George Turns Up Late

George turned up at my place in the early hours. He text me to ask if I was up, a text that was so badly written that I wondered initially if it had been written in his pocket with the movement of his leg. George had been out somewhere, I never really got where.

I was in bed. I tip toed to the front door in my jocks and let him in.

He was fucked up on pills, he said.

He headed straight for my bedroom, pulled off his shirt and jeans and crawled into my bed.

I’d got fucked up on pot before I said good night to the world.

I sucked on George's tits. I wanted him to lactate that's how into it I was. He did, of sorts, as he came in my hand, rock hard, his jeans and jocks around his ankles. He screamed out as his knob squirted jizz. His body jerked with each spurt of virginal white fluid.

"Ah! Ah! AH! AHHHHH!"

I licked it off my fingers, as he collapsed, out cold.

Straight boy spoof, it tastes so sweet.

I chastised myself for taking advantage of Georgie boy, when I promised I never would. We'd taken too many drugs, twenty four hours worth, for us not to.

George woke the next morning with a text from Sophie. He couldn't remember anything, so it would seem. How many times had the two of us fallen into bed together as gay boy, straight boyfriends? I mean, I've touched every square inch of George's body and we've never done that. Kissed, stroked, touched, held, squeezed, in all stages of undress, sure, but we've never had sex like that. So, I didn't say anything and he didn't have a reason to think otherwise.

“How did I end up here?’ He pulled his jeans over his morning glory.

“You arrived really late.”

He pulled on his t-shirt. “You are a mate, you know that don’t you.”

He leaned onto the bed with both hands and kissed me on the lips. “Did we?”

“Kind of, a bit…”

“Was I good?”

“You know you were.”

He laughed. “I’ve got to go.” He kissed me again, before he stood up.

And he left.

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