Graham got his revenge. We sat in the back of the bus on the return trip, and he kept his hand in my lap the whole way. The wicked bastard kept me hard and on the edge of coming all the time. He could tell by my breathing, I suppose, when I was getting close, so he’d stop rubbing and just let his hand rest on my tented pants. Then, when I’d calmed down a little, he’d begin to stroke me again. Even through two layers of cotton, it kept me excited, leaking, on the verge of shooting a wad into my boxers. As it was, they were damp from precum.
When we stood to leave, I had a little spot on the front of my khakis, and a major tent. And there was no way to sit and let it subside. I made the chuckling Graham walk in front of me. I was practically poking his ass with my stiff rod as we walked dow
