Knees by his ears.

With each visit after school, James grew hungrier. He wanted my cock harder and faster, rougher and tougher, just as I’d hoped. And, to top it off, he warmed more and more to the idea of Adam.

He listened, with baited breath, as I bullshitted. Told him how happy Adam was that James trusted him. How much he looked forward to all three of us getting to know each other once his wounds had healed and his ribs were reset.

How “cute” Adam thought he was.

Naturally I didn't disclose what Adam really said to me. What he would tell me to do to James when I’d told him I was visiting. Which pictures to send.

Truth be told, Adam’s secret commentary was a lifesaver. Especially when James wanted to talk or watch a movie and cuddle and I’d have no choice but to agree.

There were the other lads too. To distract me. Dan and Phil. The ones I’d messaged alongside James. At first, they’d been intrigued by my texts. But, ultimately, I couldn’t convince them to play.

Dan didn't trust Adam to keep secrets, which I understood. When Adam “was straight” he hadn’t exactly stayed quiet about his conquests. And it had only taken one morning for everyone to find out he was bi.

Phil hated him. Apparently. They’d fallen out years ago. When I’d told him that it was Adam Stanmore who I was interested in starting a three-way with, he’d said he would rather “cut his own balls off and eat them than be in the same room as that useless cunt".

But they all, James, Adam, Dan and Phil, paled in comparison to my biggest distraction. The distraction I had never imagined possible but had nevertheless fantasised about since my voice had broken.

Mr. Price.

My plan to snare him wasn't original. In fact, it was one of the oldest tricks in the book. Farcical even. I ran. Around the old creek field after school every day and before my inevitable trip to James’s.

I preferred swimming to stay in shape, but it was a small price to pay if it meant spending an evening sweating in his proximity. I would walk home, change into my gym gear and, ten minutes later, feel the wind on my face, smell autumn in the air and hear the bustle of a busy park all around.

Dog walkers. Parents. Kids. All types of people when all I wanted was one.

The first evening, the one after I’d first spotted him, had been a failure. No sign of his hairy legs or broad shoulders and shaved head anywhere. After seven laps, I’d given up. Only had enough energy to let James ride me later that night. Let him unwittingly make up for the day’s disappointments by blowing his load over my stomach and chest before peeling off my condom and sucking mine down.

The next day, Friday, had proved more fruitful. The sun had been up, swathing the crisp, cloudless evening with deep oranges, pinks and purples. We’d ran past each other and I’d ignored him. No eye contact.

I hadn’t known if he’d looked but I’d felt something. Like heat over me.

Monday and Tuesday: nothing. Wednesday, I’d stopped to stretch a few feet from him. This time I’d looked his way and he’d looked back.

I’d smiled and nodded. A meaningless, friendly nod you'd give any stranger you happened to be sharing an interest with. He’d nodded back: no smile.

Thursday: no sign. Friday: we ran past each other again. This time I’d smiled, nodded and raised my eyebrows. The kind of movement that means nothing more than a recognition of each other. He’d done the same. Eye contact. Nod of the head.

Slight smile.

I got him the following Thursday, just over two weeks after I'd first spotted him. Two weeks of fucking James to get my abs looking their best. Two weeks of preparing and rehearsing exactly what to do and what to say. How to do it and when.

I was more than ready.

The old creek field was like any average English park. Large, rectangular, flat and green. Bordered on one side by tall oak trees behind a dried-out stream. A dark grey, potholed concrete path spanned its perimeter. Black bins and red bins for dog waste had been dotted about by the council. A small children's play area tucked into one corner.

We were on the long stretch. Me running east, him running west. We'd passed each other three times already. Smiled on the first. Ignored each other the second and third. He was twenty feet from me. No one else was around.

Fifteen feet: my heart beat faster. Ten feet: I saw a suitable pothole. Five feet: I planted my foot, twisted my ankle and threw up my arms.

Down I go.

The issue with faking a fall, however, is you have to hit the ground hard to make it convincing. An airy-fairy trip and stumble won't cut it. You need to chuck yourself down like a sack of shit. Solid, heavy and painful, which is exactly what I did.

‘Fuck!’ I shouted as I landed with a thud.

Rolling onto my right side I clasped my hands around my kneecap.

The fast one-two of trainers against concrete slowed to a walk. Deep, heavy breathing filled the air around me. A large hand touched my shoulder from above and behind. My balls tingled.

‘Are you ok?’

Shivers ran through all of me. His deep, masculine voice. His touch. For a second the throbbing in my knee subsided, the blood rushing up and under my shorts instead.

‘I'm fine,’ I said quickly, turning to face him and flashing my best attempt at an embarrassed grin.

It worked. He grinned back, looming over me more gorgeous than ever. Every inch of him illuminated like a movie in the setting sun. I tried to stand. Could have easily, my knee was fine. A little grazed and bloodied but otherwise not a problem.

Obviously I fell straight back onto my arse.

‘No, you're not,’ he said, squatting next to me; his thick, juicy quads filling every seem of his tiny, black rugby shorts.

‘Please, I’m fine,’ I said.

‘Is it just your knee?’ he said ignoring my last comment like I’d hoped he would.

‘I'm not sure. I think I might have pulled a muscle.’

‘Where?’

Running my hand up my leg I wrapped my fingers around the inside of my groin. Squeezed. Winced. Opened my mouth a little. Moaned.

For a moment, he froze. Stared at my hand an inch from my package, bulging behind my flimsy running shorts. Then he looked into my eyes. At my mouth. I could smell him. Strong and salty but fresh.

‘Here,’ I said.

‘Ouch,’ he said. ‘Can you stand?’

‘Not easily.’

Standing he offered me his hand. Taking it I heaved myself to vertical, throwing in the appropriate theatrics as I went. Hobbling, I let him lead me to a green metal bench speckled with patches of dark, orange rust. I sat. He squatted in front of me. His face level with my sternum. My legs open wide in front of him.

‘I used to teach sport,’ he said. ‘Do you want me to have a prod around? See if there's any damage?’

‘No, it's fine.’ Hook. ‘Don't worry about it’. Line. ‘I'll be ok.’

‘Honestly, it's not a problem.'

Sinker.

‘Well, if you don't mind,’ I said casually, trying my hardest not to smile.

His hand was hot against my thigh. Hot and strong but gentle. He squeezed tentatively. Used the tips of his fingers to gently poke and massage muscle and tendon.

‘You're fine here,’ he said.

‘A little higher,’ I said.

‘Here?’

‘Higher.’

‘Here?’ he said, his thumb grazing my balls.

Gently biting my bottom lip, I winced. Arched my back a little. Clenched my arse. Opened my legs wider.

‘Yeah, there,’ I said between short, sharp gasps.

Locking his eyes on mine he began to knead. Slow and soft at first. Then harder. By now the park was almost empty. Only the occasional trill of bird song broke the steady in-and-out of our breath.

Everything was going to plan. Even better than planned. I hadn’t even had to ask. He went ahead and came to my rescue like a knight in shining armour.

Thirty amazing seconds later, he stopped.

‘How's that?’ he said, placing his hands on his thighs and standing; his crotch now level with my mouth. ‘Give it a go.’

‘I can't,’ I said, a smile stretching across my face.

‘Don't worry, you won't hurt yourself. It probably feels worse than it is.’

‘No,’ I said, nodding down to my groin, my shorts full and my cock bulging across my other leg.

He looked down and his mouth hung a fraction.

‘See?’ I said.