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The Broken Arm Favor - Chapter 3
🕑 Added 2025-10-13 22:00:04 +0000 UTCI told myself it was a one-time thing.
Just helping him out, nothing more. He was desperate, I was being a good friend—end of story. That’s what I kept repeating to myself the morning after, even though my hand still smelled faintly of Troye’s cum when I woke up.
But the thing about jerking your best friend off? Once you’ve crossed that line, it’s all you can think about.
I was confused as hell. Half the time I convinced myself I’d done nothing wrong, the other half I was replaying the sound of him moaning my name in the dark.
A few days later, my phone buzzed.
Troye: come over.
No explanation, no reason. Just that. And of course, I went.
When I walked into his room, he was already shifting uncomfortably on his bed, shorts tenting. He didn’t even bother with small talk this time.
“Connor… I need you to do it again.”
I blinked. “Troye. I told you it was just once.”
He gave me those pleading eyes, biting his lip. “Please, man. You don’t get it. It’s not just ‘cause I can’t use my arm—it’s… you’re better at it than I ever was. Even when I could use my hand, it wasn’t like that. You’re fucking amazing at it.”
That hit me harder than I wanted to admit. My chest tightened, cock stirring just from hearing him say it. Better than him.
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “Fuck, dude. You’re making me sound like your personal sex toy.”
He smirked, shifting closer. “Then be my sex toy. Just this once… again.”
And of course, I gave in.
I slid my hand under his shorts again, and fuck, he was already leaking precum, cock stiff and twitching before I even touched him.
The first strokes were shaky—I was still trying to convince myself this wasn’t insane—but then he groaned, low and needy, and I melted back into it. My hand knew what to do before my brain did.
“God, yes…” Troye’s hips lifted into my grip. “Faster.”
I sped up, pumping him quick, my wrist twisting as precum smeared down his shaft. He moaned louder, biting into his pillow to muffle himself.
Then he grabbed my wrist with his good hand, forcing me to slow down.
“Wait—slower,” he gasped.
I obeyed, dragging my fist up his length painfully slow, squeezing just under his tip before sliding back down. He whimpered, legs trembling.
“Now fast,” he begged.
I shifted instantly, stroking him quick, rhythmic, the wet slap of my hand filling the room. He was leaking everywhere, coating my palm, and I swear my own cock pulsed in my shorts, leaking precum too.
“Fuck, Connor, your hand… it’s perfect. Don’t stop.”
I fell into a rhythm, teasing him by alternating between slow and fast, squeezing harder each time he moaned my name. My hand was drenched in his precum, slick and messy, sliding with no resistance. Every time I sped up, his whole body arched off the bed, every muscle tensing.
And the worst part? My own cock was throbbing so hard it hurt. I wanted to touch myself so bad, but all I could do was focus on his moans, his heat, the way he leaked nonstop into my hand. I could feel his pulse through his shaft, heavy and desperate.
“Connor—I’m gonna cum—don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop—”
I stroked faster, squeezing tight, and with a loud cry he exploded, cum shooting all over his stomach and chest, dripping down my fist. Hot and messy, covering everything.
He collapsed back, panting, still twitching in my grip.
And me? I was left rock hard, precum soaking through my own shorts, trembling from how turned on I was just from jerking him off.
That was the night I realized… this wasn’t a one-time thing anymore.
It was a routine. Our secret routine.
