Leg affair

We started with lazy hands sliding up each other’s calves, toes flexing under fingertips. A few lazy strokes turned the game quick. I kicked his calf and grinned, he answered by pinning my foot to the couch cushion and digging both thumbs into the arch. The pressure shot straight up my thigh. I spread my legs without thinking, felt cool air hit damp skin. He noticed. Suddenly his palm cupped my heel, slid all the way to the back of my knee, then pushed past it. My foot rested heavy against the bulge in his jeans. He pressed harder. I squeezed. Heat. Hardness. The small circle of cloth over his zipper grew damp from both ends. Neither of us laughed. We just kept moving: his hand higher, my toes curling over denim, the lazy circle turning into quick, greedy strokes. That’s how our leg-rub turned straight into slow, toe-to-crotch hustling with the TV still blaring in the background like it had anywhere better to be.