So Jodie, bestfriend, and me in our cotton pajamas. Sleepover at his place. His double bed and a tropical night cool enough for a sheet over us. And we were talking, when his foot brushed mine. Brushed up my left leg a little.
A crawling thing of fiery pleasure, up my leg. A thrill of dangerous excitement and my dick so hard. The echoes of sex thrill bouncing around inside me, fading. Completely unexpected. New.
"Do that again!"
"With your foot like that."
Again: almost prickly burning. Sex-thrilling for sure. Whew!
"Let me show you something." Looking down past his 12-year-old arm in the light from the window.
"Just lie there."
Running the inside of my foot up his leg, lightly. He shivers a little and the blond hairs on his arm stand up hard. I do it again, hearing a little "huh" noise, almost too little to hear. He stiffens and I can hear his breaths quicken. I do it again, replacing the foot with my hand, just when it gets too high. Moving my hand slowly up his leg, up the inside of his thigh, over his thin soft jammies, at just the right speed. And the little "huh" again: two times, three.
My hand near the top of his thigh. Around to the outside, back down almost to his knee, and back to the inside.
"Huuunh..." and his bicho stickin' out like a light pole, like a magnet. My hand up the inside, feeling his warmth. His breaths so fast, open-mouth, and my hand gliding to touch his beech and make him groan in the high-boy voice we both still slip into sometimes.
Back down, up, and a gentle handful of his bag this time, and my fingers gripping the boner of him, him making this kitty wail and groaning, groaning. I get a couple more good handfuls, and...
His shoulders are shaking a little.
"Jodie? Jodie! Why are you crying?"
"You queered me. You queered me and I let you." And he started crying harder.
"Bull Crap!" I didn't know what else to say. "Bull Crap: That wasn't queering you. You let me know when you want me to really queer you and I'll do it. I'm sorry. You know I... That I'm your friend and you're not a pato. You're still Jodie."
He calms down and we both wake up later with the moon burning a checkerboard of silver holes in the covers.
"Queer me." He's crying again. "I really want you to queer me."
He's sobbing, quietly, when I move closer to hold him. To put my arms around him. To run my fingers over his face 'till he's calm and open-mouthed, over his lips 'till he shivers. Behind his ear, 'till the hair stands up on his arm again.
I stroke him gently down his side, reaching his hip and a decision to be made. Around to the back. To cup his butt, with my fingers just a little into his crack. Just a little. Then around to check his bicho, ever so lightly. Stiff, eager in his jammies. Cupping and caressing the thigh, as I pull him gently over onto his back, inviting him, as I slide up to cup him again, feeling him quiver.
"Here," pulling the drawstring bow. The thin cotton lying loose on his luminous boy skin, limp and spent looking, as the lust rises in me to see him there. To see the softness of his bag. Desire a rising whine like a jet engine. Consuming desire.
The jammies down and the beauty of him. The innocent desire of his straining bicho. Tender. And the beautiful intricacy beneath. I run my fingers so lightly over his beauty, his bicho bouncing to the side and back. Four wags. Four stiff little boy wags. Back and forth and back and forth. And then to caress the smoothness of his bag. Honey dipped donut skin rising, pulling away, so my fingers can touch and caress his outlines, the line in the middle, and down near his culo. He sighs, pulling his feet up to him, flat on the bed. Knees splaying. Offering his bag to me, and the tender raised line. All the way back to his little culo. Touching there, a little, and up to cup and pet the bag on the way past to his bicho. His groans like music. The best music I could ever hear, except the music of his next words:
"Let me queer you, now."