Kinktober 2025, Day 1: Overstimulation.
Synopsis: It’s been months since he felt your pretty little cunt clench around him last—and for a while he considered it a personal victory to survive the cum-soaked sheets and painfully hard mornings. But now, waiting for your touch isn’t enough. And if he has to take it upon himself to get off while you lay snoring, then so be it.
Pairing: Caleb!LADS / Fem!reader.
Tags: Fem!dom, male!sub, cock overstim, somno undertones, slapping, excessive cum, orgasm denial, slight dubcon, forced sub, dirty talk.
Author’s Note: hello my favs, happy kinktober!!! i’m only doing the prompts i wanna just cos i suck when it comes to deadlines, so u all can get quality stuff instead of rushed shit. anyways hope u enjoy my first proper post u lil freaks > : 3
…pssst. i didn’t wanna use y/n. so uhh…insert ur name when u see [—] !!!
He turns slowly, his body half wrapped in the thick duvet and half strewn over the side of the bed. One arm trails over to lie against you, palm flat—not a demand; just to rest softly.
Caleb’s thumb moves over the bare skin of your lower stomach, stroking quiet patterns. The movements synchronise in time with his sweet little pants, rising and falling as his chest pushes your own back and forth.
He knows you’re sleeping, but he just can’t help himself. You’d scold him if you were awake, shoving his tentative little hands away. Tell him off for the warm stiffness pressing against your backside. He can’t help it when you’re so intoxicatingly close—filling his nose with the scent of sweetness, summer rain and sweat.
But little does he know, you lie there pretending. Something indescribable twisting deep between your legs. You force away the urge to squirm, or press even deeper against his hand. You can’t. Not when you know exactly the kind of restraint Caleb lacks after going so long without. Not when you’ve pushed his desire away time and time again—letting a hungry man turn ravenous.
“M’sorry, pip.” He mumbles against your sleep-tousled hair.
His hips buck weakly against the cloth of your panties, trying to relieve something—anything. The pressure of his thumb deepens, repetitively causing a slight dip in the skin between your belly button and pelvis. It takes everything inside you not to jolt, your muscles working overtime just to keep still against the rough callouses of his hand.
The pace of his movements quicken, his forehead now resting against the side of your head, dragging limply down your neck to inhale your scent.
“T’much…can’t take it.” Another low murmur, the words roll off raspy and full of need.
The bed creaks softly, protesting against the tender force of his rutting. A faint whine drools from his lips. The sound shooting straight to your core.
A subtle twitch. Almost unnoticed.
His breath hitches. And strips himself off of you like a melted candy wrapper. For a moment, he just shuts his eyes—feigning sleep. Desperately trying to avoid acknowledgment of the very clear tent bulging from his boxer shorts.
But as you turn over and unravel him with blown pupils, he quickly swallows his mistake. He’s been caught.
“I’m—…I didn’t reali—“ He runs his sinful fingers through his hair, letting them cage his eyes in shame.
“Don’t.” You let out a sigh laced in disappointment, though the cold patch of wetness slick against your clit seemed to betray your words. “You did.“
His hands drop to his sides in defeat, palms to the ceiling. He swallows harshly, avoiding your eyes. “I’m just—I’ve…”
After a moment of his hesitation, you shoot up in your seat—playing the role of a distressed recipient, when every piece of evidence points in the opposite direction.
“I’ve missed you so much, and…” He sighs, dragging a heavy gaze to your own. “I just needed...”
It sits so clearly at the tip of his tongue—he needed you. He needed you.
His desperate tone washes a wave of guilt upon you. He’s been left to ache, over and over. You shake the thoughts away in tandem, refusing to submit.
“And you thought it was fine to just rut against me like some dog in heat?” The knot in your brow deepens, pushing your disbelief deep into his throat.
But that’s when you see it. The way his thighs press instinctively at your words, muscles contracting pathetically. This isn’t about discipline—this is word foreplay.
You follow with an enlightened scoff, eyebrows raised provocatively. “Oh, you like that?”
He lets out a low huff in response, wrapping his waist with the bulk of his arms. You can practically taste the arousal in the air, his body vibrating with a surge of something you’ve never seen before.
“Do you like being called a dog?” You ask, waiting for a sign.
Nothing. His lips retract to make a firm line.
You watch as your words swarm him, forcing him flat against the headboard.
“Stop that.” He barks out.
Despite his demand, the curve of his back twists—arching woefully into nothing. The clear dissonance between word and action seemed unmistakably clear.
“Stop what?” You nod incredulously, lips parted. With a shocked snicker, your nimble digits reach out to graze his knee—slowly dawdling upward.
“Since you don’t know how to take no for an answer,” The syllables fire out, short and sharp. “How would you like it if I kept going, even when you told me to stop?”
He now chews his lip, a pitiful gasp pooling at his teeth.
Something inside of you cracks. He wants that. Of course he does. A part of you is angry, sure. Angry at the fact you’re serving him exactly what he crossed every boundary for. But the other part leaps toward one outcome. A loud, gnawing need inside of your chest. To make him eat his stupid words.
Two of your fingers strangle the shape of his chin, tugging mercilessly to force his eyes forward. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
He tilts his jaw up, like a stripped little puppy begging for more. Undoing himself in front of you. Your legs swing over his in determination, caging him in.
Oh, he will. He’ll get just that.
“Cat got your tongue?” You taunt him, leaning in closer. With a few experimental slaps of your fingertips, you plow onward.
Caleb winces, but doesn’t clutch his cheek, or even make an attempt to protect himself at all. The sting of your palm rings out quietly, stoking him with the most delicious burn.
He follows with a needy whimper. Drawn out and complete.
“Ready to talk now?” Your voice staggers slightly, the pulse of his cock faintly rocking into you with a steady rhythm. Repetitive, avoidant torture.
“Please…please, [—].” Hollow. Breathless. He whines out like his pure need is a secret he’d rather not tell.
Your hand hovers over the column of his throat—not pressing. Not yet.
“Uh.” You tilt your head, demanding silence. Or rather, an actual statement. No more pleas. No more excuses. “Please what, Caleb?”
His chest restricts in testament. The question striking his composure once more. Your grip finalises over his vulnerable little throat.
“Use your fucking words before I hit you properly.”
He breaks. Shatters. Like a puddle of desire mixed in pre-cum leaking through your fingers.
“Please, [—], for the love of God—!“ His fingertips shoot to your hips, forcing you down against his warmth. Against the hard ridges of everything he is, he breathes out an obnoxious moan. “Let me fuck you, let me—let me touch you—just—anything.”
Your earnest grin falls rapidly, every organ, every muscle in your priorly collected body quivering in slick, wet need. Wet enough to coat every inch of your folds in fluid bliss. All for him.
You won’t be reduced down to something so desperate. He’s the one that stroked your stomach like a sleazy man craving a fill. Dripping and panting like a little bitch.
You force yourself out of his lap, standing at his side in expectation. You don’t need to say it, because the tightly-bound fists at your sides tell him all that he needs to know next.
“Come here.” A command like glass against skin. And he knows this time it’ll hurt. This is his punishment. “On the floor.”
He scrambles to the edge of the bed, staring you in the eyes as he lowers to the floor. He lowers his head like prayer—and yet his next act will be filled with more than sin. The thorough smell of sex and regret.
“Knees, Colonel—or am I asking you for too much?”
Wide eyes, cumbersome fingers clenching at his sides. No, no, never too much. More. He wants more.
Caleb quickly turns his legs inward, raw thighs packaged and flush—a view to drool over. His bouncy flesh bulges over, encouraging your eyes to glaze over the wetness between his legs.
“No, no—please don’t go. I’ll be good—!”
You step closer, like a predator scoping prey. Your digits fall to the back of his scalp, urging his lips closer and closer to your core as your hips cock forward. But instead they fall short, gaining a mind of their own. He lets his tongue slide through the curves of your stomach, kissing and nipping at the supple skin.
“I’ll b’good…I’ll b’so good.” He whimpers tenderly against your pelvis, as if he were reminding himself and not you. Trying to rein in the control he discarded long ago. Whispering longing promises to a void he yearns to fill.
Your hands tighten around his silk locks, forcing his gaze upward. His lips disconnect from your skin.
“What do you need?” The words land with such a stark contrast to the blaze in his eyes, and the hands coiled in his hair. A hidden inquiry of consent.
His nose twitches, wrinkles forming around his eyes. “What—…what do you mean?”
You let go, tone devoid of any emotion. If he wants this as badly as you do, then he should have the audacity to say it. And the right to choose.
“If I ask you to open your pretty little legs for me, would you do it because you want to,” Your foot lifts to meet his thigh, no weight or demand in the action. “Or because you don’t want to disappoint me?”
He avoids the question with a hollow gulp, eyes searching a random space beyond you.
In response, you lift the weight from your foot, tempt to pull away. But before you can, he clutches the space between your ankle and shin.
Without breaking eye contact, his nose veers close to the pin-straight hairs erect in invitation. He presses a sweet kiss to your leg.
“I’ll open my legs for you.” Sincere. Longing. Somehow both an absolute turn-on and cheesingly intimate. “Because I want to.”
Your gaze turns cold. Sterile and serious in a way that demands his attention. Undivided and filthy.
You kick his knees apart, parting the only bridge to what he truly yearns for. His body convulses against the floor, fluent in your shared ecstasy.
“Take ‘em off.” You point his gaze to his bottoms, practically sobbing in pre-cum.
He takes a moment to gather himself, peering down with a stunted expression.
“Don’t get all shy on me now.” Stern digits wrap your hip, certain of demand and dominance. “You didn’t seem unwilling when you woke me up to the bedposts rocking.”
He quickly tugs his underwear down to his ankles, his knuckles wrapping around the stretchy fabric. A potent fever emits from his length as it springs out, willing and ready.
You bend down to rip the fabric from his feet, holding his fluid-soaked bottoms in the palm of your hand. His chin presses to his chest in embarrassment.
“Oh.” An amused chuckle rumbles from your lungs, as you feel the slick leave a trail over your skin. “Oh.”
You step over his limp legs, hovering by his mouth. The scent of his own release is close enough to taste. “Open up.”
He follows, a little stunned. Caleb’s jaw clatters with arousal.
He takes the soaked material between his teeth, tasting himself for the first time. The salty, sodden texture urgently squelching inside of his mouth.
“Look at you.” You grin proudly, a wet hand lowering to caress his cheek. The residue spreads across the curve of his cheekbone. “Sat and willing. Getting off to something so unbelievably wrong.”
He nods, reduced to a man of eager almost-tears. His hands fidget, arms rigid and twitching restlessly at his sides.
“Do you know what that is?” You slowly lower to crouch over him, planting your clothed rear against his knees. “That’s you. Your cum. And now It’s spilling over your tongue.”
He doesn’t respond, but you watch the cogs turn inside of his head. The way his pupils plead for mercy when there is none to spare.
“Answer me.” Your palm slaps harshly against the side of his face, leaving a faint warm welt in its wake. “Nod.”
And he does. Tears now veiling the redness of his cheek.
Those fingertips, the ones that left marks in the very places they used to stroke, are now urging downward. Pressing softly to the tip of his cock, conforming to the shape of its head.
Not yet a consistent rub, but urgent enough to leave him shaking. His knees bend in reflex, and you force yourself to endure the movement—as if you are tolerating the behaviour of a badly broken-in horse.
“Caleb.” Your hands come to a halt, prepared to pull away at his disobedience. “Don’t you dare move a muscle.”
He spits the fabric over his bare chest, hanging there—stripped of any dignity.
“I—…I can’t—I can’t—“ The carpet below him takes all of the strain from his grip. “[—], I can’t do it.”
Your eyes violently burn into his, a final warning. Your cupped fingers slide down his base firmly. “You will do it.”
Despite his objection, you continue—forcing your digits to swallow his sensitive, weeping flesh. The man suffocates beneath your touch, his face tightly pulled into a pleasured grimace. With fists of critical restraint risen in defiance, he tries to deny the urges. To give into his real needs. To finally snap.
To pull you in and force you into his lap, to make sure with every violent burst of his hips that you never forget the sensation. To press you so deeply into his cock that you’ll forever feel his cum seep through every crevice of your wallowing little body. Completely and utterly spent.
But he doesn’t. He sits there against the wall with an achingly dry throat—groaning, and shaking, and squirming like he might just explode with all the pent up desire.
Your tongue drools out from captivity, abruptly wrapping around the exposed end of his cock. Prodding and probing at the oozing little slit, trapping his needy length inside the warm wetness of your jaws. Caleb’s entire body contorts against you, his chin flying forward to hook over your shoulder. His chest heaves in the name of high-pitched pants and pathetically choked groans.
Your free hand massages over the neglected area below his cock, the little pricks of recently shaved hair scraping against your skin.
“[—]…[—], I—I’m close—…” The tension in his muscles tighten, his lower navel flexing at your nose. He sways against the wall, pulling his head back to force his eyes to the ceiling. “I’m—…God—[—], I’m sorry for…grrhh…before—!”
You close your throat around his heat, pushing beyond your own boundaries to press yourself into him. You swallow up every worn buck from his hips, every spurt of eager pre-cum.
“Shhh—just take it.” You pull back just enough to inhale through your nostrils, your voice combining with the obscene gurgles born from his weak thrusts. You rub your thumb adamantly against his lower abdomen, the vulnerable dip pulsing through your skin. “You know you want to.”
And with that, he surges—hands flying urgently to your hair. He fucks himself through your gaping lips, forcing you captive and silent. His cum erupts feverishly down your throat, pounding into you until his body gives out.
But even as the last spurts of fluid are hastily downed, you don’t stop. In fact, your mouth tightens along the veins of his raw cock, moving with renewed vigour fast enough to kill a man.
He cries out a wet whine, intense and quivering. “[—]—what are you—ha…ha…—!” Your saliva stirs with the remnants of him, bubbling and drooling out over your chin.
This is it. This is exactly the consequence he deserves. If he wants to ignore your boundaries only as it benefits him, then he might as well learn what a crossed boundary feels like.
Both of your hands pry every inch of his coherency away, doubling down to stroke avidly as you suckle and swallow. Every lewd sound gets caught in the heaviness, every pungent scent fills your lungs with more and more.
His legs completely lose movement, buzzing with an overwhelming numbness. He doesn’t even bother to think of escape when your lips have so rabidly torn him apart.
“Ple…—nghh…grruhh—…” Caleb begs, but his attempts are useless in comparison to your sweet little gulps. Your teeth graze the surface of his irritated flesh.
He arches suddenly, bound to a pool of tears and cum among the floor. “[—]!—…I need you to—to—“ He has tried to fight his own senses for so long. Too long. This is the end of thinking rationally.
His spent limbs quiver as he rushes to unsheathe you from his length, your eyelids narrow and focused—even as your hands continue their assault.
“Hands—heh…hands…hands off—“ You can practically taste the plea in the sheer knot of his brow, feel the thud of his heartbeat ram through his chest over and over. You know you’ve brought him to a point of no return. “Please—please, [—].”
“My name—“ Tug. Rough, unyielding.
His lips spill a choked sob, beyond all recognition of the man he used to be. “I—I’ve had enough—I can’t…”
“Keep squirming then. Keep pretending like you aren’t getting off to it.” You land a brief slap of encouragement to his upper thigh, a crisp gasp falling from his mouth.
“Do it. You know you can cum again.”
Just one sentence, spat like it’s nothing—and he’s gone. Jerking violently under your legs, his vision completely taken by white clustered specks and need so strong it’s leaking from every hole.
His body falls apart once more, milky substance rapidly coating his stomach, cascading down your digits. Spurting uncontrollably as you press him beyond all sense.
Your pupils scan him—a dishevelled little boy all in the pads of your sticky fingers. Gone from rocking against you in secrecy to cumming profusely, over and over and over again.
You test him, listening in as your movements force his release to squelch between the cracks of your fingers. Skin against skin. Friction that near blisters. His pants are taken by exertion, forming hollow, broken little noises.
“Now, next time I say no,“
“Will you take it upon yourself?”
He stills, trying to barter his focus from the aching emptiness inside of him to the firm anger building in your tone.
“If you don’t fucking answer the question…”
With a sudden shake of his head, he carefully pries himself out of your grasp—folding your soiled palms between the inviting warmth of his hands. His upper body still reeling from the aftermath, up and down. Up and down.
Even softer now. “Never…never again. I swear.”
You pause, struck with regret as his blown pupils meet narrow eyes. But somewhere deep inside, you know the cost of disobedience. And throwing him off the hook would’ve solved absolutely nothing. You settle for contentment.
With the faint hint of a downward smile, you pull him into a soft embrace, trailing a gentle kiss down his temple. You rise to your feet, making brief haste to wet a small cloth with some warm water.
You return to your place, exactly where you’re supposed to be—by his side, holding him close with a reverence akin to something godly. Because to you, he is godly.
With a newly found tenderness, your fingers dab the wet cloth against raw skin, delicately stroking away the stickiness. The hesitance in your care proved profoundly soft.
He bows forward to wrap his large arms around you once more, leaving a quiet laugh of mirth to simmer.
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