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I tried to run but he put his weight on me and we fell down. I could feel him thrusting against my bare ass, his hands held mine down. His hand was big enough to gather both of mine up and hold them behind my back as he fumbled with his zipper. I guess I was struggling a lot because he mashed my face into the dirt. I could taste the damp earth and something tangy. Now that I think of it, it was probably my blood. Maybe a stick cut me or I bit my lip. I was so focused on the stinging pain on my cheek-that I was shocked to feel my legs being spread apart. The cool air nipped at me and I almost missed it when I felt the warmth of his skin pushing into me. Maybe I screamed or my pussy clamped down against him because I heard him groan. He rammed into me so hard-I clutched a handful of leaves. He pumped in-just pushing in deeper and deeper. I felt his head bumping into me-pressing some unknown button that turned my body against me. My eyes rolled back as the man dug his fingers into my. This was partly the reason why I insisted on going to Sicily. Of course my parents had no idea of the turbulence that went through my heart at the sight of a beautiful youth. In the gentle gloaming of April I often deliberately chose the longer way home after school in order to pass the football field of the university and catch sight of the robust, youthful bodies of the football lads. The silhouettes of their running bodies in the dusk often evoked a sense of heroicism in me, that sense of golden masculinity, strong, powerful, ready to conquer the world, which I myself lack. At the age of fifteen, I was thin and had a rather pale, melancholic complexion. My natural air of melancholy was often mistaken for unhappiness caused by some trouble, hence my fellow students always tried to cheer me up in vain. I knew exactly the cause of this melancholy: I was in love, not with a particular person, but with the notion of love and masculinity. My burgeoning body longed to be touched, kissed,.
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