The exact moment Tom comes, he realises Poppy is watching him. 

He is a fucking idiot. 

Because he’s so used to touching himself with his noise-cancelling headphones on—months of staying in dorms, hostels, and shared rooms where he must pleasure himself silently, watching porn on his phone under the sheets once he is sure everyone else is asleep—it felt like second nature to do it here, now, on his little sister’s best friend’s sofa where he is crashing for the next two weeks. 

In all fairness, Poppy was supposed to be out all evening. She was not supposed to be standing behind him, her eyes darting between his laptop (BBW redhead facesitting in his search bar) and the cum now painting his stomach and fist, his joggers and underwear pushed to his thighs. 

He hadn’t meant to do this. She’d been kind enough to take him in for two weeks, as it’s his mum’s sixtieth birthday and she’s throwing a huge bash at the house, which means his childhood home is full of family members. 

But Tom