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The Broken Arm Favor - Chapter 4
🕑 Added 2025-10-14 22:00:02 +0000 UTCIt stopped being a one-time favor weeks ago.
At first, it was every few days—Troye would call me over when he couldn’t handle it anymore, and I’d leave his house with shaky hands and a cock so hard I thought I’d rip through my jeans. But soon, it wasn’t just him who needed it. My body started to anticipate it, like clockwork. By the time evening rolled around, I was already half-hard, knowing I’d be wrapping my hand around him again.
It became daily. A secret routine we never spoke about, just… did. And it wasn’t only at his place—when I was home, I’d jerk myself raw, unloading everything I’d built up while jerking him. I was feeding off his horniness, addicted to the sound of his moans and the heat of his cock in my fist.
And tonight, he wanted to try something different.
“Lie next to me,” Troye said, patting the bed. He had this lazy grin, his hair a mess, his cast propped on some pillows. “We’ll be comfier like that.”
My throat went dry, but I climbed in beside him. Our shoulders brushed, our thighs almost touched. His scent—soap and sweat—was everywhere.
I slid my hand into his shorts, wrapping around him. Hard instantly, like his body was just waiting for me.
“Fuck, yeah,” he sighed, resting his head on my shoulder as I stroked him.
I started with my usual rhythm—up, down, slick, steady. But then he murmured against my neck:
“Switch it up. Not just the same move.”
I swallowed. “Like… what?”
He just smirked, closing his eyes. “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”
So I experimented. Instead of just pumping, I twisted my wrist slightly, dragging my palm over his swollen head on each stroke. His whole body twitched.
“Ohhh fuck, that—yes,” he groaned, his breath hot against my skin.
I tried different movements: sliding my fist halfway up and holding, circling his head with my thumb, squeezing under the ridge. Each time, he moaned louder, his casted arm pressing uselessly against the mattress while his good hand clenched the sheets.
When I teased just his head—slow strokes over the tip, rubbing the precum around with my thumb—he whimpered. That sound shot straight to my cock.
“Connor—fuck—you’re killing me,” he gasped, pressing his forehead to my shoulder.
I kept playing with his head, dragging my thumb around the slit, then stroking fast again, then stopping to circle the crown. He was leaking like crazy, coating my hand, making every movement sloppy and hot.
He moaned into me, his lips brushing my shoulder as his chest heaved against mine. The closeness made it unbearable—I was throbbing, my own precum dampening my underwear.
“Don’t stop—please—fuck, don’t stop!”
I pumped him faster now, twisting and squeezing, my hand a blur. His thighs shook, his moans muffled against my shirt. And then—
“Connor! Fuck—!”
His cock pulsed hard, and he exploded, shooting all over himself. Thick white cum spattered across his stomach, dripping down onto his cast, messy streaks soaking into the fabric.
I froze, staring at the mess dripping down his arm, my hand still wrapped around him as he twitched through the last spurts.
Then I felt it—my own release. Warmth spreading in my underwear, cum soaking through the front of my shorts. I hadn’t even touched myself. Just jerking him off made me cum untouched.
I looked down at him—panting, sweaty, cum all over his cast—and realized my whole body was trembling.
This wasn’t just his addiction anymore. It was mine too.
