So, it must've been, like, the next weekend. Andy REALLY didn't want to go with his folks on their annual antique buying trip. He said it was mostly waiting in a hot car while his parents poked around in some farmer's barn. Anyway, it was arranged that he would spend the long weekend over at my place -- which actually meant both our places -- while his folks were off in the country.

We did stuff, teenage boy stuff. You must have done some of it, at least once: you know, that "friend stuff" you do with your clothes on? And, of course, we stayed up too late and drank too much Coke, and fell asleep at different times. He was already dead to the world when I shut off the lamp and crawled into bed with him. There was something deeply comforting about sleeping with a boy. Especially a cute boy.

Deeply comforted and all, I of course passed out immediately. A few hours later, I woke up when Andy crawled out of my arms to take a piss. My front got cold. I groaned and followed him to the bathroom, passing him on his way back, bumping into his warmness softly. He was making a joke of mumbling unintelligibly, like a sleeping person. I was making a beeline for the pot. No time for games: the coke was demanding freedom. Ahhhh, set my people free.

When I got back, deeply comforted in that other way, Andy was already back on "his" side of the bed. I scooted in behind him, back into warmth, and faded back into the Land of Nod.

It was probably a REM thing. Let me guess: it must have been exactly an hour and a half later. I woke up with a warm boy in my arms and a boner demanding obedience to its urgency. I snuggled a little closer to Andy's soft warmth and pressed my moan bone against his cute butt, feeling that little spike of joy at the pressure against his flesh. Sleep wasn't on Dick's agenda. Nope. Besides, there was a cute boy in my arms. A boy who had come over in those cute tight-leg white soccer shorts, with that cute package that, come to think of it -- could I think of anything else? -- was just inches away right this minute.

I decided, had decided: I was going to suck a dick for the first time. Andy's. God, so cute! And he had sucked mine and it had been wonderful. The tender connection of it had changed me. And I liked him an awful lot and I respected him and his value judgments; so sucking a dick must have something major going for it. I eased away and got out of bed. Andy was mumbling his sleepy protest, as I tossed my briefs aside, walked around to the foot of the bed and crawled back in, back under the covers. On all fours, I crawled over Andy. His heat radiated up and warmed me. He was still on his side. I tipped him onto his back, his legs straightening down toward the foot of the bed. His breathing changed. He stretched, with a little groan, and started to fall back to sleep.

I put my arms between his legs and slid onto my elbows, leaned forward and pressed my face gently into his goodies. They were soft and warm and so... plentiful. They supplied something, made up for some lack, some empty place in the world that needed just exactly those perfect boy treats to make it wonderful. I inhaled his sleep smells, feeling the generous tube of his penis against my cheek. A feeling stole through me. Does it have a name? Tenderness, a deep attraction to the person of this boy. In both senses, I guess. I turned my face to grasp the cotton-clad chubbiness softly between my lips, feeling the tender resilience of him.

This was the penis I was about to suck. This was the boy I was going to please, whose cream I was probably going to taste, for better or worse. I hoped it would taste okay, but it was Andy, so I'd have to take things as they came. So to speak.

The chub-tube was warm, got a little warmer, a little chubbier. The legs moved. The lithe young body stretched again, trembly, then went limp. A sleepy teen voice said something above the covers. In answer, I eased down his soft undies. One of those silly sexy endearing things you forget to mention to someone about themselves: the way the waistband often sat askew on his hips, like his clothes were an afterthought, a temporary, an accidental condition, something momentarily concealing the grace within.

I cured that accidental condition, returning to hover over the heat and the boy fragrance of his package. It didn't smell bad: a light musk, pretty much the way my own hand smells, when I grab my balls to adjust them. Bullshit: yes you have. His dick rose to touch me, gently. I could feel the warmth and the soft curvature of him, as his wakening shaft straightened to reach and touch my cheek, hardening, moving sideways toward my lips on its way to becoming an insistent, commanding male thing, now threatening to spring past my mouth in its quest for erectness. I felt his pee-lips drag across my cheek, vaguely moist, to the corner of my mouth, across my lower lip. Impatient things, those lips of mine: they intercepted the tenderness of him, the warmth of him, the shrilly sexual wonder of him. Intercepted the penis of him, reached out to welcome him home.

My lips intercepted, greeted their penile counterparts, sought that most intimate kiss with a single mindedness beyond my volition. Here I was, poised on the brink, touching the very essence of a boy for whom I had such tender feelings, a thing itself tender, itself touching the portal of my own tenderness. I took him in, knowing him. Just the tip, at first.

Inside me, I knew this moment was one I would be re-visiting often. I knew to pay acute attention, as I explored the shape of him, using the insides of my lips. But the need for the solidity, for the plenty of him, for the exultant plenitude of his hard male shaft, of his big, tender phallus, took over and pulled me to engulf him to the base of his penis, pulled me to press my lips against his body, the tender head lying treasured at the gates of my throat, the big wonder of him filling me.

I could taste him. I had never thought what he might taste like. Not unpleasant: reminiscent of plastic bags. There it was, the shaft of him between my lips, holding them apart just so. My lips taking the measure of him, my flesh feeling the heat of him, my ears now recognizing the little sounds of him, the hum of contentment. That contentment: itself a precious reward, like a tender reassuring hand, petting my soul. I couldn't purr, but I could slide on that holy thing, on that tender, priceless boy thing, back to know the head. I could return to engulf him entirely, take his measure, withdraw to adore his shape, slide to elicit those little moans of pleasure. Little moans speaking to me so perfectly, speaking the deep, tender feelings I was giving him, speaking of both our joy.

The dick in my mouth was growing harder, warmer, curving enthusiastically upward. He began to make little motions, to bury himself in me deeper, to slide between my adoring lips, to get precisely the contact he needed.

His hands petted my hair, warm, expressive; now more insistent, as his movements became tender thrusts, the thrust became long, enthusiastic. The moans became longer, throatier, the thrusts more urgent. The head was growing bigger, more cushiony, speaking his need, heralding his impending release. His little whimpers told the rest, told me I was pleasuring those tiny places inside where the cream rests, tickly, excruciating, where it trembles and slides, like a magic fiery penis, through that tiny opening, to the get-ready place.

The frozen rigidity of him, the arching, the cry of release, told me I had won his cream, I had earned the gift he began giving me, in great sweet offerings, delivered exultantly into my grateful mouth. In celebration, I swallowed what he gave. In gratitude, he lifted me to his lips, ran his hands over my body, sighed a magic sigh, the sigh of a boy deeply satisfied, a sigh that addicted me on the spot.