We were sitting together on the couch. A movie was playing in the background, but I had no idea what it was about. Because Jon was sitting next to me in just his boxers. His chest was exposed, stretched out, calm, and I... I wasn't calm at all.
I could feel it growing in my pants. The throbbing was distinct, and I was getting harder by the minute. His thigh was touching mine. His breathing was slow. His presence was like a fucking drug to me.
The problem? My hand.
I'd strained it at the gym the day before and it still hurt with every movement. I couldn't scratch my back, let alone jerk off. And I wanted to so badly it was driving me crazy. Fuck, I was close to losing it.
I sighed in frustration, moved suddenly and groaned, clutching my side. Jon glanced at me out of the corner of his eye.
“What's going on?” he asked calmly.
“Nothing,” I muttered, but then sighed again.
"I just... really wanna jerk off, and I can’t move my damn arm. It’s driving me fucking insane."
He froze for a moment. He looked at me, then at my hand, as if calculating something. He was silent for a few seconds. I was about to make a stupid joke when he spoke, surprisingly calmly:
“If you want... I can do it for you.”
I froze. I stared at him.
“What?”
He shrugged as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
"Seriously. If your arm’s messed up and you need it… I can give you a hand."
My heart started pounding. I didn’t know whether to laugh or moan. My straight buddy had just offered to jerk me off. No sarcasm. No joke. Just… yeah.
I looked into his eyes. There was no mockery on his face. Just... some strange openness. Maybe curiosity.
And then I thought: if he offered... why not?
“Really... you'd do it?” I asked quietly, uncertainly.
Jon looked at me without a hint of hesitation.
“Yeah. If you can't do it yourself and you're choking, then... why not?”
My heart was pounding like crazy. I felt like I was on the verge of something that shouldn't be happening. But I couldn't pretend anymore. The need was stronger than reason.
He slowly pulled down my boxers and took out my cock. It was rock hard, stretched to its limits, with a shiny drop on the tip. The fabric was already wet with precum. Jon looked at it for only a second, and then... he knelt down.
Without a word.
His hand reached for my penis with such calmness, as if he had done it a million times before. He grabbed it at the base and began to move his hand slowly, up and down. Gently but confidently. Rhythmically. As if he was testing my body's reaction.
I caught my breath.
It felt damn good. So good that I closed my eyes. My head fell back, and a short, muffled “fuck...” escaped my lips.
Jon said nothing. His hand worked steadily, and I felt as if every second of that touch was going to tear me apart. My whole body was tense. I moaned softly, unable to hold back.
I looked down. He was focused. As if he really wanted me to feel everything exactly.
Then he spat on his hand. The saliva ran down my cock, and he spread it slowly. The glide was perfect. I was close to exploding.
“Do you like it?” he asked quietly.
“Yes...” I whispered. “Don't stop.”
Jon didn't answer. But his hand sped up. It still wasn't rough, still sensitive, confident, wet with saliva. But something had changed. There was more... strength. Rhythm. Dominance.
I was breathing heavily. My hips began to move to his rhythm. Unintentionally, reflexively. My body was doing it for me. I moaned, quietly, barely audible. But he heard it.
“You really don't want me to stop?” he asked, not looking up.
“Fuck, no...” I gasped. “Keep going. It feels so good...”
He spat a second time. This time, the spit slid down my shaft all the way to my balls. I felt its warmth, then his fingers, wiping it across, reaching deeper, lower. His other hand cupped my balls and lifted them, firm and sure. I was his. Completely.
"I’ve never seen anyone react like that to just a hand," he said with a smile.
"Maybe you’re not that ‘ordinary’ after all," I shot back, smirking.
There was no joke in it. Just pure tension. His fingers slid faster, harder, more precisely. He squeezed, then relaxed. He sensed every moment.
His lips were slightly parted. His chest rose and fell with his breathing. And then I noticed: he had an erection.
Not hidden. Not accidental. Clear. His cock was straining against the fabric of his boxers. It clung to him from below, pulling upward. Almost as hard as mine.
I felt that I was close. Muscle spasms. A wave of heat. Tension in my thighs.
“I'm coming...” I whispered. “Don't stop.”
Jon didn't stop for a second.
He didn't stop. He didn't pull his hand back. On the contrary, his last movements were more intense. Longer. Deeper. He slid over my cock as if he knew exactly what he was doing.
And then I broke.
“Fuck...” I hissed, my whole body tensing up. My hips lifted slightly. My fingers trembled. “I'm coming...”
It exploded out of me suddenly. Wave after wave. Sperm spurted high, hot, thick. Onto my stomach. On his hand. On my thighs. It seemed like it lasted forever. My body was shaking and my breath was ragged like after a run.
Jon didn't stop. Only when my cock began to throb in his hand did he loosen his grip. He looked at me without a word, his eyebrows slightly raised. There was something strange on his face, not shock, not disgust. As if... curiosity.
He rubbed his fingers across my stomach, smearing the last drops of cum, as if it were some kind of fucking experiment.
“There. Are you relieved?” he asked calmly.
I nodded with difficulty.
"Damn...
He got up from his knees. And then I saw it.
His cock in his boxers. Hard. Clearly. It stood like a pole, stretching the fabric. Jon saw it, but he didn't cover himself. He looked me in the eyes. For a second, maybe two.
“I'm going to the bathroom,” he said briefly. And he turned away.
He disappeared behind the door. And I stayed there, with the warmth of his hand still on my skin and a question in my head: what the hell just happened?
And was it really just out of pity?
If you enjoyed this story, consider supporting the author on Patreon.
