His Perfect Friend

Time had passed since the night Tim and Eric met Hildi, and their small, painfully clean apartment had become a temple of a strange and excruciatingly sweet routine. Every morning, before the sun managed to sneak through the thin white curtains, Tim would open his big pink eyes and go down on Eric to feel his huge, warm cock on his lips. He would start sucking slowly, gently, as if it were the first prayer of the day, until Eric would erupt with a deep growl and empty his entire morning straight into Tim’s throat before going back to sleep. Tim would swallow everything, lick his lips, and feel the hot cum spread in his stomach like strong coffee with a little sugar—a horny, sweet burst of energy that would send him jumping out of bed lightly, full of motivation to cook, clean, and serve.

After that he would get up, put on something simple—an oversized Eric T-shirt, short pants—and within seconds the clothes would start melting and transforming into the sluttiest, most revealing outfit imaginable. Sometimes it was a sexy French maid outfit: a tiny black bra with thin white lace covering only his small, hard nipples, a super-short black skirt so the enormous ass protruded beneath it like two glossy balls, the back seat of the small white panties disappearing completely between the cheeks, a small white apron tied around the narrow waist with lace trim, black stockings with a back seat up to the thick thigh, high black heels, and a small headpiece with a white ribbon—every movement made the skirt lift and expose everything. Sometimes it was a 1950s housewife look: a light blue dress with white polka dots, a tight corset pushing his small chest forward and creating a tempting cleavage, a puffy short skirt exposing his smooth, thick legs up to the thigh, thin white stockings with wide lace tops stretched over the soft fat, a small pink apron with pockets, short white lace gloves, high red heels, and a red ribbon in his hair—everything looked innocent until you saw how the skirt lifted with every bend and exposed small panties with a back hole. And sometimes, on especially lazy days, he simply wore a small pink apron alone—thin fabric embroidered with flowers, tied behind in a big bow, exposing his entire smooth back, the completely round enormous ass, the small cock dangling freely under the short fabric, and the long, thick legs with no cover—just a pink ribbon in his hair and a sweet smile.

Today, when he reached the kitchen, his clothes had already transformed into an Arabian belly dancer outfit that would make any man pray on the floor. A small bra of thin gold coins covering only the nipples and leaving most of the smooth chest exposed, the transparent red-gold fabric clinging to the skin like smoke, exposing the flat belly and small navel. A very low belt of completely transparent fabric with long red and gold fringes barely covering the crotch and ass, so every movement made the fringes flutter and expose the tiny panties—a thin gold strap disappearing between the huge, oiled, glossy cheeks. On the thighs gold bracelets with small bells ringing with every step, on the ankles leather straps with coins, on the arms thin bracelets, and on the waist a wide belt with red gems and long fringes swaying like a curtain around the enormous ass. On the head a small crown of coins and beads, and the long hair cascading beneath it in pink-gold waves. Every inch of his body looked like an open invitation—the enormous ass protruded behind like two glossy mountains, the nipples visible through the thin fabric, and the small cock pressed against the transparent strap.

It no longer bothered him. He accepted it. He stood in front of the stove, took a deep breath, and allowed the cooking urge to enter just a little—like opening a small window to warm wind. Immediately his head filled with scents of cumin, paprika, garlic, and parsley, and his body started moving on its own. Tim didn’t want to give the urges too much control but knew he couldn’t satisfy his cooking urge if he didn’t make Eric the best meal possible. With limited use of the urge, he entered a kind of automatic mode where he thought what to make and his body acted on its own. But he still chose what it would be and could even stop midway. Something he couldn’t imagine before when his body **** him to cook for Eric.

Today Tim chose, inspired by the belly dancer outfit, to make Eric a full Arabian breakfast: thin hands sliced tomatoes in perfect rhythm, ground hummus to velvet, opened fresh pita bread in the oven, prepared bubbling shakshuka with soft eggs and caramelized onions. At first, Tim and Eric feared that with all their food expenses they’d get into financial trouble. But then they saw Eric’s triple salary and Tim's salary from X Games and realized money wouldn’t be a problem at all.

The kitchen was filled with warm, spiced Arabian scents, the bells ringing in the gentle rhythm of his dance between the pots, the enormous ass trembling and bouncing with every bend, and the fringes fluttering like a curtain of desire. He remembered old Tim—the one who told his girlfriends “Make me food, that’s what women do,” the one who laughed at Lucy when she offered to teach him to cook and he answered “cooking isn’t for men, it’s for housewives.” He remembered that empty pride, the small contempt he felt toward anyone who entered the kitchen. And now he stood here, in a slutty belly dancer outfit, preparing a meal for his best friend, and his small cock hardened just from the thought that Eric would eat and be full and satisfied. He sighed a deep sigh, full of sweet regret and pleasant pain. He regretted it. Every harsh word, every time he was small instead of big. But now he was big—and not just in the ass.

Tim stood by the stove, his thin hands stirring the red shakshuka bubbling quietly, the gold bells on his thighs ringing gently with every sway of the enormous ass. He was so focused on the scents of cumin and paprika that he didn’t hear the heavy steps behind him. Suddenly he felt a warm, familiar touch—the thick, smooth, wet head of Eric’s cock who woke early—touching his tight entrance, and then, without warning, pushing inside in one smooth, deep motion to the root.

The pleasure was immediate and electric. Tim’s hole, always ready, always wet and warm thanks to the curse, stretched around the huge cock as if built exactly for it. He felt every vein, every pulse of blood, the heavy warmth filling him to the end and reaching his stomach, making his legs tremble and the bells ring in a clear, high sound. A wave of sweet warmth spread from his ass straight to his head, his eyes closed on their own, and he moaned a high, wet moan that made the fringes flutter.

He turned a little, head tilted back, and saw Eric behind him—broad, muscular chest pressed against his smooth back, large arms holding his narrow waist, sharp face with a small, mischievous smile. “Good morning, my sweet,” Eric whispered in a hoarse voice from sleep, and without waiting for an answer pushed his thick, warm tongue straight into Tim’s mouth, conquering it in a deep, wet kiss that made the morning cum taste mix with the taste of sleep and man.

Tim melted into the kiss, his ass automatically tightening around the cock, as if saying “welcome home.” In recent days Eric had become more confident and no longer waited for Tim to invite him. Sometimes he simply grabbed him from behind when he was bent over the sink or leaning to clean the floor, and pushed inside. And Tim’s outfits, always exposed, always accessible, only encouraged it. The thin gold strap was easily pulled aside, and Eric’s cock found its way home in a second.

For Tim, there was a brief moment of surprise—as always when it happened unexpectedly—but it vanished the moment the familiar warmth filled him, the moment he felt Eric’s muscular stomach pressed against his soft ass, the large hands caressing his belly and chest where his nipples hardened through the thin fabric. He felt full, complete, safe. As if the whole world shrank to one thick, warm point inside him.

Yet even now, Tim was the one who mostly initiated and surprised: swaying his enormous ass in front of Eric’s face when he was absorbed in his phone, or sliding smooth, red-painted feet around his cock under the table during dinner, or simply kneeling in front of him in the middle of the living room and taking him all into his throat without a word. He loved seeing Eric’s eyes widen in surprise, breath catch, the small embarrassed smile that immediately turned hungry. But this morning, with Eric’s cock pulsing deep inside him and his tongue still in his mouth, Tim just smiled into the kiss and thought to himself: “Good morning to you too, my love.” And continued stirring the shakshuka with one hand, while his ass started moving on its own, forward and back, in a slow, teasing rhythm, as if telling Eric: go on, I’m yours.

Tim broke the wet kiss, his tongue licking his lips with Eric’s taste, and turned slightly with a sweet, teasing smile. “How did you sleep, my love?” he asked in a high, soft voice, as if the huge cock wasn’t impaling him to the end. Eric growled deeply, his large hands gripping Tim’s narrow waist. “Perfect. All because of you, baby.” Tim let out a small, cute squeal of thanks, and his enormous ass started moving slowly forward and back, caressing Eric’s cock as if it were a warm, wet hand. They had avoided pet names at first but soon discovered the urge wouldn’t be satisfied without them.

Eric started pulling his hips back to withdraw, but Tim placed a small hand on his thigh and stopped him. “Wait,” he said with a mischievous smile that reached his big eyes, “I want to play a little game… like that time I was under your desk while you played on the computer.” He turned a little, ass still full, and explained in a sweet-evil voice: “You stay inside me while I finish making your breakfast. If the cock slips out or if you cum before the tray reaches the table—I win.” Eric raised an eyebrow in pure male arrogance. “And if I win?” Tim smiled an even bigger, cunning smile. “Then you won’t lose to a femboy because that would be totally gay?” Eric laughed a low, hungry laugh. “Challenge accepted,” and the game began.

Eric knew there was no chance his cock would accidentally slip out—Tim’s ass was deep, warm, and perfect exactly for his size; it filled him to the edge, the cock head touching the most sensitive spot inside. He leaned forward, broad chest pressed against Tim’s smooth back, and breathed deeply to relax.

Tim, on the other hand, turned it into war.

Station one—preparing the pita bread. Tim bent deeply into the oven, the enormous ass pushing back and stretching around the cock like a hot glove. He started rotating his hips in small, precise motions, slow circles that made Eric’s cock head press again and again on his prostate from inside. Eric bit his lower lip until it bled, hoping the pain would distract him. “Damn it, Tim…”

Station two—grinding the hummus. Tim rose slowly, pita bread already in the oven, and started grinding in a large mortar. With every pestle push he pushed his ass back hard then forward, as if riding the cock slowly. Then he started clenching inside—his hole muscles tightened like a soft fist, released, tightened again, milking Eric’s cock like a second mouth. Eric moaned in a broken voice, large hands gripping Tim’s waist to keep from falling. “You want to kill me, bad boy…”

Station three—the shakshuka. Tim took a heavy pan, passed it from hand to hand, and started really dancing—small, quick belly dancer steps, the ass bouncing up and down on Eric’s cock in perfect rhythm. With every light jump he landed harder, the huge cheeks slapping Eric’s thighs in a wet, fleshy sound, the bells ringing like crazy music. Eric breathed heavily, sweat dripping down his chest. “I… I can’t…”

Station four—arranging the tray. Tim bent again, this time very deeply, to place the large plate in the table center. His ass spread completely, cheeks opening like a gold curtain, and Eric’s cock exposed almost halfway before Tim “swallowed” it back in one smooth, wet motion. He started rotating his hips in wide circles, like a real belly dance, and his hole clenched and pulsed around the cock in a fast, precise rhythm. Eric moaned in a low, trembling voice, legs shaking. “Tim… I’m close…”

Final station—the finishing touches. Tim sprinkled some chopped parsley, drizzled greenish olive oil, and lifted the finished tray.

Eric already felt victory in his hands, his cock pulsing in Tim’s perfect warmth, and he thought to himself with inner laughter that if Tim just placed the tray on the table, it would be over. But then Tim stopped everything. The enormous ass stopped swaying, the bells silent for a moment, and then he clenched his thick cheek muscles hard—hard—like soft, warm vise gripping Eric’s cock from all directions. Eric felt the sweet pressure rise from his balls straight to his throat, but he bit his teeth and held on. And then Tim did the last thing he expected: he turned slowly on the cock impaling his ass, the gold fringes fluttering, the big pink eyes locking on Eric’s, and whispered in a sweet-lethal voice, “I love you, Eric.”

The words hit him like a hammer straight to the heart, all his defenses collapsed at once, and the cum burst from him in powerful, hot waves, filling Tim’s ass until it already spilled out in thick drips. Tim’s own small cock leaked too, white drops spreading on his delicate fabric, and they stayed standing there, heavy, warm breaths mixing in air full of spice and cum scents.

Tim let out a high, sweet victory squeal, pulled Eric’s soft cock out of him in a smooth motion, and the cum immediately poured from his open, pink hole, flowing in thick white streams onto the clean floor. He started a small, crazy victory dance, the enormous ass jiggling, the bells ringing, the fringes fluttering, and he called in a laughing voice, “Gay! Gay! Eric is gay!”

Eric sighed in fake defeat, took the tray and walked to the table, but suddenly smiled a vengeful, sharp smile and pointed down at the floor. Tim stopped mid-dance, looked down, and saw the small pool of Eric’s cum spreading on the white tiles. His eyes sparkled, his knees buckled on their own, and he fell to all fours in cat-like quickness. His small tongue came out and started licking in absolute loyalty, collecting every drop, every white line, satisfied, loud swallowing with every gulp.

Eric sat, opened a warm pita bread, and just watched him from above with a wide smile, because they both knew the floor was so clean thanks to Tim that even a king could eat from it without thinking twice, and Tim, with his ass raised high and the imaginary tail of fringes swaying, looked happiest in the world as he licked his victory and Eric’s defeat at the same time.

He finished licking the last drop, his tongue passing lovingly over the cold tiles until they sparkled again like a mirror, stood in a smooth motion, and sat across from Eric at the small, perfect table. Eric had already stabbed his fork into the warm pita bread, tore a large piece, dipped it in the velvety hummus and hot shakshuka, and moaned deeply in satisfaction with every bite, crumbs and olive oil drops falling on his bare chest. Tim, on the other hand, took a small pink plate he’d prepared for himself in advance: half a toasted pita bread, one spoon of hummus with a drop of tahini and greenish olive oil, two soft shakshuka eggs cut into small pieces, a few shiny black olives, and a bit of finely chopped Arabian salad with lemon and parsley. Everything was arranged perfectly, like a small, miniature picture of Eric’s huge tray. He ate slowly, in feminine politeness, cutting tiny pieces, licking his lips after every bite, and his big eyes never left Eric’s face for a moment, full of love and pride as he saw how his partner devoured everything without stopping. That’s exactly how they spent every morning since this month began: Eric eating like a king, Tim eating like a small, happy princess, and that’s how they got used to spending their mornings.

…

Despite everything the curse did to their bodies and souls, within all the sexual madness and this slutty-sweet routine, Tim and Eric were still just… Tim and Eric. They still laughed at the same stupid jokes, still argued about what to order for pizza, still stayed up until three in the morning to finish an entire series season. Only now everything got an addition of a hand on the cock, a wet kiss, or an enormous ass sitting on you without warning.

Of course their interests changed a bit. Eric, who once would faint after ten minutes of soccer, suddenly became a walking encyclopedia of sports: he knew every player’s stats, every coach’s moves, every team’s history. He predicted results like a prophet, and Tim—who had long lost any interest in balls that weren’t Eric’s—would laugh and tell him, “If we ever need extra money, open a betting account.”

But Tim still sat with him. Every game. Every evening. On the sofa, head on Eric’s broad shoulder, big eyes looking at the screen without really seeing. Because it didn’t matter what happened on the field. What mattered was that he was there, next to the person he loved more than anything. And always, always, before the opening whistle sounded twice, Tim would slide down, kneel between Eric’s spread legs, quickly open his pants, and take the huge cock into his throat like welcoming an old friend home. Or simply lift his enormous ass, sit slowly on Eric’s cock, and start riding in a slow, sweet rhythm, as if it were the most comfortable chair in the world. And Eric would continue yelling at the referee, jumping in excitement when they scored, and sometimes stroke Tim’s long hair or moan, “Yes, like that, baby.” Once, when a football game Eric was really looking forward to was about to start, the air around Tim shimmered like desert heat. His clothes started shrinking and sparkling. The T-shirt shortened in a flash, the fabric turned glowing green-white of the team, shrank until it reached just below his chest and became a tiny, stretched crop jersey with intentionally torn edges and short sleeves. On the chest, in huge, shiny white letters: ERIC’S #1 CHEERBOY, and the fabric was so thin and stretched that Tim’s pink nipples protruded through it like two small buttons. The pants vanished completely, evaporated into air, leaving only the short shirt barely covering the upper half of his enormous ass; the round, glossy cheeks protruded beneath the edges like two full balls, and the deep crevice remained completely exposed. On the back, just above the insane curve of the backside, written in huge, sparkling gold letters: Eric’s #1 Fan ♡, with the small heart winking with every movement. Under the shirt also appeared small pink-white pom-poms on the ankles, and a matching headband with GO DADDY in sparkling letters.

While Eric became a world sports expert, Tim discovered an entire world of entertainment that was once completely foreign to him and now felt like home. The living room lit in soft pink-gold lamp light, with the white, clean rug and thin curtains fluttering in the light air-conditioning breeze, became a temple of sweet-heartbreaking romantic movies, drama- and laughter-filled talk shows, and cooking competitions where the judges cried from excitement. Tim would curl up on the sofa with a large pillow, thick legs folded under him, big eyes sparkling every time someone on screen got a ring or a chef succeeded in making a perfect dessert. He would laugh in a high voice when someone threw wine in someone’s face, sigh in happiness when the heroine finally got the kiss she waited for, and sometimes even wipe a small tear when the story touched him deeply in the heart.

Tim got sucked into makeup YouTube channels and spent hours watching videos on how to do eyeliner or which lipstick suits which outfit. Of course it didn’t really matter because the curse always changed his external appearance and put his preferred makeup on his face. He didn’t know if the curse pushed him into all this or if he had already gotten used to everything but he didn't care. He loved it. He loved talking about it at work with the girls, laughing about celebs, recommending nail polishes, and hearing them squeal when he told how he cried at the end of “The Notebook” for the millionth time.

Eric, on the other hand, would sit next to him with a patient-dead look, trying with all his might to understand why people cry over strangers’ weddings or why it takes half an hour to choose a dress. He would sigh, drum fingers on his knee, until finally admitting it wasn’t for him. But he never left the sofa. Because Tim was there. And he was willing to suffer every Korean drama or reality show about the craziest stars, just to be next to him.

However, Tim knew how to make him happy. He wouldn’t say a word or even lower his eyes from the screen, he would simply lie on all fours on the soft rug, raise his enormous, perfect ass high in the air, sway it slowly like an open invitation. Eric’s eyes would always light up, and then without thinking twice he would lower his pants and push inside in one smooth, deep motion. Tim would continue reacting to the show, laughing when someone said something funny, sighing when the scene became emotional, and his ass would clench and release in perfect rhythm around Eric’s cock, as if saying “enjoy, my love, I’m still here with you.” And the living room would fill with the sweet smell of sex, Eric’s low moans, and Tim’s small sounds, while on screen someone finally got the kiss of her life. Because for them, it was the simplest way to say “I love you,” even when one wanted to watch football and the other wanted to watch someone crying in a dress.

But despite all the changes, Tim and Eric still kept one shared love the curse didn’t touch: action movies. They would cuddle on the large, comfortable sofa, lights off except for the blue glow of the huge screen, warm popcorn in hands, and watch total destruction: exploding cars, rooftop jumps, rapid gunfire, and heroes saving the world in style. They would laugh at the stupid dialogues and argue who would win in a real fight.

Tim wondered why this remained. Why his love for explosions and chases didn’t disappear like his love for sports or shooter games? But then he noticed that every time the hero saved the girl from danger or shot the bad guys threatening her—his small cock would harden immediately, trembling in lace panties. He would imagine himself in her place: tied to a chair with a ticking bomb beneath him, water rising around his legs in a flood trap, or stuck in an elevator about to fall. And then Eric—his hero, with the huge muscles, broad chest, and determined eyes—would burst in at the last moment, tear the ropes, lift him in strong arms, and save him with a deep, loving kiss. It was so horny, so perfect, that Tim would bite his lip not to moan out loud.

And another thing that made these movies special: the sex. Every time the action heated up on screen—thundering explosions, bursting gunfire, crashing cars—they would start having sex. Tim would pull Eric to him, or Eric would pull him, and they would start fucking each other like animals right on the sofa, but their eyes stayed glued to the screen. Tim would ride Eric’s cock, the enormous ass bouncing up and down to the rhythm of the gunfire, moaning with every big explosion. Eric would pound him hard from the side, hands gripping the soft cheeks, but his head raised to see the hero jump from a roof. It was wild, hot, sweaty, full of shouts and moans mixing with the movie soundtrack.

…

On the weekend, Tim and Eric went to visit his parents. Eric’s heart pounded harder than usual. He feared meeting the new versions of them. Especially Tim’s dad whom he barely knew in their previous lives. Tim hurried to calm him. “They’ll love you,” Tim whispered and placed a small, warm hand on Eric’s thigh. “In this world you’re basically their dream son-in-law.”

And so it was. The moment the door opened, Tim’s mom—a small woman with a huge smile and floral scarf—threw herself at Eric, hugged him tightly, and then started feeling his arms as if checking if they were real. “God, what a man!” she laughed loudly. “If Tim hadn’t grabbed you first, I would have snatched you!” Tim rolled with laughter behind her, and Eric blushed like a child. Tim’s dad, a tall man with a slight belly and polo shirt of his favorite team, shook Eric’s hand warmly and said, “Finally someone who gets it!” and from there it flowed on its own. The living room filled with basketball game sounds, Tim’s dad’s happy shouts, and Eric’s precise analyses of every move, player, and tactic. They sat facing each other, beers in hand, eyes sparkling, as if they’d known each other for years. In the kitchen, Tim’s mom tried to help but mostly stood aside and laughed seeing how Tim—with a small pink apron—danced between the pots like a professional chef and created a luxury restaurant meal in minutes. “I’m not touching,” Mom said and just poured wine.

At the dining table the atmosphere was warm and family-like. The parents asked about work, the apartment, interesting things, and most answers flowed easily from their mouths because in this world everything was simple and beautiful. But occasionally came a question about the past— “Remember when you were little kids playing in the yard?” or “Remember that kid from your class”—and they had to relax a bit, let the fake-real memories bloom in their heads like an old film, and answer with wide smiles and confident voices.

The meal went great until his mom asked something neither had thought about. “Do you have plans for the future?” Tim and Eric froze. It was the first time they were asked to think long-term. The first time they were asked to think what would happen after the curse was lifted. Tim didn’t know what to answer and trembled with fear, but then Eric said, “We’re just trying to survive the month.” Tim was happy with Eric’s answer but somewhere in his heart, he felt sadness.

After the meal, when the house was already quiet and the parents went to rest in the living room with tea cups, Tim pulled Eric in the narrow hallway to his room upstairs. The door opened with a light sigh, and the small pink room revealed itself in full glory exactly as Tim remembered it from this world: pastel pink walls with heart and butterfly stickers, double bed with white and pink sheets, decorative heart- and teddy-shaped pillows, thin lace curtains filtering moonlight, small vanity with round pink mirror and dozens of nail polish, lipstick, and powder bottles and all the other things that nearly gave Tim a heart attack the first time he entered his room. Eric looked around and burst into deep, happy laughter. “God, it’s so… you.” Tim blushed to his ears but smiled a small, shy smile. “Yeah… I know.”

He opened the glittery pink feminine bag he brought and took out his small diary. “I thought I’d return it to its place before we leave, so nothing’s missing.” Eric sat on the bed edge, pulled Tim to sit next to him, and said in a curious-mischievous voice, “Wait, before that… read me a bit. I want to know what you wrote about me when I was still just your best friend.” Tim opened the diary with slightly trembling hands, the pages full of round, neat handwriting with small hearts on every margin. He flipped until he found pages with Eric’s name—an easy task—and took a deep breath. He started reading in a low, shy voice:

“Dear Diary, today Eric came over after practice and was shirtless because it was super hot!!! His muscles were so big and wet with sweat and I just stood and stared at him like an idiot. He asked if there was cola and I almost spilled everything on the floor because I was so distracted. I’m dying of embarrassment but also dying of something else… I think I’m in love with him. God, I’m so gay for him.”

Eric laughed hard, but his eyes were soft. Tim continued, his voice trembling more:

“Dear Diary, I dreamed Eric kissed me. I woke up with a hard dick and tears in my eyes because I know it’ll never happen. He’s not gay, he’s my best friend, he’ll never want me like that. But I want him to know… I want him to love me like I love him. I’m so stupid.”

Now Eric wasn’t laughing anymore. He placed a large hand on Tim’s thigh and squeezed gently. Tim flipped a bit more:

“Dear Diary, today Eric slept over because he was a bit tired. He cuddled with me in bed and said he loves being with me most. My heart almost jumped out of my chest. He smelled so good and I felt his cock pushing against my ass through the pants. I tried not to move so he wouldn’t feel how hard I was. I dream he’ll wake up in the middle of the night and just take me. I want to be his. I want him to say he loves me more than as a friend.”

Tim’s voice broke a little at the end. He raised a teary, shy gaze to Eric, who had already pulled him into a strong hug, kissed his forehead, and said in a hoarse voice, “Little fool… I was so blind.” Tim curled into him on the pink bed, the diary fell to the floor, and they stayed like that for a long time, the two friends on a princess bed, knowing now all those silly-cute dreams had come true far beyond what Tim ever dared to ask for.

The pink room was quiet, except for their heavy breaths and small whispers mixing with the scent of lace and sweet perfume rising from the sheets. Tim and Eric lay on each other on the narrow bed, lips meeting again and again in soft, long kisses, tongues rubbing slowly as if each tried to say everything the diary didn’t manage. They really wanted to have sex but feared Tim’s parents would hear them. Tim’s thin hand slid down, found the heavy erection in Eric’s pants, and caressed it in slow, admiring motions, as always. But then something that never happened before occurred. Eric, with dark eyes full of affection, reached his large, warm palm and gently placed it on the thin fabric of Tim’s pink-lace panties. His thumb started moving in small, slow circles around the tiny cock, already hard and trembling with excitement, as if every touch of Eric was a gentle electric current flowing straight to Tim’s heart. He caressed it through the soft fabric.

Tim shuddered all over, his eyes widened in amazement. “Eric… what are you…” “You give me so much every day,” Eric whispered in a low, warm voice, thumb continuing to caress the sensitive head through the lace, “I thought you deserve to feel a little too.” Tim tried to explain, voice trembling, that their urges wouldn’t be satisfied this way and it didn’t matter what he received. “I can still satisfy you,” Eric said and pulled Tim’s small cock out. Tim tried to keep his cool and said that even if he wanted to fuck Eric in the ass, his cock was so tiny he could never make Eric cum or satisfy him—but Eric just smiled a mischievous smile and increased the pace. He massaged it harder, fingers sliding along the entire length of the small cock, pressing and releasing. Tim knew Eric was quite clumsy due to lack of experience or an urge to tell him what to do. But in that moment, it didn’t matter to him. Eric’s other hand rose to Tim’s chest, caressed the small nipple through the thin shirt, and the feeling was so new, so gentle and full of love, that Tim felt tears burning in his eyes. “I’m very satisfied now,” Eric said. “Do you feel satisfied?”

Tim panted heavily, his small body trembling between Eric’s large hands, the panties already soaked in small drops of clear fluid. “Eric… I… I…” and then it happened. A warm, soft wave of pleasure washed over Tim from head to toe, the small cock trembled in Eric’s hand, and the white, thick cum burst out—some spilling on Eric’s warm palm, some soaking into the pink lace of the panties, and small drops landing on the pink bed sheets like tiny pearls. Tim shuddered all over, a small, broken moan escaped his throat, and he fell forward into Eric’s chest, face buried in the warm neck, tears of happiness flowing down his cheeks. Eric continued caressing him slowly, spreading the cum on the soft fabric, smiling a wide, gentle smile. “I got my answer,” he whispered, and kissed Tim’s head, “you’re most beautiful when you melt in my hands.” And the pink room, with all the teddies and hearts, never felt more like home.