Satisfy yourself first.

Having the boner of the century there is no doubt which job has priority. With grunts of pure desperation you yank away at your manhood, abusing yourself, with the signal desire to cum. Groaning at the fire that is building within you, which you fully blame on Ms. Morelli, you grab a handful of Kleenex to cover the tip of your cock. Now using both hands you push on to finish the job.

The intensity of how hard you cum borders on the painful as you shoot several powerful streams into the tissues. When finished you collapse back into your chair gasping from breath.

“Damn.” Is all you can mutter until you realize the **** of your hand-job has shredded the Kleenex, causing your cum to spill all over your pants.

“Fuck it.” You kick off your pants as the cum soak wad of tissues drops to the floor. Not only are your pants stained but so are your underpants. As you survey the extent of the mess you have made a knock comes from your door.

“One second!” You yell, more from annoyance than thought, as you realize it's probably your idiot neighbor Jerry who always bothers you at the most inappropriate times, and thus you probably should have remained silent, which only angers you more.

Wiping the cum from your hands on your pants, they're going have to be washed anyways, you strip off your underpants and throw on a part of old sweatpants and go commando.

Stomping into the main room you open the door.

Of course, as the Fates would decree, it isn't Jerry but Sandra.

“Oh,” She obviously notices your less then together state. “Did, I wake you? I'm so sorry. I tried to text you. I forgot my dice bag. It has several valuable things in it.” You see the sexy brunette turn a bit flush. “I don't mean, I don't trust you. I really do. Of course you wouldn't take my stuff. Your a dear friend.” The brown eye beauty now becomes quite flustered, “I don't mean to imply that we . . . you . . . I . . . or that I came over here . . .” Sandra turns beet red. “Could I just get my bag?”

At that your mind freezes in terror. Sandra's bag is laying empty on the table with all its content spread out across the table, and is in plan sight of the doorway, with the only thing blocking her seeing it is your body. Even worse, you remember the hidden miniatures are out, except the whipping post one which is in your bedroom.

“I'm so sorry.” The Librarian Science major gets small and nervously fidgets her hands together. Her eyes are that of a wounded puppy dog, clearly concerned that she has offended you. “If I could just grab my bag, I'll be on my way.”