He had the panties wrapped tight around his cock when the door opened.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, jeans shoved down to his thighs, one hand working himself through the soft cotton while the other held the waistband. He had already come once; the fabric was soaked and clinging, warm and sticky against the head every time he stroked. The door swung wider. She stood there in her tank top and shorts, charger cord in one hand, and went completely still.
Her eyes dropped to the panties in his fist, to the wet shine on his cock, to the mess already smeared across his knuckles. The color left her face. She took one step back.
He stood up fast, still holding the ruined underwear. “Close the door.”
“No.” Her voice was thin. Tears were already starting. “Those are mine. Put them down. I’m telling them.”
He crossed the room before she could turn. She tried to shove past him toward the hall. He caught her upper arm and walked her backward until her shoulders hit the closed door. The panties were still in his other hand, damp and heavy. She was crying now, quiet and fast, tears already tracking down her cheeks.
“You’re not telling anyone,” he said. He pressed the wet fabric against her palm and forced her fingers closed around it. She jerked her hand away like it burned. He caught her wrist again, harder, and put her hand back on him, wrapping the soaked cotton around his cock under her palm. The head was hot and slick against her skin through the fabric. “Finish it.”
“No.” Her voice cracked. She tried to yank free, free hand pushing at his chest, body twisting against the door. Tears ran down her face and dripped off her chin. “Stop. Please stop. I don’t want to. Let go of my hand.”
He didn’t. He kept her fingers closed tight around the panties and his cock and moved her hand himself, up and down, slow and firm. The wet cotton dragged over the sensitive head, catching on the ridge, slick and warm and sticky with what he had already spilled. She sobbed, shoulders shaking, trying to pull her arm back with everything she had. He held her wrist in place and kept the motion going, feeling the tight resistance in her fingers, the way they stayed stiff and refused to curl on their own. Pre-cum and the earlier mess leaked through the fabric onto her knuckles, hot and thick. She kept crying, while he used her hand on him.
Her free hand stayed braced against his stomach, pushing weakly. He ignored it. He tightened his grip on her wrist until he could feel the bones shift and moved her hand faster. The wet panties slid, the sound quiet and slick in the small room, the head of his cock throbbing against her palm through the cotton every time he dragged her hand down. She cried harder, face turned away toward the wall, tears dripping onto his forearm and the back of her own hand. Her fingers never moved by themselves. He had to do all of it, closing her fist, guiding every stroke, keeping the pressure tight while she shook and tried to twist away from the door.
He came hard into the panties, thick pulses soaking through the cotton and flooding over her fingers, hot and heavy and endless against her skin. She made a broken sound and kept crying, hand still trapped under his, the mess warm and sticky between them, dripping down her wrist. He held her there a few seconds longer, breathing hard, feeling the aftershocks pulse against her palm while she whispered that she hated him, that she was going to tell. When he finally let go of her wrist she dropped the ruined panties on the floor and wiped her hand on her shirt, not looking at him.
He stayed between her and the door. She stood there shaking, arms crossed tight, face wet, breathing in short hitching breaths. He watched a tear slide down her cheek and land on the collar of her tank top.
“Come to my room,” he said. “We need to talk about this.”
She shook her head. “No, just let me leave.”
“If you don’t, I’m telling them you walked in and started it.” He kept his voice low. Their parents were downstairs with the television on. “Your choice.”
She stood there a long time, shoulders tight, Then she wiped her face with the back of her hand and walked past him down the hall. He followed. She stopped outside his door. He opened it and waited. She went in. He closed it behind them.
The room was dim. She stood near the foot of the bed with her arms crossed, staring at the floor. He could see the wet tracks on her cheeks.
“You can’t do that again,” she said, voice hoarse. “I Wont do it again.”
“I know.” He stepped closer. She backed up until her calves hit the mattress. “That’s why we’re talking.”
“We’re not talking.” Fresh tears started. “You’re going to do it again. Just let me leave.”
He caught her wrist and sat on the edge of the bed, pulling her with him so she had to stand between his knees. She tried to pull free. He held on, opened his jeans with his free hand, and pushed them down. He was already hard again, the head flushed and wet. She made a small sound and turned her face away.
“Please don’t,” she whispered. “Not again. I don’t want to. Please.”
He took her other hand and closed her fingers around his cock himself. The skin was hot and smooth under her palm, the head slick when he dragged her hand over it. She yanked back hard. He tightened his grip on both wrists and forced her hand to stay, moving it up and down in short firm strokes. She sobbed, shoulders hitching, trying to twist her arm free while he kept her hand closed and stroking. The pre-cum smeared across her fingers, warm and sticky, every time he guided her over the head. Her free hand pushed at his thigh, weak and useless. He ignored it and kept guiding her hand, slower when she fought harder, faster when her resistance shook, feeling the tight heat of her palm and the way her fingers stayed rigid inside his grip.
“Stop,” she cried, voice cracking. “Please stop. It hurts.I don’t want to touch it. Please.”
He didn’t stop. He held her wrist in place and used her hand, the motion steady and forced, the slick sound of her palm sliding over him quiet in the room. She cried the whole time, face turned toward the wall, tears dripping onto his forearm and the sheets between his knees. Her fingers never curled on their own. He had to move them for her, every stroke, every slide over the swollen head, every tight pass down the shaft. The head throbbed against her palm. He came over her hand and his stomach in thick hot pulses, holding her there until he finished, feeling each one spill across her fingers and drip down her wrist. She kept crying after, hand still trapped under his, the mess warm and heavy between them.
He let go of her wrist. She wiped her hand on her shorts immediately, still crying, still not looking at him. He stayed sitting on the bed, jeans open, cock still half-hard and wet against his stomach, watching her. She didn’t move toward the door. She just stood there between his knees, arms crossed tight, face wet, breathing in short hitching breaths while the television murmured on downstairs. A tear slid off her chin and landed on the back of his hand. He didn’t wipe it away.
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