Tom Daley's Balancing Act

Hello there. I hope you enjoy my story. I am associated with a particular type of story - non-consensual stories, involving young chaps. This story is NOT one of those. It does not wish to be one of those stories. If you expect that...you will be disappointed. This is my attempt - cack-handed, as it is - at a 'genuine' story, with characters, plot, and all that other shit stories are supposed to have. I am, technically, retired - but I thought I'd give a different genre a go, to see what happens. This is the result; and who knows? Maybe it'll make someone, somewhere, cum ;-)

So my regular readership should consider itself duly warned :-) If you want to skip that whole character build-up rubbish, the sex starts at the start of Chapter Four.

Before I go any further, I should thank my editor, Michael, who actually read this from beginning to end for me, for free. I know; can you believe it? A heart of tempered gold.

So...what IS this I've written? Well, it's a nice story involving Tom Daley, in which everyone gets along. Why have I written a nice story involving Tom Daley, when all my other material is anything but that? Because, as a young teenage male currently in the closet, he no doubt reads this archive regularly, and I don't see it as my job to scare Tom Daley into hiring additional personal protection officers.

And that brings me to another thing -

MESSAGE FOR TOM DALEY:

Hello Tom. How are you. Listen, I have another idea for a story involving you - but I'll be honest, it's really absolutely seriously fucking filthy. So it'd be great if you could email me at my address (should be both above and beneath this message), and I'll go over my plot ideas, and you can let me know what you think.

Oh, and let me know what you think of this story, too. I mean, if I make you spurt all over the place, I think it's only fair if you let me know, right? Just like the character below, I'm very discrete. ttyl.

MESSAGE FOR EVERYONE: But it's not just Tom Daley I want to hear from - I would love to hear the thoughts of anyone and everyone, via email.

My email address is: Just_Some_Chap@Hotmail.co.uk.

And if you read this story, and you like it...and if you read others, and you like those too...why not give a teensy weensy donation to the nifty archive? I started perusing the contents of this archive when I was...well, let's just say, when I was young. And it pains me to admit this, but that was a long time ago. But as a young man struggling to find myself, nifty was a very good friend...and I know a lot of people reading this will know precisely what I mean.

It saddens me greatly to think there might come a time when this archive isn't there, for other wayward souls...so, do what you know is right, and just give 'em a couple of bucks.

So with all that out of the way...on with the story...

TOM DALEY'S BALANCING ACT -------------------------------

Chapter One ----------- The funny thing is, I wasn't even meant to be there.

Oh, I should probably introduce myself. Well, I'm a man in a suit, in London. 28 years old, dark hair, reasonably toned...you know the type. I look like the sort of bloke who can handle himself, because I am the sort of bloke who can handle himself.

And I work for `the government'. I won't say any more than that, other than to add that it's not really the sort of job where you get invited to swanky post-Olympic diving parties.

And yet, by shear twist of fate, that's precisely what happened.

I was just passing through the FCO main building. Well, I say passing through – impatiently hanging around when I had other shit I needed to be getting on with, would be a more accurate description.

I don't work for the Foreign Office, so not really having anywhere else to go, I went to bug Dougie.

He's a dick, but he's a good mate...you know how work friends are. He's my `inside man' at the FCO, and I, the same for him, when he needs something unofficially sorted by my own department.

After finding myself a bacon sandwich to munch on, I went to say hello.

He was sitting resplendent at his desk in an open plan office overlooking King Charles Street. He's twice my age, twice my weight and a confident fucker – so it's impossible for him not to look like some monarch, holding court. I guess that's why I like him.

"Ah, my sweet, homosexual prince! Come to regail me with tales of daring-do from our friends over the river, have you? Liven up my Monday, will you?"

I smile sweetly. "Hello, Dougie." My eye's flit across the room; Dougie's desk is strewn with back-dated reports from archives, and his office-buddies are all shouting into phones. "Bad day for the Commonwealth, mate?"

Dougie cracked a grin. "You and those bloody eyes of yours. We should make you all wear sunglasses whenever you come here! We're not prepared for it! And it's always a bad day for the Commonwealth when I'm here, lad. But, you know me – grin and bear it! Now..." Dougie's toned adopted a conspiratorial tone, as he leant forward in his chair to whisper to me, "precisely what IS your business here, young man?"

"Well that's for me to know and you to find out, isn't it?"

"Oh, no fair! I have the same clearance as you!"

"Yes, but you lack my grace, style and wit – so it's for the best if you don't' know. Important stuff and all that. But suffice to say, it involves le Americano's...if you know what I mean."

"Waiting around for the Cousins, are you? Bloody Yanks. You know, I was in New York once-"

Not wanting to hear yet another one of Dougie's golden anti-American oldies, I glanced at the old chap's desk and picked up a noticeable piece of thick brilliant-white card, inscribed with embossed black lettering and with the HMG seal front and centre. "What's this, Dougie?" I asked in a theatrically high tone. "Cinderella finally invited you to the ball? A `you bring the slippers, we'll bring the anal beads' sort of affair, is it?"

Dougie tilted his head. "Very droll, you disgusting boy. As you know, we FCO types are FREQUENTLY invited to balls, and all we have to bring are our Ferrero Rocher."

"That line still gets a laugh, does it? You know the Berlin Wall was up when they were running those commercials?"

"Oh be quiet you silly sausage. Actually...you know, THAT," he said, pointing at the card excitedly, "might JUST be the sort of thing you're interested in. I can get you in – if you fancy it, I mean."

It was then that I knew Dougie didn't want to go to this particular function, and very much wanted me to go in his place. And, as I read, I could see why. My frown became increasingly pronounced as I read. "Diving? You think I'm interested in diving? How long have we known each other? And you reckon I like diving?"

"Oh, it's not going to be about bloody diving. It's a congratulatory thing – post-Olympics champers and cake – all the divers are going to be there. Well, not ALL of them, obviously; some have gone home to be liquidated by their political masters for meagre performance, the poor dears...but a good handful will be in attendance. FCO protocol is that we send a bod – you know, to represent Her Maj, God Bless Her-"

"God Bless Her."

"-indeed, but I've got a prior commitment. Can't go. Really, can't go at all. But it's too late to get someone else for it – the function's TONIGHT, and I only found out about it myself today."

"When was the last time you heard me say, I'm looking for a good deal on some new flippers and a snorkel', or I can't go to the pub tonight, I'm off to watch the DIVING?"

"Would you shut up for one bloody minute and listen? It's not ABOUT the diving. Look who's going. Go on; look."

My voice slipped an octave as I pretended to airily think about the names. "Oh, Tom Daley...yes, isn't he the, um-"

"Fit one? Yes, he is."

I looked offended. Mainly because such a comment coming from a fat 55 year old married father of three boys, was just wrong. "I was going to say `the prodigious talent from our own recent Olympics'. We don't all think with our knobs, Dougie."

Although of course, in truth, I was indeed thinking `fit one'. Good old Dougie. Probably the only person I know who can finish my sentences – but I'd never give him the satisfaction.

"Hah! Good one. But, you know, you could go along...say hello...get to...know him, a little bit...maybe he'd...warm, to you...provided his girlfriend isn't there, of course – oh, you disgusting boy!"

Sometimes, Dougie is the campest person I know, adopting a tone positively dripping with pitiable innuendo – this was one of those times. He so desperately wanted me to go. And I guess I wanted to go. I mean, I'd just be another `guy in a suit', but I suppose it beats watching a Midsomer Murder repeat. Plus, there was young Tom...

"Dougie, listen. I'm flattered that you care so deeply for my love life, but I think I'll give it a miss. I mean, it IS about diving, mate. You can't get around that. And I'm someone who didn't go to, or watch, ANY of the Olympics. And I could see the fucking stadium from my flat. Honestly, it's not my thing. And, besides...I'M NOT EVEN WITH YOUR FUCKING DEPARTMENT! This is like you asking someone who works for Marks and Spencer to cover the shift of someone who works for Tesco's."

Dougie leaned back in his chair, arms folded in indignant, comedic rage. "Oh, I see. This is what our friendship comes down to, is it? You waltz in here, smearing bacon fat on a door knob older than the United States as you do so, and you say to me – ME – that you won't do this one little thing because you don't like diving – AS IF I BLOODY DO...and then, THEN, you refer to this illustrious department as `Tesco'? Well. Why don't you just piss on the fucking drapes whilst you're here? Would you like me to get the Foreign Secretary down, so you can dress him up like a great big working class clown; rub his bald head for luck, maybe?"

I kept eating my sandwich, watching the show. Dougie was so funny when he was desperate. "You can't get old baldielocks down here, Dougie. And what I said still stands-"

"FINE. You want me to say it?"

I nodded solemnly. "I want you to say it."

"I can't believe you want me to say it. Fine. I'll say it. But that's it between us. We're finished. THROUGH. You can find some other strapping straight man to pester. Here goes." Dougie breathed in deeply, and then began to mumble, "...will you please go to this...function...this PARTY, at which you'd have a GREAT TIME...and if you do, I will...owe you one – `a favour', in the parlance of our times."

"That's all I wanted to hear, Dougie. And yes, I'll go. To be honest, I've always wanted to meet Tom Daley – I mean, he's the fit one, isn't he? And you know Dougie, I've got some good news for you – you need not burden yourself with concerns over how you might have to repay your favour to me; you can repay me right now. Check in with the fellas over the way there – to see if my American friends have called. When they have, get the telex couriered over the river for me. There we go; favour repaid. Wasn't too hard, was it?"

Having finished my sandwich, I sucked the fat off each of my fingers, and wiped my sticky hand on my white shirt, avoiding the orange tie and my dishevelled grey suit jacket.

Dougie sat watching, shaking his head. "Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting."

Making my way to sign out and get back to my own outfit across the river, I was pleased to of offloaded the momentous and thoroughly rewarding task of waiting for an urgent message from an American, which could take all day. But, I wasn't too thrilled to be spending my evening in the company of some middle class diving kids, talking about how great they all are.

Not really my scene.

Chapter Two ----------- Well, as if this wasn't already bad enough.

Not only was I feeling intensely awkward, having to wear a suit which fits' me rather than my usual garb, and not only was the venue for this shin-dig some high-rise wine-bar which had all the personality and charm of a Cousin-chartered Guantanamo Bay night-flight, but now I was wearing a name tag which fucking read Mr. Douglas Hueley Fairfax-Macintosh: Foreign and Commonwealth Office'.

Good old Dougie. No wonder he became a Foreign Office civil servant; he has a name which can only be taken seriously if it's preceded by Sir' and proceeded by OBE'.

But, thankfully, I have my training to fall back on. Make the best of a bad situation, that sort of thing. And ya' know – when it comes to attracting a mark, there's one golden rule: don't show interest. Because let me tell you something – if you carry yourself in the right way...they'll want to talk to you.

And so it was with Tom. I spent the evening chatting to the other teams – I know a fair bit of Russian, a smattering of Mandarin, and various bits and pieces from European languages – you know, stuff you pick up from `travelling' - so I could at least hold some entertaining discussions with a few of the athletes.

Fairly late into the evening, I spied young Tom on his lonesome, over by the deserted buffet table, looking out to the rest of the room with his lemonade. He was dressed in a Team GB tracksuit – no doubt something he was made to wear, `for the occasion'.

Scratching my itchy balls through my fitted trousers, I sympathised.

Were it not for the fact his profession requires him to basically wear a pair of elasticated briefs, the baggy uniform would annoy me. But having already seen what lies underneath it, in crisp High Definition, it merely excited me.

I sauntered over, bold as brass. I learnt a long time ago, confidence will get you everywhere: people mistake confidence for competence, and in a way, it's fucking sickening, but that's just the way of the world, ain't it?

Champagne in one hand, paper plate in another, I stood beside him – nice and close, so our sides were touching and he couldn't help but notice me. But of course, I resolutely refused to notice him, with my attention entirely focussed on the chicken drumsticks and sausage rolls I were manoeuvring onto my wobbly plate.

I felt him looking at me, before moving a couple of steps to the side to get out of my way, but still looking at me as he took a sip of his lemonade.

I slowly turn my neck, as if only now realising he was there.

I frown, as if in thought.

I raise my hand with the plate, pointing my finger at him.

"Tom, right? Tom Daley?"

He smiles forlornly and shakes his head, as if trying to comprehend how much of a dick I am, and failing. "Yes. I'm Tom. You, like – have you done this before? You're supposed to talk to the British people, mainly, not swan off entertaining the foreigners."

"I apologise, Mr. Daley, if you've lacked for my attention this evening. Sausage roll? I've got lots."

I bite manfully into a sausage roll. "No, that's..." he chuckles, and shakes his head again. "That's not what I'm, what I'm saying, it's just...you've been doing it wrong, that's all."

"Doing it wrong? Now, you'll excuse me for arguing this point with you, but – that's unlikely. I've been doing THIS, for a long time."

"All I'm saying is..." now he's on the defensive. Looking for a way out; that's good. Now all I have to do is make sure I don't give him a way out. "...you haven't spoken to me once, and I'm the one who won a medal. Do you see what I mean?"

I sigh theatrically, and point to my badge. "Dougie whatever thingy-me-bob Mackintosh, FOREIGN and COMMONWEALTH Office – clue's in the name, mate." I'm shouting at him now, and jabbing him in the chest. Like all good middle-class boys, whilst he might clean behind his ears, he's terrible at dealing with confrontation. "I'm MEANT to talk to the bloody foreigners. That's why I speak foreign, ain't it? So I can speak to `em."

He looks like he's about to cry. "That – you." He shakes his head. "Are you bloody joking? Is this a joke? You're not being real, are you? This is a...party, for, for everyone who's done well. THAT'S ME!"

I take a slug of champagne. "Oh, I see. So the party's for you, is it? As a representative of Her Majesty's Government, I'm supposed to stand here and tell you how bloody great you are? Because that's not really my style, sunbeam. Sorry; I live in the real world, not this faux-Hollywood, big-me-up bullshit where everyone gets to jump in the swimming pool at the end. You know something? I don't even bloody LIKE diving."

He snorted impassively, and looked around the room. He looked ready to explode – but, again, that good middle class upbringing saw me right, and avoided any potential nastiness. "I see. Well, sorry if we've all inconvenienced you. Still, you are actually being PAID to come here drink that champagne, so you could at least pretend to enjoy it, couldn't you?"

I nodded calmly, and replied levelly, "yes, ok, I'll pretend for you. Maybe you can give me a mark out of ten for it later? I mean, I suppose you're the expert at that, aren't you, Mr. Daley?"

Ooooh burn, I thought.

He furrowed his brow in precocious anger. "What's that supposed to mean? And stop calling me `Mr. Daley' – you're only a couple of years older than me. Twat."

I chuckled, putting my plate down and taking a glug of champagne. The boy had spunk – as if I didn't already know. I thought of saying how I looked younger than I was, but my vanity stopped me from doing so.

Instead, I put my free hand on the table, resting on it, and lean close into him; breathing in the subtle scent of his cologne as I whisper into his delicate ear. "I'm sorry; for what it's worth, you seem like an absolutely delightful boy. Now, allow me to make it up to you: tell me, can you keep a secret, young Tom?"

He looks confused at my sudden change in attitude; but it's obvious given how hurt he was by my earlier comments that he'll gleefully eat up the opportunity to right any wrongs.

He rolls his eyes and stifles a grin; but all the same, he turns to nervously look at me, the mysterious man he feels increasingly obligated to talk to. "Yeah."

"Whilst I do work for Her Majesty's Government, and have absolutely no desire to blow the place up...the fact of the matter, is that I'm not a representative of the FCO. And I'm pleased to say, my name is not Douglas."

He looks at me wide-eyed, as if he's genuinely never heard anything so outlandish. The boredom of this party must really be getting to him. "Then who are you?!" he asks excitedly.

I withdraw from his personal space – a little reward for him playing along, although only his subconscious would register it in those terms. "Well. That's for me to know, and you to find out, isn't it?"

"You look like a tax inspector to me."

I raise my eyebrows incredulously. "Ah, an attempt at humour from our young bronze medallist? Very impressive."

He slowly, cautiously, sidles around me; moving from my side to my front, so he is standing before me, arms folded – confident, but a little bit desperate for my attention.

"You hope I'm joking," he says easily.

I chuckle. "Do I? Why's that?"

That stops him dead in his tracks. He thinks for a moment; trying to come up with a way to dig himself out of this particular hole. "Well, you know. Who wants to be compared to...to a, a tax inspector? I mean...it was just a joke, man. A crap joke. It...it didn't mean anything."

Ah, yes. Trying to shift the focus back to me by implying I'd misunderstood him. A good strategy, but handled poorly; I'd give him six out of ten.

"Oh, Tom," I say breezily, "a joke; a serious assertion; who cares? You shouldn't be so concerned about what other people think."

He looks into the middle distance, wondering how best to respond. To continue the discussion about his `joke', or to instead focus on my latest little implication. If he chose the latter, it would mean he saw in it something which bothers him a great deal.

"What, you...you don't care about what other people think?" he asks incredulously, "not one person?"

"My friend, I have made a veritable career out of not caring about a single fucking thing. No dependents; no mortgage; no attachments. I pays me dues, collects me pay, and keep meself to meself. Know what I mean?"

"Heh." He raises his eyebrows in surprise. "An...interesting, philosophy. Not one I could live with, though. My family means everything to me. Although I guess that explains why you didn't have a `plus one' in attendance; girlfriend or whatever."

Oh, Tom, I didn't know you cared, I thought to myself. This is why I like boys; they can grow up into the most inexplicably depraved and annoying complicated of individuals, but when they're young, and they're horny, you can read them like an open book.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

You know, we're trained to read people; read situations. To see where things are going. And whilst the situation was all very mundane, I couldn't help but notice Tom's quiet inner turmoil. The furtive glances at the floor; the hunched shoulders; the toes, flexing within the confines of his thin, white trainers; the index finger of one hand, nervously picking at the rim of the tumbler he held in the other hand.

Time to push things along. I knew he'd thank me later.

"Yes, I suppose it does. Although I guess the larger issue explaining my lack of a girlfriend is my homosexuality."

Tom gulps, and looks around. I think he'd suspected.

"Oh, you're gay? I had no idea; you act really straight."

I act straighter than you, I thought.

I smile, and make a point of looking into the boy's eyes. "Yes, well. I don't act the way I act to appear straight, as such; I act the way I act, to fit in with the crowd. It's sort of my job...sort of, and my sexuality makes me...well, it makes me very good at it, I suppose. What about you, Tom? Is that the sort of thing that might interest you? Sucking dick, I mean; not the particular competences required for my work." I laugh easily, as if my final addendum was merely a helpful clarification.

I expect him to look at me with anger in his eyes. But instead, he merely looks stunned, and scared – scared that his mask has slipped.

And predictably, he is lost for words. "I...no, I have, I have a girlfriend..."

I nod, and seize upon his moment of uncertainty to push home my advantage. "Tom, shut up for a minute, and don't move."

My free hand – the one not holding the champagne flute – slides to the front of his track pants, wraping itself around the delicate morsels kept in his trackies. In the eternity that is this moment, I know that he, like me, is experiencing a sudden surge of adrenalin; a sudden pulse of primal potency. It slows time down to a crawl; it means that in the fraction of a second it takes his eyes to widen and his lungs to suck in as much air as they can, I can observe how the party around us is continuing on regardless; how everything is perfectly fine.

And in the sweet, fleeting eternity of that moment, my hand takes in every detail – every nuance, every contour – of his perky, puffed up prick; my hand choking the chunky fucker for all it was worth, my little finger pressing down on the obscured pink dome, and digging further south, to the pair of large, slumbering duck eggs contained in a hide-bound sack.

He responds; but far too late. By the time his hand weakly grips my wrist, I have my hand firmly nestled in the warm juncture between his muscular thighs, the fingers of my hand deftly cupping the mass of sweet-meat contained within.

With his eyes wild and panicked, I place my champagne goblet down, so I can raise my index finger in the air as I say, "now, the most important thing to do at this point, from your point of view, is to stay calm. You're perfectly safe. Understand? I'm looking over your shoulder, around the room, and everyone is chatting amiably. No-one is looking over; no-one thinks anything untoward is happening. But, that will change, if you twist my wrist; if you fight. Because if you twist my wrist, Tom, I will twist your balls, clean off. That will hurt, and it will make people look over. And when they look over, they will wonder what the young diver is doing with the representative of Her Majesty's Government."

I lower my finger, so that I can softly take hold of his hand, which is firmly gripping my wrist; squeezing it. "Now...let...go. Tom, let go. I won't ask again."

"What is...fucking wrong with you," he says through gritted teeth.

This is what drink does to me. I do like risk; danger. I suppose I'm a bit of a slave to it.

Ugh. I should lay off the champagne.

I slowly pull his wrist away from my own, and whisper to him, so my voice doesn't carry over the cluttered din of the party, "why don't you live a little, Tom? I'd hate for you to do what so many others do – spend their time, patiently waiting for their lives to get going, only to realise they've missed the boat, and it's already happened."

My hand, which has now been afforded greater freedom of movement thanks to me flawing Tom's own away from it, slowly presses into the slick, warm polyester of his track pants, taking more fulsome ownership of the lonely diver's soft, napping genitals.

"I'm an Olympic medallist, you dick. My life's already bloody going," he spat at me.

I smile. "Now, Tom. We both know what I mean, and we both know I'm correct."

The wrist I am holding on one hand, and which is still resisting, slackens slightly. "I...man, why are you doing this? Just, just stop. I don't want this."

"How do you want it?" I whisper. "I'm very accommodating. And discrete."

"Just...just let GO," he screams.

The stupid fuck. The stupid, small minded fuck.

With people turning, I have no option but to let go of a meaty tube which was undeniably thicker than it was when I'd found it a few minutes previously.

I ensured my face was stone: fixed, unapologetic.

He'd be apologising to me before long, or in his head he would be, at least.

He storms off.

I turn back to the table, and calmly pick up my champagne flute from the buffet table. I do this, so none of the bystanders can see my name card for future reference, and because I needed a fucking drink.

My hand shaking, I nervously rub my right eye. I'm tired. It's...Wednesday, isn't it? Yeah, tomorrow's Thursday.

I used to be able to do this sort of thing; work all day, go out, go to work the next day.

But that seems like another life, and in that moment, I hate the boy even more. I adjust my hardon, and stride over to one of the Chinese divers I was talking to earlier.

Chapter Three ------------- I spent the rest of the evening trying to do a good impression of a foreign office civil servant, and failing miserably. I had one or two run-ins with Tom – chats, initiated by him, for some reason unknown to me; stupid, insipid, tame affairs which I'd like to forget.

And now, at this moment - I don't cut a particularly inspiring figure. Having disposed of my itchy suit jacket, I'm out on the now windswept, long-deserted terrace beside the bar. It clearly isn't meant to be used tonight; there is some sort of thick, rope-netting, like what you'd find on a pirate ship, coating the low ceiling, which hangs off the edge and is blowing somewhat forlornly in the wind. I sit on the floor, my leg's dangling over the edge of the building, between the steel poles of the fence skirting the rim of the terrace.

I lean forward, resting my head on those same poles, staring at the London cityscape – not skyline; we're too low for that – but it's a pleasant view, all the same.

I gingerly bring a can of Carlsberg up to my lips.

Because the glass to the room is tinted black, and the door is closed, there is only the light of a couple of low-tone lamps, and the light of the city.

The only sound is the fluttering of the polythene Tesco's bag. In the typical white-imperialist style of my colonial forebears, I got the Chinese diver to get me some cans from the nearby Tesco's Express. In the typical style of his capitalist contemporaries, he said he would, provided I also paid for some cans for himself.

Finishing my fourth can, I crushed it, and threw it off the rooftop.

The wind brought it back to the terrace.

Typical.

I become aware of light, trainered footsteps behind me.

"Mr. Daley."

Silence for a moment, before a familiar, soft, airy, queer home-counties tone states, "I told you not to call me that."

He stands beside me, looking at the view, before looking down at me.

I turn my head, staring directly into his crotch for a moment, before tilting my head back to look up at him. "You said a lot of things," I said cryptically.

I realise I am really very drunk indeed.

He frowns, and chuckles out of sympathy. "So did you," he says. "Stuff you never apologised for."

"Is that what you want," I say, trying to keep from slurring my words, which seemed to make me slur them even more. "A-a-," I gulp, "an apology? Cchrist, sunbeam; you, you've got some learning to do."

He looks nervously over his shoulder, toward the now open doorway to the soulless wine bar, before sitting down beside me.

"I could get you sacked, you know."

I chortle. "If you knew my fucking name you could get me sacked, you mean."

"You had to show ID to get in. I can find out who you are if I wanna," he spits back, reminding me of the competitive 14 year old he once was.

Not being a competitive 14 year old, I think drunkily for a moment, before replying, "yeah. Yeah, you could. Fair enough. But...Jesus, man. I jus', jus'-"

"-Just...want me...to have sex with you. Right? I mean, that's what you want, isn't it?"

I look at the glass of lemonade in his hand, and compare it with the can of Carlsburg in my own. I don't know what the fuck we're arguing about, but I know I'm destined to lose.

"I, I just want you to, to, to fucking TAKE A RISK, man. You'll LIKE it, trust me. To, to go OUT there, and LIVE." I'm quiet for a moment, before I blurt out, "you wanna, don't you?"

"What?"

"Have sex with me?"

"Not this again-"

I hold up my hand. "Listen, just be honest - I, I'm not tape-recording the conversation or anything – I don' work for a newspaper; I, I'm trying to make a wider point, for fucks sake – so, so just level with me – you wanna do it, right?"

He shakes his head in disgust. "When I saw you earlier, wondering around the room like a gormless moron, I wondered why you'd even bothered to come here. It would've been better if the government people didn't even send anyone, if you were the only person they could be arsed to send. But you know something? Now, I realise why you came here. To try and..." he laughed, as if he couldn't quite believe what he was saying. "You came here, to try and find someone to have sex with. To try and have sex, with ME. It's...it's pathetic. You know that? It's absolutely pathetic."

I look at the city beneath and before me, as he spouts his diatribe against me.

Losing control of a social situation; it's never pleasant, and this is no exception.

I feel...angry. Angry, because what he says isn't true. But like most grown ups, I'm used to people saying stuff that isn't true, and even drunk, it doesn't faze me. The feeling passes.

And then, I feel hurt, and the pain – for the briefest of moments – it clears my head, and I can think lucidly. I seize the opportunity.

"You know what I wonder," I say slowly, before turning my gaze back to him. "I wonder what, the fuck, you're doing here."

I chuckle. "I wonder what you're doing here, on this terrace, talking to me. And you know, I wonder what you were doing earlier, when you were talking to me then. And, and the times before that – I wonder why you CHOSE to talk to me then, too. Given that it's so obvious I'm trying to have sex with you, I mean."

I laugh again; the easy laugh of a man with a winning poker hand.

"And, in all seriousness, let me just correct you - I'm not here for sex; you're wrong about that, I'm here as a favour to a mate. But I am attracted to you, and you're right – your name on the invitation, probably is the reason I agreed to do my mate a favour, and come here. But even then, I still wasn't convinced – because, after all, I'm just another bloke in a suit. Why would you talk to me? I expected to come here and spend the evening chatting to some pleasant Indonesians whilst you did interviews for the Newsround Press Packers Association, or whatever the fuck you do when you're not jumping into a swimming pool."

"I thought the best I could do, would be to gaze at you longfully from afar," I say theatrically, throwing my arm into the air, "I thought that, because unlike all the other suits who are competing with me for your time – unlike all the others, who are interested in sport, I'm a government bloke in a suit. I mean, that's just the fucking worst, isn't it? In da, da, da big diving final or whatever you fucking call it, that basically makes me Chad, right? No chance. Because we have – obviously – nothing professionally in common. And yet, here we are. Chatting. Again. Which is kinda odd, when you consider we're talking after I, as you would have it, molested you by the chicken drumsticks. I mean," I took a big swing from my can, in the mistaken belief that alcohol would help, "it's all just a LITTLE. BIT. WEIRD. Ain't it, sunbeam?"

"I don't-"

"What do you find so interesting about me, Mr. Daley? The cut of my jib? My employer? Because you seem put off by the former, and have expressed no interest in the latter."

I dispose of my fifth can, still a little full, so I can wrap my arm around the boy and pull him close to me, so we are both looking out at the city. "And that's a little stupid of you, Tom, because my employer is relevant here. My employer values discretion; it is key to our work, in fact."

"I ain't interested-"

I poke my finger into his muscular chest. "You're hearing me, but you're not listening. Listen. To what. I'm saying. I am VERY good at keeping secrets. Things – things happen - horrible things; and you know what I do? Do I take a picture on my phone? Do I record the incident? Do I write in a diary; a book? Nope. I do...not a fucking thing. I KEEP MY DAMN MOUTH SHUT. Because that's what I'm paid to do. See what I mean? It's what I'm trained to do. Now, I know it seems like nobody in the world is like that – trustworthy; honourable – but I, Tom...well. I'm not necessarily `good', I guess...I mean, good men don't do nothing, do they? But...I know when you keep my mouth shut, at least. And that...that's valuable; it's...it's demonstrable, and it's something you can make use of."

I realised I was shifting into pleading. I tried to stop myself, but I honestly couldn't. I was becoming a wreck; broken apart by my own fucking locomotion. I had never acted this way before...control. It's all about control. Acquiring it, and keeping it. Now, I was powerless, and as if that wasn't bad enough, I was wallowing in my own helplessness; advertising it to him, as if it were something to be proud of.

The drink is taking me. My job affords no limp-wristed sentimentality, so naturally, it is always the first thing to come to the fore whenever I drink. And he's right; of course, I am pathetic. This is what happens when you shear off your social contact; when you make a point of having nothing.

You start begging eighteen year olds to like you; to `get' you.

"This...man, it's an opportunity. don't you see that? How many have you had? Opportunities, I mean, heh...an', an' how many more will you get, and throw away? I'm not...I'm not trying to, to fuck you up or anything. I just...hate to see you waste it."

Chapter Four ------------ He wipes his face with the sleeve of his tracksuit, and turns to look at me.

He leans forward, his eyes closing, as his lips slowly part.

I – inexplicably, you might think – withdraw my hand from his shoulder, and begin to pull back, and look of surprise and derision on my face.

His neck, however, seems to skip the final few inches, and before I know it our lips briefly graze one another in a bout of mutual, last-minute uncertainty, before firmly coming together.

Each of us lost in our own worlds. My lips part, and his muscular tongue slips into my mouth.

I first taste the saccharine sweetness of the soft-drinks he's been drinking all night, and I feel myself smiling at the honeyed flavour; wondering if the rest of him tastes so tangy. I do my best to entertain the young diver's fizzy, lemon-fresh tongue with my own.

For a good twenty seconds, the only sound on the windswept rooftop is the gusty air swirling around us, and the thickly sloppy noise of us swapping saliva.

I feel I am making a fool of myself thanks to my drunken state, but as we quietly spar with one another, the cackle of sexual energy within me and between us seems to clear my head somewhat.

His hand reaches up and gently rubs the side of my neck; and swiftly moves up, into the curls of my short, fiercely clipped dark hair, his fingers coming to rest just behind my ear.

My left hand takes hold of his muscular right flank, whilst my right plants itself on his firm chest, bouncing with the force of his heartbeat.

We pull apart after a minute. A brief moment of quiet contentedness follows. I withdraw my hands from his body, whilst he keeps his hand behind my head, stroking my ear.

I gulp and look to the empty doorway. "What about the others!?" I whisper conspiratorially, worried that we might have been seen. Then my job really would be forfeit...all things being equal, I might be able to outwit FCO foxes – but not when I've had my tongue lodged down an Olympians throat. That would be a little more problematic to explain at the employment tribunal.

He grins. "They all went to another bar...I think everyone else forgot you were out here..."

I smile with relief. "Except you, you mean?"

He shrugs his shoulders, and looks out at the city. "I, um...wasn't keen, on...going somewhere else. I've had enough. Besides, I think I found you more interesting than they did."

I nod slowly.

The subdued lighting cannot hide the boy's growing pup-tent in his trackies.

"I am something of an acquired taste." I keep smiling, and move my mouth to the flank of his swan-like neck; kissing and biting the perfectly browned skin; after a moment saliva begins to dribble down to his crisp tracksuit.

As I move up to his ear, and proceed to lick and suck on the delicate cartilage, he tilts his head appreciatively. "Maybe...we should go inside," he whispers.

As if signalling my agreement, I begin to stand; he joins me, my mouth still suckling on his ear.

Once standing, my hand moves to the zipper of his tracksuit top. I lower the zip, and my face pulls away from him. "I'm happy where we are, if you don't mind."

As the zip reaches the bottom of its track, I pull apart the jacket, and manfully turn him so his back is pressed against the thick, five-inch panel running along the top of the guard-rail.

I ignore the brief look of fear on his face as I produce a switch-blade from my pocket. I sate his nerves by licking his bottom lip; biting it, and then once more forcing my tongue down his prone, compliant throat.

He moans around my tongue.

Whilst my mouth keeps him occupied, I use the blade to I slice through his thin white cotton T-shirt, as if it were crepe paper. Once his torso is revealed, I victoriously slide my free hand over the boy's exquisite, rippling mocha-toned pectorals; zeroing in on the small brown nipple, now rapidly ripening in the cool London breeze.

After returning the blade to my back pocket, my other hand joins its brother on the opposite side of his wide chest, before it slides to his warm flank.

My wet tongue, reluctantly surrendered by the diver, roams freely down his neck, onto the sweeping plains of his hairless upper body.

I playfully nip at the honeyed skin like a newborn puppy as my tongue traverses the terrain of his chiselled torso, revelling in the fragrant taste of sweet shower gel, tangy aftershave and spicy teenager.

My legs bend so that I can awkwardly, gently and noisily suckle on one of his firm, ripe titties, whilst my other hand twists its nearby brother.

The heavy breathing he has been emitting up to this point is replaced by a more guttural, but still subdued, whine, and I think, `my God, he's actually enjoying this'.

Unable to hold off from what I know is waiting for me, I quickly slide further down his toned body, my hands now pushing him firmly against the guard-rail as my tongue sucks hungrily on each hardened ridge of stomach muscle.

He hums excitedly above me as I do so, palming the back of my head; running his hand through my hair, encouraging me lower.

I oblige him.

As I come face-to-face with his crotch, my hands run across the silky hips of the boy whilst I visually analyse the ridges and contours of his crotch, before sliding round to firmly take ownership of his tight, sporty arse.

Deciding a more invasive examination is necessary, my face descends into the teenager's well-packed crotch. My senses are festooned with the delicately boyish scent of teenager, overlaid with the starchy aroma of his over-stuffed gonads, and all unsuccessfully masked by the sweet acridity of deodorant.

As my mouth begins to suckle on the warm packet of sweet-meat contained in his trackies, my hands begin to resolutely knead each firm bum cheek, burrowing into the flesh more deeply each time my talons close on him; dancing ever closer toward the cracked epicentre of the young diver.

Before long, my fingers are forcing the material of his trackies and underpants into the dark, musky crack, my nails scratching against the secret, knotted rose of muscle within, through the thin material.

Meanwhile, my lips make out the eighteen year old's rapidly (surprise surprise) hardening shaft. I take the meaty, oblong torpedo into my mouth side-on, like a dog with a bone; my teeth digging into the pliant flesh whilst greedily suckling on the rigid shaft, as if it might crack open and reveal the teenage marrow within.

I fix my position within his obscured crotch, and begin to move along the now stiff shaft to his softer, juicier tip.

I begin to manfully suck on the sugar-plum head, my tongue pressing and rubbing the material of his underwear against the surface of his organ - the itchy, frictive agitation doing a little number of his delicate fat sausage.

Thinking he's sufficiently hot and bothered, I remove my face for a moment, and yank the trackies down his firm, hairless thighs, until they are pooling at the tops of his trainers.

I look up at him, perplexed, and he looks down at me, blushing, but smiling. He shrugs his shoulders. "I...just like wearin' `em..."

Needless to say, whilst I am confused, I am certainly not unhappy to see that Tom has decided to wear a pair of black speedos beneath his training outfit.

Particularly given that the material is having trouble containing that weighty teenage joystick I've already gotten to know, now very much erect and pushing toward the upper-right side of his hip, a dribble of excitement christening the dry material, emanating from a pronounced lump, clearly deliniating the teenager's plump, leaky glans.

"Well...I suppose this explains your interest in diving, at least..."

Without saying anything else, my face descends lower, and I begin to quietly lick his balls through the material; great broad strokes, covering the entire geography of his taut, leathery sack, my tongue pressing firmly up into the material, so that I can make out each oversized Olympic bollock in turn.

I soon progress to lavishly tonguing his juicy nuts; loosely wrapping my lips around each one, and using my tongue to fiddle about with the teen's muskily tasty gonads.

With the material now slick with my saliva, I close my eyes and proceed to wrap my entire mouth around the young diver's fragrant jewellery box. "Ah, ahHH, oooohhh," he cries, bowing his legs slightly to afford me more room, with the hand behind my head pushing me more firmly up into the humid climes between his dusky, musky thighs.

I am grateful for the encouragement; not only does it push my nose more insistently against the stiff, damp flesh of his heartily perspiring teen cock, it affords me the space and the force I need to somehow fit both nuts, together with a healthy amount of starchy sac flesh, into the confines of my wide, moist face.

With him sounding as if he's about to cry, I begin sucking on the grateful teenager's ballbag with a steady, rhythmic pulse, like a baby calf suckling at its mommy's teat, occasionally using my teeth to get a better grip, or firmly jiggle his nuts about in my mouth - to get his juices flowing, you understand.

But seeing how the black material around his glans was glossily slick with sexy teen-boy horn, I don't think it was entirely necessary.

"Uhh, oh, fuck, fuck that, that feels fucking nice," he mutters huskily.

My hands slip beneath the flimsy, elastic material of his speedos, taking a strong grip of the firm, smooth peaks of his supple arse-cheeks, followed by a slow, comforting massage, my stubby digits now tilling the warm bubbled flesh of his rear; the heel of my palm mercilessly driving into its pendulous, lower curves.

He leans back against me as my fingers edge closer to the steep, sweaty fissure separating his two butt-cheeks, and I delight in freely running my index finger down the damp, hairy canal. He makes no attempt to stop me as my blunt nail briefly tickles at the excitedly spasming, puckered aperture at the centre of him.

"Uh, uhmm," he gurgles, "ca-careful, man," he says sweetly.

As if I wouldn't be careful with a bronze medal winner!

After a few minutes of forcefully sucking the adolescently seasoned ballsweat initially off and then through his speedos, I regurgitate his fat nuts, and turn my gaze to his rampant Olympic torch.

The prideful teen's seven inches of fortified joy is still snaking up to his hip, but his recent firming up has led the pink knob to forge forward and break out over the top of the black waistband.

I am reminded (in a good way) of an alien birth from the Alien movies, as I watch the slimy purple knob slowly worming its way out from behind a loose, peachy ring of foreskin, using the teen's boyish excitement – his strengthening cock, and his fishy, own-brand lube - to ease itself into the clear night air.

Unable to hold off any longer, I dive in.

My tongue licks, like a kitten with a bowl of treasured cream, the silky-smooth, salty-sweet skin of the young diver's foreskin, before wetly licking a trail of agonising destruction up, directly onto the surface of his thickly tart-tasting, pheromone-laden bulb.

As my warm, wet mouth slowly moves to envelop the entirety of the youngster's prick-tip, my tongue grazes across the dark eye at the centre, lapping up the dark carnal flavourings, built up over the course of the evening, together with his tangy teen dripping.

Within moments, the end of his organ is firmly secured in my mouth, and I proceed to suck on the smooth flesh, my tongue lashing across the sensitive surface of the knob as he proceeds to helplessly leak syrupy boy-dribble onto the surface of my palette.

"Mmm. Fuck. Oh fuck, oh fuck..."

He is moaning loudly now; the desire to spunk clouding his mind to anything around him as he stands on tip-toes with his eyes tightly closed, pushing himself up against the railing, supporting his weight with one strong arm as he seeks to gain purchase on it, whilst the other keeps a notional hold on my head.

My own hands, still sweetly massaging his magnificent backside, extricate themselves from his speedos so that they can pull the rear of his shorts down.

With the dazed lad lost in his own reverie, he doesn't seem to notice the sudden wind now sweeping across his sweetly curved juvenile arse-cheeks.

I run my index finger up the inside of his wet thigh, collecting the rivets of cold sweat now cascading down the boy's chunky, hairless legs.

With my tongue still gently diddling the fit fucker's gaping pisshole, I wonder if he's ever experimented. I convince myself that as a closeted boy, I'm sure he's stuffed all sorts of things up there before now.

I convince myself, and then I return my index finger to his back passage. Then, I pierce Tom Daley's winking arsehole with my blunt finger, led by my rough-hewn, calloused nail.

"AGHHA HAH, FUckfuckfuck," he screams.

As my finger worms its way up the teenager's insides, I wonder if I was perhaps kidding myself a little in my earlier assumption.

Still, too late now. In for a penny, in for a pound, and with my tongue still comforting his tortured knob in the only way it knows how, my finger drives forward.

My other hand lowers the front of his speedos, so that the shorts are now at mid-thigh, and releases the entirety of his beautiful, perfectly formed prick, thickened by the entirely reasonable desire to cum.

I immediately take the opportunity to slide down the organ, like a snake eating a rat; gulping inch after boyishly sweet inch of athletic teen-cock, with his moans dropping an octave with each inch I conquer.

As I bottom out, with my nose rubbing against the shaved flesh at the base of his hairless cock, my hand grips his ballsack, and I firmly give his nuts a good yank, as if I were ringing the church-bells on a Sunday.

His knees bend; he slips off the rail slightly, and my finger completes the final half inch into his backside.

With both sides of him now occupied, I very slowly begin to saw my finger in and out of his beefy rump, whilst my mouth does laps up and down his granite-hard shaft.

My tongue follows in the wake of my lips, making sure to gobble up all the piquant teen funk his fit, virile young body is now producing in an effort to becalm and recool his scolding hot baby-maker.

After surmounting his stalk, I spend a few moments diddling the diver's dong, lapping up all the cream his nuts have produced for me, and further agitating the juicy, exposed knob flesh so that yet more sweetened liquid is belched up.

After a quick, playful chew on him, I slide back down.

His natural instinct to master technique means that in no time at all, I have him gleefully thrusting his steaming hot cock into my mouth when my suctioning mouth is sliding down it, whilst alternately pushing his anus down my rooting finger just as it slams into his steaming hot arse.

When he hits upon this trick, he gurgles like a confused, but fundamentally contented baby, happy to give me free range over his girlfriend's property.

I lower my own zip, and wrap my hand around my thick six inch prick, quietly jacking myself as I feast on this teenage Olympian's tasty charms.

After a few minutes, as my tongue continues to vacuum up the many unique musty flavours and tangy sauces coating this boy's turgid poker, I detect a more frenetic pace in his hips.

The glassy glans of his inexperienced, eager prick start to balloon, and he starts making a noise as though he's about to sneeze.

"ah, Ahh, AHhh, AHHH..."

I pull off his prick, and slide my finger from his backside.

I stand, and he is hyperventilating, and struggling to stand.

Whilst wiping my sweaty chin with my one good hand, I slide the finger that's just been in his arse into his mouth, and he quietly sucks it without complaint for a few seconds, before he spits it out.

Still not concerned with precisely what it was he was just sucking, he instead asks a more pressing question, "w-WHY'd you stop," he asks emotionally, as if I've just betrayed him.

"Because Tom, you're gonna make me cum, and THEN you cum. It's good etiquette, and you need to get your priorities straight." I wrap my hand around the back of his head, and draw him to me.

After once more sucking briefly on his fizzy tongue, I hug him; he naturally places his head on my shoulder, and I take the opportunity to whisper to him, "and I'm gonna cum by fucking you."

He goes to quietly, pathetically protest, as if he's mildly agitated by the prospect. Like I said – boys; you can read `em like a fucking boy. I stop him, and say what he wants me to say.

"Stop. That's what's gonna happen, because you have to be fucking amazing, Tom. And that's what you want, right? To be good?"

He sniffles into my shoulder. "I don't...I don't wanna do it wrong."

I reach between us with my free hand, and slowly toss his flagging prong; like one of those sad old oil derricks you see in the movies, just barely moving. Rhythmic...but slow.

"I know, sunbeam; don't worry, I know. And the choice is yours, but...well, you can either give me a below average blowjob, an average handjob, or the best fuck of my entire life. Now, call me crazy, but I think a super-competitive little strumpet like you would want to be the best fuck of my life, right?"

He firms up again within moments, and briefly chuckles. He's silent for a moment, as if thinking. "I'm...it, it'll hurt though, won't it?"

"Not much. No more than it needs to...no more than it hurts for everyone else, let's say. I've got a condom in my wallet; it'll slide in, nice and easy."

He groans lightly into my shoulder as my finger grazes the exposed plum of his lovely thick stalk, a few frothy bubbles of thickened pre lubricating my finger.

The boy is so fucking sexed up, I can hardly believe it.

"You're gonna be fucking amazing, aren't you," I whisper sincerely.

I can feel him smiling into my shoulder.

He's quiet for a bit longer, so I take things into my own hands.

I let go of his cock, and kneel. I pull off his trainers, trackies and speedos, leaving him in his tracksuit top, shredded T-Shirt and short, white ankle socks.

Not knowing if I'll get another opportunity, I stuff his speedos under my nose and breathe in Daley's fiercely rich teen sex-stink, before pocketing the trophy.

Afterward, I reach for the condom in my wallet and quickly slide it over the prick now hanging out of my suit trousers.

I am unable to stop myself from tonguing the shaft of his cock, and the large, corrugated ballsack beneath. The taste and the stink of his sack compels me to spend a few minutes longer in the depths of his crotch, sucking on his stinking teen balls; as I forcefully root around between his legs, he spreads his thighs slightly to give me more room and before long, I feel him dripping a fresh batch of teeny syrup from the leaky tip of his large, unsatisfied prick.

I drag myself away from his nuts – but not before briefly trying to take his nuts with me, using my teeth to yank them away from his body – and I sloppily drag my tongue once more up along the surface of his damp torch, sucking up the special teen scent which has once again coated his cock in the few minutes I've been away from it.

When I reach the tip, I am unable to resist flicking my tongue against the moist, gamey opening, and he urgently gurgles, "oooooooh," as if about to cum, so I immediately pull myself away.

I work my way between his body so that each of his long, lithe legs are sitting on me, thanks to his compact, muscular thighs resting on my shoulders. Pushing him up and back, he slides his ass onto the top of the fence – his tight buttocks have just enough room to maintain some semblance of stability, thanks to the five inch metallic sheet which sits atop the fence (in less carnal times, it would be an ideal place to lazily stick your arms on whilst leaning forward and appreciating the view).

He puts his muscular upper-body to good use, with both of his tanned, contoured arms gripping the heavy netting fastened to the ceiling above us, the end of which is dangling close to his head.

Moments later, I use my hands to tilt him back slightly by pushing his thighs up so his feet are resting on my shoulder, with the back of his ass now perched on the metallic sheet - his body is shaped like a `//' with the first two diagonal lines representing his bent legs, and the last, his upper-body.

He looks straight up at the exposed night sky as he leans precariously over the railing. As he is resting on the back of his ass, near his coccyx, I can locate the winking muscle of his arsehole, inches before my face.

He is powerless to stop me, his knees bent with his socked feet positioned on my shoulders - the toes digging into me like talons, whilst his hands hold onto the netting for dear life.

As if he would want to stop me.

I know he's probably fearing for his life right now; but I take my time. Whilst I keep my fist wrapped around his turgid thick sausage, gently tossing him whenever I feel the need or the desire, I am afforded me the opportunity to slide my tongue over the immobile lad's musky ballsack, through the sharply flavoured forest of his hairy taint, and up into the cavernous valley of his muscular, splayed arse.

My tongue soon locates the puckered rosette my finger had previously become acquainted with, and swipes cheekily across the surface of the belaboured opening, before fixing my lips over it and proceeding to quietly make love to the exposed, secret opening, with my tongue swiping and digging into the flesh as best it can.

Just as I would expect from such an upstanding middle-class boy, he tastes delightfully clean, but an overwhelming taste of shower-gel briefly giving way to an intensely musky, outstandingly male tang.

The entire area of his firm, well-kept arse is soon dripping with saliva, and he is staring intently down at me, watching the top of my head as my face purposefully shuffles about his exposed crotch and ass.

My tongue spears into the boy's rectum, taking my time to enjoy the even more powerfully teen-scented depths of the superstar diver's bumhole.

"FUCK!" he screams, throwing his head back and looking once more up into the night sky. As my face excavates ever further into the steamy depths between his hairless thighs like a common pig rooting for truffles, his arms flex wildly in an effort to maintain his unstable stability on the fence, as his socked feet redouble their knot behind me, his toes bruising my shoulders with the force of their tormented digging.

My hands cup each serenely firm, baby-smooth cheek as I munch on his scolding-hot insides.

Freezing cold saliva drips down his bumcrack, causing him to fidget and agitate against the weird, uncommon feeling of freezing syrup trickling down the root of his ass.

My hand rewards him for his loyal commitment to my indignities; wanking his ribbed, constantly pulsing, constantly flexing, constantly dribbling cock; providing just enough maddening friction to keep him on perpetual edge as his bubbling balls boiled and roiled with the need to seed the cool, night air.

After a few minutes, I abandon his tasty, dripping arsehole, and stand to my full height.

His legs cautiously fell away to either side of me, but he kept them up in the air - incase that was what I wanted from him.

Since I'd endangered his life by nearly throwing him off a rooftop, he'd come to trust me implicitly...like I said: I love boy-brains.

I look him in the eyes as I manoeuvre my organ to the wet, slippery canal of his well-worked, athletic arse, taking a step forward to firmly slide my sausage between his two fresh-baked teenaged buns.

He looks at me wide-eyed, as I place a hand on his chest, and gently push him still further over the railing, using my other hand to pull his ass closer toward me, at a good 45 degree angle. "Www, whOAHHH," he groaned, fear in his voice, as he firmly wrapped his legs around my hips more for self-preservation than a need to cum.

Feeling his warm socked feet cross behind me, and press into me – his thighs seemingly crushing my insides with their directed force, I know it is now or never.

My thick prick penetrates Tom Daley's rubbery outer-ring of dark anal muscle. And he screams loudly...manfully, and sweetly, into the cold night air.

I feel dizzy, and become aware of tiny specks of rainwater dancing across my face. The curved knob of my prick is now inside the warm, comforting confines of my diver's fit arse, the cheeks of which were resting partly on the fence, and partly on my own thighs.

As I drive myself forward, my wickedly curved prick stretches his passage more than he thinks it can take; his eyes widen as the rubberised flesh of my thick porker scrapes along the soft paintwork of his delicate, heated guts, causing his tummy to convulse, his eyes to flutter, and his orgasm to nearly boil over.

When I bottom out – and graze against his prostate – his eyes close slowly; heavily, with a look of complete satisfaction on his face, as if he's never known anything feel so right in his entire life.

He emits a deep, animalistic groan as I lean toward him, playfully bite his nose, and kiss him wetly on his puffy lips.

I rear back, and begin to slowly extricate my cock from his bowels, my hand cupping each butt-cheek and pushing him up.

He moos lowly and uncertainly as I do so, as if unhappy with this sudden turn of events, but his arms flex as they pull on the roped netting, pulling him up; his muscular thighs choke my flanks with pent-up sexual frustration.

I withdraw until only the tip of my cock rests within him, before fluidly – calmly, but quickly – driving myself forward again, nudging his ticklish, full prostate once more.

He jumps as though a thousand volts of sexual energy has just coursed through his body, and I wrap one arm around him, fearing he might slip.

The netting gives way slightly, and he falls back a few inches; his spine now closer to the horizontal I need to properly plunder him; to claim him as mine, regardless of what comes after.

And that is fully what I intend to do. He can have his fantasy, and his girlfriend, if he wants them – so long as I can have him, whenever I fucking want.

Where I once saw a heavy, muscular teenager, I now see a lithe, fragile twink; and with a strength I never knew I had, I take firm grip of his torso, and pull him, so that his centre of gravity shifts to the centre of his back, where he is now lying flat on the five-inch guard-rail, and the majority of his body is safely on the terraced side of the fence.

Just so we're all clear: he himself is supporting his upper-body, by holding onto the netting attached to the roof above him. His lower body is supported by me, with his legs wrapped around my body. The centre of gravity around which he pivots is a five inch-wide metallic plate, which he is currently placed atop.

It is far from ideal for fucking...but boy, it's a lot of fun, for me.

He is now more stable, and his position affords my cock a direct line of sight, straight up to his virginal insides.

I'm happy, but he's still holding onto the netting for dear life, and his socked feet are still grappled firmly around my own hips, like a child clinging to its mother.

He's scared. He's scared about a great many things, I imagine. It just occurred to me; what if there's a bloke with a camera in one of these buildings? Heh. That'd be amusing. And completely worth it.

Better not mention it to the boy, though.

"You're not going to fall. I know what I'm doing," I murmur, not entirely convincingly. "You're fine, I've got you."

I move my arm from behind his back, to behind his shoulder, and I lean in to plant kisses along his delicate jawline as I withdraw from him again.

I immediately push back into him, more forcefully this time, as his new position allows, and with my cock finding each thrust into the Olympian's buttery insides a little easier than the last.

After a couple of practice thrusts, I begin to establish a slow, gentle rhythm, fucking the boy, nice and melodically. Whilst the act of fucking has caused my head to clear substantially, the fact I need to devote serious brainpower to making sure I do indeed fuck him gently, tells me I'm still pretty drunk.

With one hand under his shoulder, my other reaches between us, and begins to again wank his now half-hard (yikes, he really is fucking terrified) cock, at a speed in keeping with my quarrying of his arse – nice and slow. He hardens within minutes.

"Is this nice," I ask him, trying to sound concerned for his wellbeing, but only really asking him for a personal ego boost – hey, if you were fucking Tom Daley, you'd want him to tell you it was nice, too.

"Mmmmh," he begins encouragingly, "it, it don't hurt too much."

"You feel safe? We can move..."

His warm feet push comfortingly into my back side as I softly drive into him, "I'm fine here," he lies.

Feeling that his insides are good and prepped, I start to pick up speed, like a steam train pulling away from a station. Seeming to sense what is coming, he re-grips his hands on the coarse netting above him.

He starts to moan progressively louder as my thrusts become increasingly forced; as the speed with which I pile into him becomes increasingly noticeable.

If I was previously cautiously quarrying the lad's insides, I am now violently strip-mining him; sawing into the boy with ease now, sluicing through the warm gunk of his bowels with sharp, erratic thrusts.

I notice that my breath has become laboured, and my shirt is soaking wet.

The sound of the wind rushing past my ears is overcome by the sound of my thighs slamming into his jiggling, toned backside. I breathe loudly through my mouth, whilst the teen emits a constant, low whine of tormented gratitude.

I feel the heat building in my balls. Unwilling to waste this opportunity by giving my seed to some rubber prophylactic, I withdraw from his debased butthole, his moans of satisfaction turning into confused groans of annoyance.

He looks up at me as I pull him up towards me by his shoulder, his feet loosening their grip on me as I do so.

He is briefly on shaky legs as I use one hand to rip off the condom, and the other to push the bronze medallist to his knees.

After a few quick strokes, I am peppering his boyish face with thick, white flecks of jizz.

The first shot hits him in the eye - and amusingly, it shocks him to such a degree that he hits his head on the railing behind him.

The second courses through his short auburn hair, the greasy blobs fragmenting into a thousand specks as it travels through his otherwise undisturbed, well-kept hair.

And by the time the third is rocketing up from my balls, he has the good sense to open his mouth as wide as he can, his floppy tongue rolled out beneath the head of my organ, gleefully waiting for another deposit whilst looking up at me through big, brown eyes, like a blissful puppy.

I am happy to oblige by squirting a good shot into his cavernous orifice, his laboured breathing warming my cock as my over-wrought organ produces another few pulses of spunk for him to gobble down. As I watch his Adam's Apple bob after each shot, I know he's enjoying his first foray into queer sex.

After my cum, he stays on his knees whilst I get down on my stomach, onto the damp floor, so that my mouth can reach his tortured, purple teenage knob, still sniffling droplets of prejizz from his packed balls.

Taking his organ in one hand, I proceed to toss him him whilst my lips wrap around the rim of his bell-end, so that my tongue can work over the teen's aromatic tip.

My other hand briefly yanks on his slick ball sack, causing his thighs to bow again slightly, encouraging me to stroke his beautifully sculpted, hairless thighs.

He murmurs above me incoherently, but merrily; his eyes closed and his face still decorated with my jellified, cold cum.

After a few moments, he exhibits an unexpected flare for leadership as he pulls his fierce cock and brimming balls free of my possession.

He huskily tells me to roll over onto my back – who am I to argue? And he proceeds to kneel directly above my face, with a knee on the ground either side of my ears.

As he wanks himself, I look up at his contorted face, and gently stroke the taut, leathery nutsack beneath his blurred hand, inspiring the inevitable.

When my hand grows tired of this gentleness, and instead takes to yanking on his gonads as if they were the break line of a steam train, that pushes him over the edge.

"ah, uha, Ah, AGH..." Sounding as if he were about to vomit, he leans forward on his muscular haunches, his free hand planted just behind my head to support his weight as he erupts with the pent up ferocity only a teenager is capable of.

The first long, agonising bullet grazes my eyelash, but by volley number two, I have my lips once more wrapped around his thick sausage, and am gleefully sucking like a baby with a pacifier.

"AGH, AUHGH, Oh, Oh fuck, FUCK," he screams as he unloads what feels like a quarter of a pint of tasty, thick swimmer spunk onto my throat.

As I greedily gulp down the tangy elixier, he once more wraps his arm around the back of my head, and mercilessly impales my face on the rest of his organ, only stopping when my nose is smashed into his pubis, and his porker is splashing my tonsils with teen seed.

We stay like that for a moment; him quiet, unmoving, but breathing heavily, as his unseen cock breeds my throat with wild abandon, violently spasming and burping sweet, lemony baby-gravy directly down my gullet.

As the force of his concussive explosion lessens, I take to chewing on the rubbery foreskin; my tongue digging behind the sheath for additional sauciness and even briefly nibbling on the retracting, temporarily satisfied plum on the end.

His eyes glaze over and his stomach growls at me as I do so, but he allows me to continue for a few minutes, whilst my one hand strokes his butt, and my other pat his nuts on a job well done.

I open my eyes, not noticing that at some point, I must of closed them.

He withdraws his softening, spit-shined prick from my mouth, and I can breathe again whilst gently wrapping my hand around his organ, so I can again marvell at its pliable meatiness.

I slowly become aware of the fact that my suit and shirt are completely ruined. Where there isn't black, mud-like dirt from the floor, there's streaks of pungent diver jizz, mixed with my own.

And I'm so, so fucking glad. I've never liked this suit. And now, I never have to wear it again. I never have to walk around parties like this one, pretending to be happy in it, when I'm actually asking myself why I don't just put in my closet and never look at it again, and instead wear what might be a little less acceptable to those around, but so more comfortable for me personally.

Hey, there's an allegory in there somewhere. If I were a smart man...

Tom is sitting atop me, the dashingly handsome king of the castle; his eyes closed, still absentmindedly licking my gravy from his lips. His hand shakily rises, and scrapes off some of my cum; he tastes a little, but wipes the rest on the floor.

I can't blame him. I mean, who likes cold cum?

He opens his eyes, and smiles lightly. His thighs once more press into me as he places a hand on my chest.

His cock is slowly rising.

"You look terrible," he says.

I smile as best I can. "Whereas you look absolutely delightful, now you've wiped that spunk off your face."

"I think," he replies seriously, "you should...avoid any unwanted attention, and come with me to my hotel."

"That's a nice offer, Mr. Daley...very nice indeed...but, well, that's strictly against protocol, you understand..."

"Anything else you've done tonight which is against protocol?"

I chuckle. "Well, if it'll keep you quiet, then for the sake of my career, I suppose I'll have to go with you, won't I?"

"Trust me: I won't tell a soul."