He is not winking, or making signs, or showing interest, or indicating his sexual preference. He just reacts. It's an oriental boy, a young man, and h...'s apparently commuting, waiting for another tram. I have stirred something in him, he’s following me with his eyes as I cross the street. It’s four o’clock in the afternoon, my plane will depart in a few hours. There's not enough time, so I walk away from him and follow the crowd up the road. But I feel him in my back, his regard, and finally. As pretty as my face was, as perfect as my body seemed to most people, Rodney's infatuation lay squarely across his thighs. My size six feet, all brown on top, pinkish between the toes, and rather light along the soles. He massaged them one at a time, using both hands to knead and squeeze my foot, not tickling me at all, but making it feel delightfully wicked. This was a sexual thing, there was no mistaking it, and I could feel the bulge of Rodney's straining cock trapped in his trousers. He. More

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