The curtains sway gently, softened by the golden light from the afternoon sun outside, the vast expanse of the sky clear from clouds.

Wet sounds fill the empty space, slightly muffled by the fabric of Caleb’s pants. Your hand moves up and down in an even rhythm, fingers lazily wrapped around his cock.

Your eyes are glued to the notebook on the bed in front of you, a pencil scribbling some numbers that are supposed to be the right equation.

Focusing on your studies, especially long and difficult maths problems was hard.

But not harder than Caleb, flushed and throbbing in your palm.

You don’t know what calmes you down–the act of your hand moving in a repeated motion, or Caleb’s breathless whimpers in the background. Maybe it’s also the warmth and wetness of his dick.

The first time you found out about this way of relieving your anxiety, it had been on a glass. Your hand moved up and down the cold surface, closely followed by Caleb’s eyes, who was sitting next to you at the time, explaining some mathematical theory.

You don’t exactly remember how it got to this, but it really was better than stroking a plain glass. You could solve problems faster, your pace increasing every time you stumbled on a particularly difficult question before smoothening into the familiar stroking pattern.

Lazily, completely absentmindedly jerking your best friend off. As if it was something casual, something normal and not morally wrong on every single level. Even as his grandma, Josephine, was just in the other room, oblivious to the wreckage you made of Caleb every time your hand squeezed around his needy, leaking dick.

Your hand stilled, thumb rubbing maddening circles on the slit of his tip, white and sticky with pre-cum, the filthy sight hidden from the world by the damp fabric of his sweatpants.