Page 30 of Monstrous Serpent

I hoist my ass up and head into the bathroom. I scrub the blood off my helmet. Once it’s gone, I dry it with a towel and set it on the counter.

At least Jenkins didn’t break anything. Not that I couldn’t replace the helmet, but fuck, it’s my favorite one.

I pump some foam soap onto my hands to clean them since there’s a bit of blood under my nails. “Ow, fuck.”

Dammit.

A deep scratch runs across the Patrick Star tattoo on the inside of my left wrist. Of course. It sits where my hockey glove’s going to irritate the shit out of it.

I turn off the faucet, dry my hands, and then head to my room. I strip down to my boxers, tossing my sweatshirt and jeans to the side near the other pile of clothes from the week. Need to do laundry soon.

After plugging in my phone and setting it on the small nightstand, I flop onto the bed and stare at the ceiling.

My eyes close, but I’m not tired. Well, I am, but I’m not. I shift to my left side, my skin too hot against the sheets. I flip to my right—that’s worse. The pillow is flat and warm, and I punch it, flip it, and shove my face into the cool side.

Ours.

I roll onto my back. My boxers drag across my half-chub and my hips twitch. I press the heel of my hand against it through the fabric, and my cock stirs under the pressure.

“Come on, man.”

I'm talking to my own dick on a Friday night. This is where I'm at.

Fuck this.

I shove my boxers down and wrap my hand around my dick. My thumb drags through the precum at the slit, and I start stroking, slow, base to tip. My abs tighten and my breathing picks up and my hips start rocking into my fist as my dick thickens.

Okay, come on, come on.

My grip tightens, pace picking up speed. I lean forward and spit on my dick, the wet drag louder. “That’s it. Almost there.”

Then everything starts to go away. The arousal, even my fucking erection. I tighten my grip, working my length faster as my teeth sink into my bottom lip. “Not now. Come on.”

I close my eyes, focusing on the friction. But my cock softens in my grip, and my hand is doing all the work now for a body that's already checked out.

Every. Fucking. Time.

A muffled squeak comes from somewhere. My eyes snap open, and I turn toward the wall. “What the fuck is he doing?”

The squeak comes again.

My dick twitches.

Another squeak.

Like Jenkins made earlier tonight. Twice.

My grip tightens, my cock pulsing so hard my hips jerk off the mattress. A groan rips out of my throat. My cock is thickening fast, swelling in my grip, and the difference between ten seconds ago and right now is so sharp my breath catches.

“Ohhh, fuuuck.”

My teeth sink into my bottom lip, eyes closing. There’s Jenkins—the way he looked at me, how his gaze drifted to my hand on my cock, his mouth falling open.

He was watching me touch myself.

Precum leaks down my shaft, coating my fist as my hips rock up. “Mmm. Oh, god. Fuck, so good.”

His chest was heaving, lips parted as he stared. He liked it.