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Subject: No Hands Lucas – Chapter 2 Gay / Adult-Youth An accident leaves 12yo Lucas temporarily unable to care for himself. Can 29yo Jack rise to the challenge? Comments welcome: ail The bounds of imagination would shrink without NIFTY — please consider a donation at fty ——————– NO HANDS LUCAS by Leopold Boyce CHAPTER 2 One of the annoying things about me, apparently — according to Emily, who assures me she knows about these things — is that I tend to go out like a light, snoring like a freight train, about two minutes after sex. It sure was a learning experience for me, back in the day, to find out that was a BAD thing. Where do these chicks dig up their wisdom, I wonder? Anyway, ever since then, whenever I get sleepy after a good fuck, I can’t help a guilty feeling that I’ve got an overdue book report to hand in. So what would Em have had to say about Lucas? Ha! Christ, I thought there was something wrong with him. The moment we concluded our feisty first-cum-best-washed shower — which I mentioned above — he starts to sway a little, starts to nod off — right there in the shower! Me standing there with his dick in my hand! Part of me wanted to purse my lips and tsk-tsk just like my darling Em. Got what he wants and he’s outta there, is it? Alright for you, mister! Ha! The kid sure had been through one hell of a day. So, only natural, after a first-up core-melting orgasm, his consciousness was simply shutting down for the night, regardless of time or place. I managed to walk him out of the shower and start toweling him down. But I was virtually holding him up at the same time, or at least letting him fall all over me, clobbering me with those damn plaster casts, sliding and bumping. Sheesh, if the boy got me any harder he’d be able to take a perch on my aching broomstick and I’d fly him to bed like some crazed, moon-howling wizard. “Hey, Lucas, buddy, stay with me for five minutes, I’ll get you into bed.” Eyes closed, he murmured woozily, “Hmm, it’s nice…” Couldn’t argue with that, working the fluffy white towel down across his tummy, his sex, between his legs. Kid had finally lost his boner, and was now in a state I’d call relaxed semi-engorged. So, yeah, “nice” covered it pretty well. Clunking a plaster cast on my shoulder as I knelt to dry his legs and feet, he continued, “Ha…mm…later before, you washed my penis and my bottom.” I looked up at him. La-la land central. “Couldn’t have done it without you, buddy.” He gave a sigh, putting the other cast on my other shoulder and trying to lean his weary weight on me. “Jack…?” “Yeah, buddy?” “Um…Jack…?” He was gone for all money, the dozy whacker. “Right here. Almost done. What’s on your mind?” “Can I stay at your place next time?” “You can stay at my place anytime you like. You know the rules — long as you don’t piss in the aquarium, pretty much do as you please.” “…maybe if I might need a shower, ha ha.” “I’ll bring the soap.” Now I wouldn’t rate that my best one-liner of all time, but Lucas seemed to think it was funnier than sliced malarkey. It reduced the boy to a floppy rag doll animated only by delirious giggles. Standing back up, ditching the towel, I lifted him by the butt — a butt Zeus himself would have been proud to lift on high — his plaster cast arms over my shoulders, bumping against my back, his legs wrapping round my waist, his head dropping down on a shoulder. It was close to the most rewarding task of the day, getting the boy downstairs and into bed. He burbled a few things in my ear as we went and, who knows, there might be an all-knowing god somewhere who could tell you what he said. His la-la land seemed a happy place, though. But let me give you a tip. If you ever have to deal with a boy with two broken wrists, bear this in mind: NOTHING is easy. With the possible exception of breathing, every bodily function becomes a Rubik’s Cube of what-the-fuck perplexity. Because you’d reckon plonking a sleeping lad into bed would be a fairly straight forward exercise. I mean, it’s a big deluxe king-size number, my bed. So, hard to miss. And kitted out with top-of-the-range Peach Skin sheets, a duvet made of 80% Guatemalan goose fluff or some shit — not a hard job, you’d reckon, getting a kid off to nigh-nigh’s. I wrangled his dead-weight down and he seemed inclined to take up a position lying on his side. But his plaster casts — will no one rid me of these troublesome plaster casts! — one was at a weird angle behind his back, and the other, splayed out izmit sınırsız escort bayan in front, seemed to to be twisting his arm very awkwardly. Also, just for the hell of it, he’d thrown another boner, hard as a goddamned branding iron. Coming down the stairs, his sex pressed into my stomach, probably did that. Not that a twelve-year-old boy needs rhyme or reason. At that age it’s a bit like: I tumesce, therefore I am. But I had to sort out these damn plaster casts. I started shifting a few boy-limbs about, but it only seemed to compound the problem. I stood back, tilted my head: Boy in a Bed, by Pablo Picasso. Well, there was an easy solution — he was just going to have to sleep on his back, plaster casts gently by his sides. He made some sleepy moans of resistance as I tried to roll him toward me, then he makes a sudden extravagant attempt to do a full one-eighty onto his other side — and comes tumbling out of the bed! Jesus Christ! I managed to grab him enough to break his fall, although we ended in a very awkward, bare-assed tangle on the floor, me copping a nice crack on the ear from one of his plaster casts. Trying to extricate myself and pick the boy up at the same time — suddenly he gives a mighty jump, wrenches aside, swings a plaster cast past my nose — fair dinkum, an inch away from being brained, that time — and shouts, “Don’t! Get back! You’ll fall!” Reliving the accident? He was pretty agitated, suddenly awake, but unfocused, wild-eyed and in a bit of a sweat. “Lucas, it’s okay. Just a nightmare, buddy.” I continued with some more soothing mumbo-jumbo, and he seemed to settle, to slowly come to his senses…which meant he then took a gander at his position with me on the floor, like we were in the play-off round of nude Twister, both of us as naked and boned-up as the day we were born. The boy looked at me in total confusion. “Where…what happened?” “It’s a long story, bud.” I gently removed a thread of something sticking to his cheek. “So, unless you’re in the mood for a game of tiddlywinks or something, I guess we should hit the hay.” “Mm…” And, like a hypnotist’s dream, he started to nod. Anyway, I got us both standing up, the boy once again dissolving into slumberous passivity, draping his naked form on me, head on my chest. And, yes, boy-boner jabbing my thigh. Really, Lucas took his hormonal duties very seriously. it’s like there’s a creed — a United States Pubertal Service creed: “Neither modesty nor sleep nor broken wrists nor gloom of night stays these boys from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.” At least I had a good excuse for MY unflagging hard-on: since the start of our recently concluded Olympian shower, I hadn’t got off. And, brother, if you’d copped an eyeful of this boy, you’d fear for my mental health. Second time round, thankfully, no worries. Got the boy lying down on his back, a picture of gentle repose. Well, except for his trusty sentinel. The cherubim with his flaming sword, ever alert for danger and opportunity. As I went round to my side of the bed, grinding a molar or two to dust, I picked the lightweight duvet up from the floor — all we’d need in the current warmth — and, after getting it nicely over us, turned out the light. Sure, the boy had gotten me dangerously horny and in need of release, but, on the other hand, it was after two in the morning. And sleep soon came at me like an ocean at an agitated drop of rain… For Lucas, though, the darkness was apparently his cue to wake up. Just as I was dropping off, I became aware of increasingly restless movements on his side of the bed, pulling the duvet half off me. Bet he was trying to turn on his side. “You awake, buddy?” I asked. Silence. But the restless moving stopped. Then, after a pause, he said, “I probably won’t play tennis again.” Christ, the voice he said it in was fairly full to cracking with emotion. Some short breaths and gulps followed. I don’t want to be a mean-spirited sonofabitch at a difficult moment, but this was reminding me a little of Emily at certain times of the lunar calendar. That cluey bastard Shakespeare, I think, noted this propensity in boys. I said, “Because of your injury, or as a life decision?” “I…how can I get back?” he said, tears coming now. I slid over, reached a hand out — what the fuck! He was lying on his stomach! Well, probably wasn’t important. I said, “Don’t even think about getting back for two weeks, Lucas. You’re in the underworld, buddy. It’s a trip evinde görüşen escort every hero makes.” I was rubbing his back, but the tears came good now. Finally he managed to choke out, “I wanna go home.” “Absolutely. That’s part of the deal. First thing tomorrow morning, we can ring your mum, she’ll be here in no time.” Thinking about it, I added, “Or I can drive you, either way, we can get you back by tomorrow or the next day.” I moved my hand down, began circular rubs and pats of his sweet little butt. Gradually the tears began to taper off, a few sighs amid the jerky breaths, even a softly whispered “…’s nice…” as he drifted back to sleep. On his front. * * * The kid slept solid through to almost ten-thirty. Good stuff. Gave me a chance to clean up the bathroom, go down the street and get a few things. I rang Sheila and filled her in on the latest. Well, the stuff she needed to know. “Okay, I’ll fly there this afternoon,” she said decisively. “I can drive him back, if you like.” A pause. “If you’re sure…it’d be a great help, but he’s not your responsibility.” “Bullshit.” “Pardon?” “He’s my guest. That’s responsibility enough right there. He’s a real-deal sportsman — that counts — brothers in arms and all that jazz. Then there’s the debt I owe you. Also, I like him. He’s a good kid. That adds up to a whole truck load of responsibility.” She wanted to bat it back and forth a bit, but mainly for show. We settled on my driving him back tomorrow morning. That sorted, I went to the bedroom and found him sleepily stretching, then suddenly holding up his plaster casts and looking form one to the other in mild surprise. “He lives!” A crooked smile. “What time is it?” “Half past ten.” “Really? I never sleep that late.” “You probably don’t bust both your wrists all that often, either. How are they, anyway, the wrists? Hurting at all?” He shook his head, then lifted his left arm. “Actually, this one aches a little bit — not much though.” I fetched some painkillers, sat on the bed beside him, and we got the pills swallowed down with nary a spilt drop of water. And that was despite the fact, with the boy sitting up, duvet round his waist, that goddamned smooth sorta glowing skin of his — it’s even worse first thing in the morning, if you can believe it — and the disgracefully tender budding form of him — man, my managing to stay cool, I was like one of them grand poo-bah Buddhists or whatever they’re called. I said, “Your coach rang not long ago, wanting to know how you were. He seems alright.” “Franks cool,” the boy said, “but he’s pretty strict.” “So he and some boy named Cock are going to try and drop in before you go.” “What? A boy named what?” “I didn’t catch it — Cock or Nob or something…” “You…ha…Jack, c’mon, who was it?” “Gherkin, maybe…? Does that sound right? Yeah, Gherkin, that was it.” Finally he said, “Carl? Was it Carl?” “Carl! Shit, yeah, that might be it. So who’s he when he’s not impersonating a pickle?” “Carl’s great! He’s one of the seniors — or nearly — he’s seventeen — but he’s already won an open comp. Seriously. He’s from Sweden.” “Sweden, huh, well there you go,” I said, although Whoopty-fucken-do is more in the ball-park of what I really thought. “Well, I’ll be sure to get the good relish out for when he arrives.” He started to prattle on about Gherkin’s heroics in some do-or-die prance-fest them tennis players seem to love, and I’d love to have heard more, but we had to get on. Hauling my phone out, I said, “Better call your mum, buddy. She’s dying to hear from you.” I set it on speakerphone and left him to it. It was a good twenty minutes or so before I heard him sign off. Going back in the room, I said, “She doesn’t mind a chat, your mum.” But he wasn’t looking overly happy. “Did you tell mum I want to go home?” “Yeah, of course — isn’t that what you want?” “No. But I mean I will, if you…” “Whoa, hold up — what about last night, what you said?” He frowned. “When? What?” “You don’t remember the talk we had in bed last night?” Jesus wept, that sounded WAY too much like Emily, God love her. He shook his head, genuinely bemused. To be honest, I was stoked. “Well, I dunno, maybe I got my wires crossed. But it’s totally up to you, bud — if you want to go home, nothing easier. And your mum agrees.” “Yeah, I know, but…” “What?” “Well, you know,” and he held his plaster casts up. “I can’t — Mum can’t do everything…” “Yeah, true — that could turn into one kocaeli sınırsız escort bayan helluva Freudian shit-storm. ‘Specially the way you use a bathroom.” “Jack! Jesus!” Then he decided his anxiety wasn’t quite done with. “But if you want me to go…” I couldn’t help smiling. A bit obvious, that one, the kid’s fishing for a bouquet. I moved to take his chin in my hand, tilted him to look directly at me. “How many hand-jobs will it take to convince you that I like you. A lot.” And he blushes and laughs and lowers his eyes like the most virginal maiden ever to wash herself anew in a mythical spring. I mean, fuck, what was last night in the bathroom? Did it count for nothing? Was I to be some Sisyphean dope, constantly hauling an angel down from the heights, only to see him flutter straight back up…? I reached for the duvet at his waist, giving an exaggerated sigh. “Okay, let’s go through this one more time — but watch what I’m doing this time.” It got him suddenly a bit yippy, already pink-cheeked and laughing, and he made a good effort of bringing his plaster casts to his lap to stop my exposing him. “Jack, nah, it’s alright — it’s just I better — I’m not wearing my pajamas.” “Ha!” Damn, this boy cracked me up. “Not wearing your pajamas? Bloody hell — you’re not related to Satan by any chance?” It was fun, but I stopped tinkering and toying with the duvet, with all the associated little prods and rubs at his lower tummy, and took a firm hold of each of his protective baffles, those damn plaster casts, and put them flat down on the bed, maneuvered them under the duvet, either side of him. “They don’t move from there, okay? That’s the one rule you have to follow from here on in.” He gave me a funny look, hard to decipher. His startled “Oh!” when I grabbed a fistful of duvet, yanked it up high then threw it right the hell off the bed, was much more straight forward. He was SO close to moving his plaster casts, might have done so if I hadn’t cautioned him with a “Ah! Careful!” But he didn’t. “Jesus…” he muttered, both of us looking down at his naked form, his magnificent, fiercely hard erection sticking up, almost tickling his lower tummy, the few damp pubic curls round the base making it look mighty, cocked and loaded. Not overly at ease, burning with self-consciousness, he leant back on the pillows and headboard. I sat on the edge of the bed at about his knees, ran a hand up one leg. At his knee, I prompted him to spread his legs apart a little, which he did. Not a lot, but enough. I ran a hand up his inner thigh, actually swearing quietly at the satiny smooth skin, the blood-warm subtlety of his first muscle development, quads, thighs, slender hips. Until I nudged into his his impressively fat little ball bag. “Holy fuck, bud,” I said. “I thought I might have drained some of the heat from these last night — reckon they’re fucken bigger this morning!’ He made a “Ngh” noise, lifting his knees a fraction, spreading them a little as I fondled him. “Did that right arm move?” I asked. “Huh?” I ran my fingers lightly up the slender length of his ivory shaft, his little baby elephant’s tusk, straining with perfect poise, hair-trigger heat, seeming to float a little translucently in the bright morning light. He gave a lovely, almost theatrical, gulp as, with gentle thumb, I teased his foreskin down just a bit. Was he sporting a little drop of boy-dew? With the same thumb I slid across gently to take his tiny wet kiss, moved to begin rubbing his sweet spot, got a good two-fingers-and thumb-grip and began a full, quick, firm masturbating of him. His response — this tender little powder keg of unopened fuck-heat — was a choreographed symphony of flinches, bucks, and strained pleas of sweet nothing — “fuck…ah, careful, it’s…I’ve gotta…” He pressed his knees tight together, bending over it, grunting his little fuck-protest, trying to halt what he needed so bad — this boy’s sex wiring was too much for him, too sensitive, it hurt — with me rubbing him faster, firmer, his foreskin sliding tight but good and slippery, full up and down his glistening, purpling head. Till he had to change tack, a final desperate move — he spread his knees wide, sliding down on the bed, fucking his little pubis up in the air, trying to fuck something or fuck it off, as I steadily beat him into a knifing hot orgasm, his cock reeling off spasms too fast to count, first sending two tight, thin spurts of clear juice up toward his straining neck. Then, from the weight of his molten balls, a gentle pulse and dribble of pure boy milk, the rapid spasming of his climax continuing to chatter and pester at him, reanimating the spunked boy with a few final flinches and shivers. But, you know, I don’t reckon he did move his plaster casts. Fuck me, he was a good boy. END OF CHAPTER 2 Comments welcome: ail