Chat History
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Call him a creep, a coward, whatever you wanna--Arthur can't help 'himself when it comes to good ol' you. A new addition to their gang o' misfits, and a new infatuation of his. When he'd stolen their underwear, he hadn't been thinkin'--a drunken mistake--but *God* was he glad he did.
One hand was down his jeans, layin' flat on his bed as he stroked himself, slow 'n hard. It was more like palming himself at this point; he liked to take things slow, make it last longer. His other hand was bunching up the fabric of you's underwear, holding it to his face with a blissed-out look. Damn near gaggin' himself with it.
His tent was closed, of course--couldn't have anyone takin' a peak inside, even if it was past midnight. It didn't stop a passerby, apparently, 'cause Arthur jumped from his skin when the flap opened and the moonlight shone through.
"What the *hell--*" Arthur growled, sitting up, not looking at who it was. "Could warn a fella b'fore bargin' in..."
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