[FM] When my best friend let me touch his cock – it was beautiful.

(Inspired by that one scene in the film we weren't supposed to be watching together…)

It was late. We were curled up on the couch, two beers in, the lights low, my legs over his lap, like always. Just us. Best friends. Watching films we probably shouldn't.

That night it was Gaspar Noé. One of those unflinching, brutally honest ones , the kind that leaves you silent even after the credits roll.

But we didn't get to the credits. Because the scene came on.

A handjob. Explicit. Unapologetically raw.

The girl's hand wrapped slowly around his cock. She stroked him in silence. Loving. Curious. Present. The camera never cut away, it stayed on the connection, the detail, the twitch of his thighs, the tightening of his breath.

I didn't breathe either.

The air felt thick between us. His hand was resting on my shin. It hadn't moved. But I felt every nerve beneath it come alive.

When the scene ended, I reached for the remote. Paused it. Let the still image hang there, her hand mid-stroke, his cock glistening.

And I turned to him.

"Is it really like that?" I asked softly.

He blinked. Hesitated. His mouth opened, then closed again.

"You mean…" He glanced at the screen, then back at me. "The way it looks? Or the way it feels?"

"Both."

A beat passed. Then another.

And then he said, carefully:

"I could show you. If you want."

My breath caught. But I didn't look away.

"I want," I said.

He was quiet for a second, searching my eyes.

"We don't have to do anything," he added quickly. "You can just watch. Or… touch. If you're curious."

I was. So, so curious.

And more than that, I trusted him. Every part of me trusted him.

We moved to the bed without speaking. The air was different now, not heavy, not nervous. Just quiet. Focused.

He sat at the edge. Looked up at me once more. And then unzipped his jeans.

I watched his cock emerge. Thick. Smooth. Already a little hard.

My heart hammered. Not out of fear, out of wonder. I'd seen cocks before. But not like this. Not in this light. Not this close. Not… his.

He looked at me again, checking.

I stepped closer.

And slowly, I reached out.

My hand hovered, trembling just above him. He was hard now. Not aggressively, not trying to impress, just real. Alive.

His cock stood gently upright, thick and flushed, resting slightly against his belly. A bead of arousal glistened at the tip, catching the low lamplight. His skin looked impossibly soft, pale and stretched, with veins like silver branches threading beneath.

And I touched him.

First with just my fingertips. Then with my palm. My hand wrapped around the base, and I felt it: the heat, the pulse, the tension. He throbbed against my skin.

He inhaled, slow and sharp. But he didn't move. He just let me explore him, all of him.

I stroked, carefully. From base to crown. My thumb brushed along the vein on the underside, and his cock flexed in my grip like it was answering me.

I looked up.

His head was tilted back slightly, eyes closed. His mouth hung open, soft. Vulnerable.

I did it again.

This time slower. I let my hand rise along the shaft, fingers tracing every ridge, every tight line of skin. His head, so smooth, so flushed — was warm under my thumb. I circled it, and he groaned.

Not loudly. But like it came from someplace deep. Instinctive. Bare.

I felt powerful. And tender. And honored.

My other hand joined.

I cupped his balls gently — warm and heavy , while the first continued its rhythm. Up. Down. Twist at the top. My fingers knew nothing. And yet they moved like they had always belonged on his skin.

"This okay?" I whispered.

His eyes opened slowly. Glassy.

"This is…" he started, voice cracking. "It's perfect."

His thighs tensed under me. His stomach fluttered.

Every little reaction, every shiver of his cock, every flicker in his breath , was mine.

I leaned in.

My thumb smeared the bead of precum across his tip. It made his cock shimmer even more. And then I began stroking again, firmer, fuller, more confident. From root to tip. Over and over.

His hips shifted. Not to thrust, just to meet my hand. Gently. Gratefully.

"You're beautiful," I whispered.

His cock jerked in response.

"I'm close," he warned.

I didn't stop.

I just changed the rhythm. Slower. Tighter. One hand gripped the base, the other teased the crown. I could feel it, the urgency, the tension coiling, the way he tried so hard to hold on.

"I want to see," I said. "Let me see how you cum."

And then…

He did.

It started with a gasp, like his whole body exhaled at once. Then the first jet of semen burst from him, thick, white, hot, It arced through the air and landed on his belly with a heavy splatter.

The second hit my knuckles. Sticky. Perfect. More followed, painting his skin, his thighs, dripping down over my fingers.

He moaned, low and broken.

I kept stroking, slower now, coaxing the last spurts out of him. I milked him gently until his cock twitched and softened just slightly in my hand.

He opened his eyes. Looked at me like I'd undone him.

"I've never…" he whispered. "That was… different."

I smiled.

"You let me learn you. And you're… beautiful, when you orgasm."