archive of my own

bi | she/her | 20+ Be honest—should I add you to my taglist, or just straight to my heart? lmk <3

[nottellingofname]

Meet the Author ♡

✩ Twenty-one [070105] ✧˖ ° She/Her ✧˖ ° Hair Dye enthusiast ✩ Dip. in Social Media ✧˖ ° I do Silat ✩ Anime Enthusiast!

✩ Currently writing for JJK ✩ Female/AFAB!Reader written in mind ✩ All characters are written as 18+ ✩ Angst & Fluff ✩ Writing smut is hard ✩ Free to chat! Requests are open <3

✩ Listen to The Playlists, Podcasts & Requested Songs

[nottellingofname]

For My Caleb ⋆⭒˚｡⋆✈

Gege, i think i shrunk the clothes!

Here’s the thing about trying to do something nice for someone who is annoyingly capable of doing everything himself: it doesn’t work.

You’ve been trying for three weeks.

Three.

And you have nothing to show for it except a slightly bruised ego, a jaw that aches, a pussy that’s always throbbing, and a creeping, maddening awareness that Caleb Xia Yi Zhou might actually be impossible to spoil.

His birthday is in two weeks.

Two weeks, and you’ve cooked him exactly zero meals because every time you shuffle into the kitchen with some grand intention — a recipe pulled up on your phone, ingredients arranged on the counter — Caleb is already there.

Already at the stove.

Already flipping something in a pan with the confidence of a man who learned to cook before he learned to shave.

He’ll glance over his shoulder at you and smile, and it’s that smile, the soft one with the slight crinkle at the corner of his purple eyes, and you’ll feel your irritation deflate like a sad balloon because god, he’s so annoyingly pretty.

You tried cleaning.

You got up early. Practically military-early, which for you is a genuine sacrifice.

You dug out the cleaning supplies from under the sink and you had the vacuum cleaner out before seven in the morning, which should have earned you some kind of medal.

Instead you found the living room already clean. Not recently clean. Impeccably clean. Like it had never been touched by the concept of mess. There was a note on the coffee table in his handwriting: Don’t strain yourself, Pipsqueak. — C.

You may have crumpled that note aggressively.

You may have then proceeded to sit down in the middle of the clean living room floor and have something that could generously be called a meltdown. A tantrum, if you’re being less generous.

Caleb came in from wherever he’d been — still in that black and orange flight jacket, hair slightly messed, looking unfairly effortless — and found you sitting on the floor with your arms crossed and your expression set to full operational sulk.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at you, and then the corner of his mouth tugged upward, and he laughed. Not mean. Never mean with you.

Just warm and rich and a little helpless, like you were the funniest thing he’d ever seen and also slightly exasperating.

“I just wanted to help,” you told him, which came out more like a whine than a declaration.

“I know,” he said, and before you could say anything else he had you up over his shoulder like you weighed nothing — like you were a bag of laundry, like the laws of gravity simply applied differently to you when he decided they did — and the world flipped upside down and his hand was firm and warm on the back of your thigh.

“Caleb—“

“You wanna work so much?” His voice had dropped, that particular low register that lived somewhere between teasing and intent. “Alright. Put that mouth to work.”

And the thing is. The thing is. You’re not going to dwell on what happened after that.

You’re absolutely not going to think about how you ended up on your knees on the floor of his office with his hands loose in your hair and his cock heavy on your tongue, or about the sounds he made, or about the way he looked down at you with those purple eyes gone dark and said good girl like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You are not dwelling on any of that.

You’re especially not dwelling on the fact that you’d have done it again. Enthusiastically.

But the point is — and you have to keep coming back to the point because your brain has a truly inconvenient tendency to wander — his birthday is in two weeks.

And you have done nothing.

Zero.

You’ve been outmaneuvered at every turn by a six-foot-two military pilot who apparently never sleeps and has a pathological need to do everything himself before anyone else can.

Domestic route: blocked. Culinary route: blocked. Cleaning route: blocked and mocked, very gently, via handwritten note.

Fine. Fine.

If he won’t let you help him with the house, you’ll help him in a different way. A much more interesting way.

The idea had come to you in the middle of the night, the way good ideas tend to. If Caleb loves his uniform, and he does, he’s meticulous about it in a way that borders on religious — the pressed lines, the insignia, the whole Colonel energy he wears like a second skin — then what better way to short-circuit his brain than to wear it yourself?

You’d ordered it three weeks ago, back before the tantrum, when you still thought the cooking plan might work.

It had been sitting in your closet ever since, tucked behind a row of regular clothes, hidden in plain sight as something so mundane that Caleb, who does occasionally poke his head into your room to return folded laundry like some kind of domestic nightmare, would never look twice at it.

Just a dry-cleaning bag. Just a work uniform. Nothing to see here.

You pull it out now, holding it up in the soft late-afternoon light that comes through your window, and you look at it critically. It’s exactly right. The cut, the fabric, the insignia you’d had replicated. The jacket. The pants. The whole setup.

Caleb is in his room, the door cracked open the way it always is when he’s working at his desk, which means you can hear the faint occasional sound of papers shifting or his pen moving, which means he is exactly where you want him.

You look at the uniform again. You look at yourself in the mirror on the back of your closet door.

You’re going to march into his room, and you’re going to make Colonel Caleb Xia Yi Zhou lose every single thread of his composure, because it’s almost his birthday and you refuse — refuse — to be outmaneuvered a fourth time.

But here’s what they don’t tell you about ordering a uniform online when you’re more focused on the fantasy of it than the logistics: size matters.

Size matters a lot.

You step into the pants first, which is a process. You get them up past your knees fine. Past your thighs is already a project. By the time you’ve wrestled them up over your hips you’re already slightly out of breath, and when you look in the mirror the fabric is pulled so tight across your ass that you can practically count the individual seams.

You turn sideways. You turn back. You try bending at the knee to test the range of motion and the pants make a sound like a warning.

Don’t, the pants say. Absolutely do not.

Okay, so bending is out.

Moving with anything resembling caution is also out.

If you sit down in these you might genuinely be trapped.

You accept this as the price of the plan and move on to the jacket, which is the least of your problems until it isn’t — the buttons close over your stomach fine, but once you get to your chest it becomes a negotiation.

The fabric strains. The buttons are doing their best. They are trying so hard and they are losing, and there’s a gap between the second and third button from the top that wasn’t there in the product photos, where the fabric pulls apart just enough to show a strip of skin and the edge of your bra.

You look at yourself in the mirror for a long moment.

“Okay,” you say.

Your ass looks genuinely extraordinary. You have to give the too-tight pants that — they’ve done something transcendent back there. The uniform jacket hits just above the curve of it, which means when you lean forward even slightly there is an event happening. And the gap at the chest is doing something. It’s doing something you hadn’t planned, but you’re choosing to count it as a feature.

You rake your hair back, let it fall, tilt your chin. You point at your own reflection.

“He’s not gonna know what hit him.”

Your reflection looks back at you with the energy of someone who is sixty percent confident and forty percent about to back out.

You do not give her the opportunity.

You turn away from the mirror before the forty percent can gain ground, grab the door handle, and head out into the hallway.

The apartment is quiet. The late afternoon has gone gold and long-shadowed, and Caleb’s door is still cracked the way it was before, a thin rectangle of warm light falling across the hall floor. You can hear him in there — the faint shift of paper, the soft particular sound of his pen, totally absorbed. He has no idea.

You stop outside his door. You breathe.

You arrange your face into an expression of worried contrition, which takes some doing because underneath it you are absolutely delighted with yourself, and you knock twice on the door frame, keeping your body just out of sight around the edge.

“Caleb?” Your voice comes out with exactly the right wobble — concerned, a little sheepish, the voice of someone who has done something they feel bad about. “I’m really sorry, but — I was trying to do something nice, and I think I kind of messed up...”

There’s a pause. You hear his pen stop.

“Messed up how?” His voice is careful, not alarmed. Just attentive, the way he always is when you sound uncertain, because Caleb has never once in his life been able to hear you sound uncertain without immediately paying attention. It’s one of his more exploitable qualities.

“I tried washing your uniform for you,” you say, and you let the words come out small and guilty. “And I think — I think it might have... shrunk.”

Another pause. You can picture him at his desk, his brow doing that slight furrow, trying to work out why that’s a problem that requires you to sound this apologetic.

“Sweetheart.” His voice is mild, unoffended, just a little puzzled. The chair shifts. “Let me see it. Come here.”

That’s your cue.

You step around the door frame and into the light of his room, and then you walk toward him. You take your time with it, because the pants make fast movement inadvisable anyway, and because the whole point is to let him see every inch of you in this thing that barely contains you — the jacket pulled tight across your chest, the gap where the buttons strain, the pants that have given up any pretense of modesty and are simply painting you in detail.

Caleb goes completely still.

He’d been turned partway toward the door, one arm braced on his desk, and that’s how he stays — perfectly, completely motionless — as you cross the room toward him.

His mouth doesn’t drop open. He’s more composed than that. But his eyes go somewhere darker and the breath he’d been in the middle of just... stops. You can see it. The stillness of his chest.

His cock is already pressing against his pants. You notice this without looking directly, the way you notice a fire — by the heat of it, by the fact that the room feels different suddenly

You don’t say anything. You walk to his desk, turn so your back is to him, and lean against the edge of it. Your ass settles onto his work papers with a soft, definitive sound. You glance back at him over your shoulder.

He still hasn’t spoken. He’s just watching you.

His eyes trace the uniform, absorbing every detail like a blueprint he’s determined to master. His jaw is tight. The smirk hasn’t arrived yet — it’s building, you can see it in the set of his mouth, the way the corner of his lip is just beginning to pull.

You cross your arms loosely, settle your weight back, and look at him.

“Well?” you say, keeping your voice light, unbothered, like you aren’t desperately aware of your own heartbeat. “What do you think? Think it shrunk?”

And there it is — the smirk, slow and deliberate as a knife being unsheathed, landing at the corner of his mouth like he was never trying to hold it back, just waiting to make sure you were watching when it showed up.

“Mhm,” Caleb says. It’s not an answer. It’s not even a word. It’s just a sound in the low register of his voice that goes directly down your spine. The look in his eyes is the look of a man who has already decided what’s going to happen next and finds it very, very funny that you thought you were in charge of this.

You swallow.

Maybe you didn’t think this through all the way.

You think — well, you THOUGHT — that you have the upper hand here.

You’re sitting on his desk, his papers crinkled under your ass, wearing his uniform like you own it, and he’s just standing there in front of you looking at you with that smirk, and you think: yeah, okay, I’ve got him. You think: he’s flustered and I did that. You think a lot of things very quickly, in the way you do when you’re trying to feel confident and your brain is helping you lie to yourself.

Then Caleb stands up.

He’d been leaning slightly forward, one hand on the arm of his chair. He rises to his full height like the tide coming in, slow and inevitable, and suddenly he is very tall.

You’ve always known he’s tall. Six-foot-two is not a secret.

You have lived with this man, you’ve stood next to him at the grocery store and craned your neck at him across the dinner table and had him tuck you under his arm for years without really registering it the way you register it now.

You have to lean back just to keep eye contact. Your hands go automatically to the desk behind you, bracing.

“Hi,” you say, which is not what you’d planned to say.

He doesn’t answer. Instead he reaches out — and picks you up. Both hands, one at your hip and one at your thigh, and he lifts you like you’re a piece of paper he’s clearing off the desk and deposits you further back on the desk surface, higher up, and the pants — the beautiful, already-suffering pants — finally meet their end.

The seam goes with a sharp tearing sound right down the middle, and you feel the cool air of the room find your inner thighs, and you make a sound you hadn’t planned to make, somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, and your hands fly down to cover yourself automatically. That does nothing, by the way, because Caleb’s hands are already there, wrapping around your wrists and holding them to the side with a calm, immovable firmness.

His hands are enormous around your wrists. You could probably fight it but you don’t, because you’ve already forgotten what you were fighting for.

Your panties are orange. Bright, irreverent orange, the exact same color as the stripe on his flight jacket, and they are completely visible through the wreckage of the pants.

Caleb stares at them.

And then he does something you didn’t predict, because you should have known by now that Caleb in this mode is ungovernable: he drops his head.

He dips down between your thighs and puts his nose right against the fabric, and inhales. Long and deep and completely shameless, like you’re something he’s been wanting to smell for a long time and he is going to take his time about it.

You feel the breath of it through the fabric, warm and deliberate, and your hands jerk reflexively in his grip but he doesn’t let go.

“Caleb—“

He licks. A long, slow drag of his tongue over the front of your underwear, and the fabric is thin enough that you feel all of it — the wet heat, the pressure, the shape of his mouth working against you like he’s trying to memorize you through the cotton.

He does it again. He makes a sound low in his throat that is not a civilized sound, that belongs to something older and less housebroken than any version of Caleb you’ve been allowed to see before.

There is saliva soaking into the fabric now. There is the obscene warmth of his mouth. And there is you, gripping the edge of his desk with fingers gone white, breathing through your teeth.

He lets go of your wrists, steps back, and reaches into his own pants. He doesn’t bother taking them off — just shoves them down to his knees, enough to free himself, and his cock springs out like it’s been waiting for this, already flushed and heavy, standing up toward his stomach.

He wraps one hand around the base of it and strokes it slowly, watching you, watching the orange of your panties, watching the evidence of what he’s already done to them.

“Mmm,” he says again, that low sound from before. Not a word. An assessment.

Then he steps forward, and instead of pushing in — instead of doing the obvious thing, the thing you are absolutely ready for whether you’ll admit it or not — he just leans against you.

Pushes his cock down flat against the front of your panties, along your stomach, and the length of him is just. There. You both look down at the same time.

His tip passes your navel. Surpasses it. There’s cock laid against your stomach in a way that makes the math of the situation very, very clear.

“Look here, Pips.” His voice is low and easy, like he’s making an observation about the weather, like he’s discussing something reasonable and not currently resting every inch of himself against your skin. “I’m gonna be in here one day.”

Not I want to. Not can I? Just — I’m going to. The same tone he uses when he talks about flight routes and promotions and things he’s already decided are going to happen.

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

He pulls back, and there are wet spots on your panties, and he looks at them with an expression of profound satisfaction before he presses himself back against you. Not inside, just along you, rubbing the length of his cock over your pussy through the ruined fabric. You’re so wet that it soaks through immediately and he can feel it.. You can tell by the hitch in his breath and the way his hips rock forward once, twice, following the slick heat of you like he can’t help it.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and it comes out reverent.

His cock moves against you in long, rolling strokes, gathering up your slick, dragging it across the fabric. Spreading isn’t enough. It isn’t enough, and Caleb knows it, and you know it, and the knowing doesn’t stop anything.

You feel the exact moment he loses the last organized thought in his head. It’s in the shift of his hips, the way they press forward with new intent instead of the rolling stroke from before.

His hands grip the backs of your thighs, and he pushes, and the wet cotton of your panties catches him, gives just a little, and his tip nudges in by a fraction — barely there, barely a suggestion of inside — and that’s all it takes.

He cums.

Just like that.

A low, bitten-off sound tears out of him, and you feel it — the heat of it soaking into the fabric, spreading in a wet rush that joins everything already there, and he’s still pressed against you, shuddering, his forehead dropping toward your shoulder without quite landing.

“Jesus—“ he breathes, and it comes out broken, like he wasn’t expecting himself.

You look down. The orange cotton is wrecked, soaked through and stained, clinging to you with the weight of what he’s done, and Caleb is looking down at it too.

“Again,” he decides, out loud, which is not a request.

He draws back and pushes forward again, harder this time, and the fabric holds for approximately one more second before it doesn’t.

The seam at the center tears cleanly, cotton splitting apart, and with the combined slick of you and the mess he’s already made, his cock slides and then doesn’t quite find the angle it was looking for. Instead it slides up, and he ends up fitted snugly between your lips, sandwiched in the wet heat of you, your folds closing around him on either side without him getting inside. The tip of him grazes your clit.

You make a sound that isn’t your voice, or isn’t a voice you’ve used before.

He goes still. Then his hips roll, experimentally, once, feeling it — the slick of you on both sides of him, your flesh pressing in, and the soft brush of your pubic hair against the base of his cock strike him directly in the brain stem.

“Oh, fuck.”

His hips find a rhythm, a steady roll that sends his cock gliding between your lips. Each thrust drags him against your clit, his length slick with your desire and the remnants of his own release. The room echoes with filthy, sloppy sounds—the smack of skin on skin, the lewd squish of his cock plowing through the fucking mess you’ve made together.

He cums again. Just erupts, fountaining up your stomach, over the ripped hem of the costume jacket, and it goes everywhere and he watches it go everywhere. His cock is still twitching.

Then he looks up at you.

“Ma’am,” he says, and the word is wrong and filthy in his mouth. Wrong because you’re not his superior, wrong because he’s never called you that in his life, wrong because of everything. He says it with a straight face.

With his hand already moving, rubbing the flat of his palm over your stomach, spreading what he’s put there into your skin. His jaw is tight. “I don’t think this uniform belongs to me anymore.”

“Caleb—“

“’Yes, sir’ works.” He isn’t looking at your face. He’s watching his own hand move, the cream worked into your skin going slick and shining. His thumb drags through the mess of you and he pushes it between your pussy lips — against them, not in, just the pressure of him insisting — and your thighs try to close and his hips stop them. “You’re so wet for me, Pips. You’re soaking. Did you know that?”

You knew. You’ve known for the last fifteen minutes in excruciating detail.

“You did this to me,” you manage.

“Yeah,” he agrees, like that pleases him enormously. “I did.”

He takes the ruined waistband of your panties in both hands, the torn fabric hanging in tatters, and pulls the remnants taut. A strip of it pressed flat against you, between your lips, and then he presses his cock back over it, and the combined friction is something your nervous system genuinely wasn’t prepared for.

He drags. Long and deliberate and slow, forcing the fabric tight against your skin, and the edge of the seam catches your clit just right and you make a noise loud enough to embarrass yourself, your hands scrabbling at the back of his neck.

“There she is,” Caleb says, very quietly, and he does it again.

Your thighs shake. The pressure builds with a speed that makes you feel cheated out of the anticipation of it, and when you tip over the edge you take him with you. You squirt, sudden and surprised and messy, and it hits him across the lower stomach and the base of his cock and he makes a sound like he’s been hit.

You expected this to slow him down. You expected this to be the moment he regroups, take a breath, bring some of that Colonel composure back to bear.

He grabs your hips instead.

His eyes are wide and dark and there is nothing composed about him. He looks at the mess between your bodies, your slick and his cum and the ruined orange cotton of your underwear, and his expression is the expression of a man who has found the meaning of life,

“Need gege to clean you up?” He asks.

His hips roll forward, coating himself back in you, and the mess makes a sound, and Caleb Xia Yi Zhou, Colonel, decorated pilot, the most responsible person in your life, looks at you with your ruined uniform jacket hanging off your shoulders and your thighs wrapped around him and his cock slick with everything that’s passed between you, and he smiles. Wide and a little wild and completely without apology.

You are in so much trouble.

Caleb grabs the remnants of your panties in both fists and pulls, and they give immediately. The cotton is already destroyed, and the last of it comes away with a sound of final surrender.

He drops it somewhere. He grabs the shredded ends of the costume pants, what’s left of them still clinging to your legs, and those go too, peeled down and discarded over the edge of the desk. You’re bare from the waist down in the ruins of this cheap costume uniform and the cool air of his room comes for your skin all at once.

Caleb doesn’t notice, or maybe he doesn’t care. He’s looking at you with the focused, slightly unhinged attention, and his cock is still hard and flushed and absolutely ready despite cumming all his kids all over you.

He picks his cock back up in his hand. Looks at you. And then he brings it down against your pussy in a single, deliberate slap.

The sound it makes is obscene. Wet and sharp and loud in the quiet room, and the splatter of everything already there — your slick, his cum, the accumulated evidence of the last twenty minutes — goes everywhere, and you jerk. Your thighs try to close and Caleb puts one hand flat on your inner thigh, open-palmed, holding you in place.

“Stay,” he says, like you’re a very beloved problem.

He does it again. The slap of his cock against your pussy, light and then firmer, and every impact sends a shock up through your hips. The wet sound of it fills the room and he is watching — watching it happen, watching the cream fly, watching the way your lips part and close around the impact, and his expression is so rapt and so unabashedly delighted that you almost laugh except that you’re too busy making sounds that aren’t laughter.

“Caleb—“

“Sir,” he corrects, absently, still watching what he’s doing with the focus of someone who finds it genuinely fascinating. “Or ma’am, I don’t care, pick one.”

“I’m not calling you ma’am,” you say, breathless.

“No, you’re the ma’am.” He looks up briefly. “You’re in uniform, Pips.” Then back down. “You’re technically outranking me right now.”

This is demented reasoning and you both know it. But it doesn’t matter because he’s moved on from slapping his dick on you to pressing his tip directly against your clit, circling it in slow, lazy strokes like he’s drawing something. His free hand has found your pussy lips, two fingers sliding along either side, pressing them together, releasing, pressing again, the wet sounds mortifying and you’re watching him do it with your mouth open because apparently your body has decided to spectate.

“Hi,” Caleb says to your pussy, conversationally. His fingers press your lips together again. They make a sound. “Yeah,” he says, nodding, like he’s hearing something only he can understand. “I know. Me too.”

“Are you talking to it—”

“Shh.” His tip presses down and rolls over your clit again and your sentence evaporates. “We’re having a moment.”

You are going to lose your mind.

In fact, you are already losing it.

You lost it approximately seventeen minutes ago and you’ve just been running on the fumes of it.

And Caleb is still working that slow deliberate circle with the head of his cock and squishing your lips between his fingers with the focus of a man who has found his calling.

“You’re so goddamn soft,” he says, and now his voice has dropped all the way down, into that register that does things to your ovaries.

“You know that? Every time I think about how — “ he presses down harder, rolls, and you make a sound that does things to his expression — “how fucking small you are—“ another stroke, the tip dragging slick — “I can’t even, Pips. I would fill you up to your throat, do you understand that? I’m not — I’m being serious right now—“

“Caleb—“

“Sir,” he says again, more firmly this time, though it’s undercut by the fact that he’s clearly struggling to form sentences himself.

His hips have started moving again with that roll, working himself against you, and the slick built between you is audible and continuous and bubbly. “I would split you in half, sweetheart, I would be so far in you—”

He cums.

It happens mid-sentence, which would be funny under other circumstances. His voice just stops, replaced by a rough broken sound, and he tilts forward and his cock kicks upward and he paints you with it. Long white stripes landing across your stomach and the open front of the costume jacket, soaking into the fabric and your skin alike. And he keeps stroking through it with his fist, milking every last drop out, watching it land.

The uniform is destroyed.

It is a complete loss.

There is no dry cleaner in the world that could help this uniform.

You don’t care. You reach out and grab his wrist.

“Again, sir,” you say, which is what he said earlier.

He looks at you. His chest is heaving. His hair is messed up, falling across his forehead. His pants are still at his knees, which looks ridiculous, but on Caleb it just looks like a man who didn’t have time for niceties.

He tries. He genuinely tries.

His hips shift forward, his hand moves, and then his whole body seems to make a decision. Caleb falls forward, catching himself on his forearms on the desk, and lowers his head until his forehead rests in the crook of your neck. His weight on you but managed, warm and enormous, his breath coming against your collarbone in deep, ragged pulls.

He doesn’t move.

The room is very quiet.

After a moment, Caleb says, in a muffled, genuine tone, “I think my soul just left my body, Pips.”

You stare at the ceiling. Your chest is heaving.

There is cum on the costume. There is cum on you.

Your pants are in pieces on the floor and you are sitting on his work papers and his face is in your neck and he has just, apparently, experienced some kind of astral event.

“Are you dead?”

“Yes.” A pause. “Don’t tell Gran.”

You bring your hand up — slowly, because everything is a little slow right now — and rest it on the back of his head.

His hair is soft. It’s always soft, stupidly soft, and he makes a low satisfied sound at the contact like a very large, very spent dog who has found his spot and has no plans to relocate.

“Don’t die yet,” you tell the ceiling.

Caleb laughs into your neck. It’s muffled and helpless and warm, and it shakes through his whole chest and into you, and you feel it everywhere.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Refer to Party RSVP

Comment to be tagged!

@littlewhitefairy7777 @celaenaglynn @mothmans-left-nipple @lotusapple-xia @gflscer @swiggitty-swoogity @aoomiines @puchu-puchuu @fulldoves @goobermi6 @typicalme23 @teira-osairis @vy-olet @calebsbabyapple @xyzyogurt @earthtohoney @skyekudasai @kalydos @navvzy @tempeststhings @young-adult-summer @remnantsofgildedcages @applebite01 @vatarvaliantchaosvalkyrie @applarchve @hangingwiththestars @thisaintviolet69 @asilaydead @snowapples-stuff @calebsmeimeii @cherrysherryblossom @mindelicious1 @nansfyy @ccoeurhee @tomriddleslovergirl @beelpita @cchiiwinkle @feelingfaye @makiishiima @lil-cinn @goonette5 @elegantpoliceflower @brookethebitch-official @sattvasprings @sunlit-apple

[nottellingofname]

I've explored something new about myself while I wrote this.

New kink unlocked - uniform kink 😝😝

[nottellingofname]

For My Caleb ⋆⭒˚｡⋆✈︎

It takes two hands to...

As the days slip by in a blur of Caleb’s hands, mouth, and fingers, you start to notice a pattern.

Your pleasure is a frequent focus—waking to the heat of his tongue between your thighs, falling asleep with the ghost of his touch on your sensitive skin.

But you’ve only tasted him once, and despite your insistence that you want more, Caleb always finds ways to redirect your attention back to your own pleasure.

It’s not that you’re keeping score—okay, maybe you’re keeping a little score—but there’s something about the way he seems to prioritize your satisfaction over his own that both warms your heart and frustrates you to no end.

Tonight is no different.

Caleb has you pinned against the couch, his weight pressing you into the cushions as his mouth works its magic along the column of your throat. His lips find that spot behind your ear that makes your toes curl, then travel down to the sensitive junction where neck meets shoulder.

Your fingers tangle in his dark hair, gripping the soft strands with increasing urgency as his teeth graze your pulse point, sending shivers racing down your spine.

“Wait,” you gasp, tugging at his hair until he lifts his head to look at you. His purple eyes are half-lidded, pupils dilated with desire, lips parted and slightly swollen from kissing you senseless.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, voice rough with arousal as he pushes a strand of hair from your face with unexpected gentleness.

You steel yourself, choosing your words carefully. “I want you to teach me how to make you feel good.”

The surprise that flickers across his face is quickly replaced by a smile. “Pips, you make me feel good all the time.”

“You know what I mean,” you insist, refusing to be distracted by his deflection. “I want to learn how to please you—not just with my mouth.”

Caleb’s hand finds your waist, fingers spreading to span your ribs as his thumb traces small circles on your lower stomach. “Watching you fall apart when I touch you pleases me more than you know.”

It’s such a quintessentially Caleb response—selfless, generous, infuriating—that you want to scream. Or kiss him. Or both, in rapid succession.

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” you huff, pushing at his chest to create some distance between you. “I mean I want to make you cum the way you make me cum.”

The words hang between you, and you watch as something darkens in Caleb’s expression—hunger and reluctance warring in his purple gaze.

“It’s not just about that,” he says finally, his voice dropping to that register that sends heat pooling in your core. “Seeing your pleasure is enough for me.”

You narrow your eyes, suspicion dawning. “Wait a minute. Is this because you’re a raging celibate virgin? Don’t get any when you’re at Skyhaven? Is that why you don’t want me to make you feel good? Because you’re afraid you’ll lose control?”

To your surprise, Caleb laughs, the sound rich and warm as his head drops to your shoulder. “Is that what you think, mei mei?” he asks, voice thick with amusement. “That I’m out there saving myself for marriage while I’m gone?”

“Well, you’re certainly saving yourself from me,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest in what you hope is a convincing show of pique. “Saint Caleb, patron saint of self-control.”

Instead of rising to your bait, he simply cups your face in his hands, thumbs stroking your cheekbones with maddening tenderness. “You have no idea how much control it takes not to devour you the moment I walk through that door.”

You’ve been building to this confrontation for days, watching Caleb bring you to screaming orgasms while remaining frustratingly clothed and composed.

“So you just—what? Beat off in the shower thinking about your sister like some kind of pervert?” The words are deliberately crude, calculated to get a rise out of him.

You watch the muscle in his jaw jump, a flash of something dangerous crossing his features before he reins it in. “Y/N,” he warns, but there’s no real heat in his voice.

“What? That’s not it?” You press on, sensing a crack in his composure. “You’re not a perv? Not a creep? Not a sister-fucking—“

“Enough,” Caleb cuts you off, but there’s still no sign that you’ve truly pushed him past his limits. If anything, he looks amused by your antics, which only makes you more determined to break through.

Your mind races, searching for the one button guaranteed to get a reaction. And then it hits you—the one person who can truly get under Caleb’s skin.

“If you’re not going to teach me,” you say slowly, watching his face carefully, “then maybe I should ask Gideon for lessons instead. I bet he’d be more than happy to show me how to make a man feel good.”

The change is instantaneous and terrifying. Caleb’s body goes rigid against yours, his hands flying to your shoulders to grip them with bruising force. His expression transforms—all traces of amusement vanishing, replaced by something primal and possessive.

“Don’t,” he growls, the single word vibrating with barely contained rage. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” you taunt, your voice dropping to a whisper as you lean closer, knowing exactly what you’re doing now. “If I asked your best friend to fuck me instead of you? If I let him make me scream the way you do?”

Caleb’s eyes narrow, his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave marks. “You have no idea what you’re playing with right now.”

“Then show me,” you challenge, your heart racing as you press your advantage. “Show me what happens when I push you too far.”

For a long moment, Caleb just stares at you, his purple eyes so dark they’re almost black. You can practically see the calculations happening behind them—weighing options, measuring control against desire.

And then, with a speed that leaves you breathless, Caleb moves.

You barely have a moment to catch your breath before Caleb moves with that lightning-quick precision that reminds you of his military training.

His arms—thick, powerful things that make your stomach flip—suddenly wrap around your waist, trapping you against his chest as he settles back onto the couch.

“Ge ge, what—“ you start to ask, but your question is cut short as his hands position you with deliberate strength.

Caleb’s big hands grip your waist, thumbs digging into the soft flesh above your hips as he lifts you effortlessly, arranging you so you’re straddling his lap. Your knees press into the couch cushions on either side of his thighs, your ass settling against the hardness still evident through his sweatpants.

“That’s better,” he murmurs, satisfaction coloring his voice as he looks up at you from this new angle. “Right where you belong.”

You’re still catching your breath from the previous intensity, your legs trembling slightly from both exertion and the sudden rush of new arousal. Caleb notices immediately, his hands running soothingly up and down your sides, though his eyes remain hungry.

“Feel better?” you ask, voice still rough.

His only response is a low growl, a sound that vibrates through your entire body where you’re pressed against his chest. And then his head dips, burying his face in the soft valley between your breasts.

You gasp as his hair tickles your chin, your hands automatically flying to his shoulders for balance as Caleb’s face presses firmly against your chest. His eyes close, nostrils flaring as he takes a deep, deliberate inhale, his breath hot through the thin fabric of your tank top.

“Mmm,” he hums against you, the vibration traveling straight to your core. “Fucking love how you smell, Pips. Always have.”

The admission sends a blush across your cheeks, though there’s no one here to witness it but Caleb—and he’s already seen and done far more intimate things to you than smelling your tits.

“Sweet,” he continues, nuzzling deeper between your breasts, his nose tracing the curve of one and then the other. “Mine.”

His arms tighten around your waist, keeping you securely in his lap as his face continues its exploration of your chest.

“Such pretty tits,” Caleb murmurs, voice muffled against your flesh. “Always knew they’d be perfect. All those years of wondering.” He pulls back slightly, looking up at you with eyes gone dark with hunger. “Worth the wait.”

You want it too—want everything he’s willing to give you. “Please,” you whisper, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair. “Please, ge ge.”

A smile curves his lips, slow and predatory. “Since you asked so nicely...”

With deliberate slowness, Caleb leans forward, his teeth catching on the neckline of your tank top. The wet heat of his mouth against your skin makes you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair as he uses his teeth to tug the fabric down, revealing the top curve of one breast.

He doesn’t stop there, working the neckline lower and lower with a combination of his teeth, lips, and the occasional use of his tongue. Each new inch of skin exposed to the cool air is immediately warmed by his breath, his mouth, until finally the neckline has been pulled down enough to reveal both your nipples.

“Fuck,” Caleb breathes, his eyes fixed on your exposed flesh. “Even prettier than I imagined.”

Before you can respond, his mouth is on you—no teasing, no gradual build-up, just the wet heat of his tongue lapping at your left nipple while his hand comes up to squeeze your right breast. The sudden sensation draws a startled cry from your throat, your back arching to push your chest more firmly into his hands.

“Such sensitive tits,” Caleb murmurs against your skin, his tongue making another broad swipe across your nipple. “Getting so hard for me already.”

He’s right—your nipples have pebbled to tight points at the first touch of his mouth, aching for more contact. You find yourself nodding frantically, unable to form words as Caleb switches his attention to your other breast, his mouth moving to capture your right nipple while his hand takes over the left.

“That’s it,” he encourages as your hips rock forward of their own accord, seeking friction against the hard ridge of his cock beneath you. “Show me how much you like it. How much you need me.”

His free hand slides up to cup the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair to guide your face toward his. You follow his lead without hesitation, your lips meeting his in a kiss that tastes of salt and musk.

Caleb’s tongue pushes into your mouth, mimicking the way his cock had pushed into your throat earlier in the week. You moan around the invasion, your own tongue rising to meet his in a dance that leaves you breathless.

When you finally break apart, gasping for air, Caleb doesn’t give you time to recover before returning to your breasts. But this time, he does something different—he releases his hold on you, using both hands to cup your breasts instead, pushing them together to create a valley between them.

“Fucking perfect,” he growls, his eyes fixed on the sight of your breasts in his hands. “Look at these tits, Pips. Made to be played with.”

To your shock, he gathers saliva in his mouth, then deliberately spits directly onto your exposed cleavage. The warm glob lands between your breasts, some dripping down toward your stomach while the rest coats your skin with a glistening sheen.

“Caleb!” you gasp, too surprised to be properly scandalized.

His only response is a wicked grin before he’s leaning down again, his tongue making a broad swipe through the spit he just deposited on your skin.

“Fuck, that’s good,” he murmurs against your flesh. “So sweet. So fucking perfect.”

His tongue makes another pass, this time focusing on your nipples, each one receiving a thorough licking before he pulls it between his lips, sucking firmly enough to make you gasp.

“Look at you,” Caleb says, his voice rough with arousal as he glances up at your face. “So fucking responsive. Just from playing with these pretty tits.”

He switches breasts, his mouth moving to the one his hand had been attending while his now-free hand squeezes the spit-slick flesh he just abandoned. “Imagine how you’ll react when I get my mouth somewhere else.”

“Please,” you whisper again, no longer caring how desperate you sound. “I need more, ge ge.”

“Mmm, I know you do,” Caleb agrees, finally releasing your breasts to wrap his arms around your waist again. His hands slide down to grip your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave marks. “Such a greedy little sister. Always wanting more than I give you.”

“Only because you make me feel so good,” you admit, your hands moving to frame his face, thumbs tracing the sharp cut of his cheekbones. “Can’t help wanting more.”

A slow smile spreads across his face at your words, pride and hunger mingling in his expression.

“That’s my good girl,” he praises, pressing a kiss to your palm. “Always so honest with me.”

His hands on your ass suddenly tighten, pulling you forward until you’re pressed flush against his chest. Your breasts, still exposed from your pushed-down tank top, make contact with the hard planes of his pectorals, your nipples rubbing against the fabric of his t-shirt.

“Fuck, feel that?” Caleb growls, his hips jerking upward so that his hardness presses directly against your core. “How wet you’re getting just from me playing with your tits?”

You nod, beyond words as you grind against him, seeking more of the friction your body craves. “Please,” you gasp again, the single word encompassing all your desperate wants. “Please, ge ge.”

While Caleb’s mouth continues its relentless assault on your breasts, his right hand suddenly breaks away, reaching up to grab your wrist. His purple eyes lock with yours, pupils blown wide with lust as he slowly, deliberately guides your hand toward his lap.

“Feel how hard you make me,” he murmurs against your sternum, his free hand still working your breast with practiced skill. “Just from playing with these perfect tits.”

Your palm makes contact with the thick ridge straining against his sweatpants, and you can’t help the gasp that escapes your lips. Even through the fabric, the heat of him is intense—like touching a living furnace. And there’s a damp spot where the tip of his cock has leaked enough precum to soak through the thin material.

“So wet for you,” Caleb continues, voice rough with need as he guides your hand to rub up and down his length. “Always so fucking hard and leaking whenever I’m around you. Hasn’t changed since we were kids.”

“Wanted you for so fucking long,” Caleb admits, his lips moving from your breast to your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin beneath your ear. “Every night, lying in bed, thinking about touching you. About you touching me.”

His words make your core clench, another gush of wetness soaking your panties as you continue to rub his cock through his sweatpants. The fabric is growing damper by the second, evidence of just how much he wants you.

“Please,” you whisper, your hand trembling slightly against him. “Can I touch you for real?”

A dark smile curves his lips, satisfaction evident in his expression as he finally gives in to your pleading. With his free hand, he reaches down to the waistband of his sweatpants, tugging it down just enough to free his cock.

“I’ve been dreaming about this,” Caleb says, his voice dropping to that rough register that makes your stomach flip. “Your hand on my cock. Finally giving my little sister what she’s been begging for.”

The first touch of skin on skin draws a groan from deep in his chest, his eyes closing briefly as your fingers make contact with his cock.

He’s even hotter than you expected, the skin velvety soft over the steel-hard shaft beneath. And he’s so wet—precum already coating the head and upper shaft, making your hand slide easily along his length.

“Fuck,” Caleb hisses, his hand tightening around yours as you experimentally stroke up toward the tip. “Your hand feels so fucking good, Pips. So small and soft.”

He’s right—your hand is comically small compared to his cock, your fingers unable to fully wrap around his girth. You’d need both hands to properly encircle him, and even then, your grip would be loose.

“Look at that,” Caleb murmurs, his eyes fixed on where your hand disappears around his shaft. “Your tiny hand can barely hold my cock. Always knew you were made small, but fuck, seeing it like this...”

He guides your hand in another stroke, this one starting at the base and working all the way to the tip, where a fresh bead of precum is already forming. “That’s it,” he encourages as your thumb brushes over the sensitive head. “Get me nice and wet for you.”

As you continue to stroke him, Caleb’s mouth returns to your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin where your pulse jumps beneath the surface. You know what he’s doing—leaving marks, staking his claim—but you don’t care. You let him mark you. Let everyone know exactly who you belong to.

“That’s my good girl,” he praises against your throat, his lips moving to a new spot just below your collarbone. “Taking such good care of my cock.”

His mouth latches onto your skin, sucking hard enough to leave a mark—the first of what will undoubtedly be many by the time he’s done with you. The slight pain mingles with pleasure, your hand moving faster on his cock as he continues his possessive assault on your neck and chest.

“Caleb,” you gasp as his teeth scrape over a particularly sensitive spot. “Feels so good.”

“Mmm, I know it does,” he agrees, pulling back to admire the darkening bruise he’s left on your skin. “You like being marked up? Like everyone knowing you belong to me?”

You nod frantically, too far gone in pleasure to be embarrassed by your eagerness. “Yes. Please, ge ge. More.”

His smile turns predatory as he lowers his head again, this time targeting the upper curve of your breast. “Gonna cover you in marks,” he promises, lips brushing against your skin with each word. “Gonna make sure you remember who you belong to every time you look in the mirror.”

As his mouth works its magic on your skin, his hips begin to move, rocking up to meet each downward stroke of your hand. The rhythm is intoxicating—his cock sliding through your grip, his mouth leaving a trail of pleasure across your chest, his free hand squeezing your ass to guide your movements against him.

“That’s it,” Caleb encourages, his breathing growing ragged as your hand moves faster. “Just like that, mei mei. Show me how badly you want to make your big brother feel good.”

“Fuck, you’re so fucking wet,” Caleb groans, his hand sliding from your ass to between your legs, fingers pressing against your soaked panties. “Just from touching my cock? Such a greedy little slut.”

Each pass of your palm over the slit gathers more precum, making your strokes slicker, smoother.

“Right there,” Caleb hisses when your thumb brushes a particular spot on the underside of his head. “Fuck, that’s perfect.”

You focus your attention there, making sure each stroke includes that sweet spot. The effect is immediate—Caleb’s head falls back, a groan tearing from his throat as his hips jerk upward more forcefully.

“Gonna make me cum if you keep that up,” he warns, though there’s no real concern in his voice—just anticipation and hunger. “You want that, Pips? Want to feel me shoot all over your hand?”

“Yes,” you gasp, your own need making you bold. “Please, ge ge. Want to feel you cum.”

His free hand suddenly grips your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat to his hungry mouth. “Such a good little cocksucker,” he praises against your skin, his teeth grazing your pulse point. “Taking such good care of me.”

The wet sounds of your hand sliding along his cock fill the room, obscene and thrilling.

“That’s it,” Caleb encourages, his voice rough with arousal. “Just like that. Show me how much you love your big brother’s cock.”

You’ve never done this before—never touched a man like this, never felt the power of reducing someone to desperate moans with just your hand. But instinct guides you, your body responding to Caleb’s reactions, learning what makes him groan, what makes his hips jerk, what makes his fingers dig into your flesh hard enough to leave marks.

“So fucking good,” Caleb gasps as you twist your wrist slightly on the upstroke, adding a new sensation to your rhythm. “Your perfect little hand on my cock. Been dreaming about this for years.”

How many nights has he spent wanting you? How many fantasies has he built around the two of you?

“Did you touch yourself thinking about me?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. “While I was sleeping down the hall?”

Caleb’s eyes darken further, his hand in your hair tightening almost painfully. “Every fucking night,” he admits, no shame in his voice—just raw hunger. “Stroking my cock to thoughts of you. Wondering if you’d be as tight as I imagined. If you’d take my whole length or if I’d have to go slow.”

His words paint vivid pictures in your mind—Caleb alone in his room, hand wrapped around his cock, imagining you spread open beneath him. The thought of him wanting you for so long, of him corrupting himself with thoughts of his little sister, makes your hand tremble against his length.

“Fuck, the way you’re looking at me right now,” Caleb groans, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek. “Like you’re finally seeing what I am. What I’ve always been.”

“A pervert,” you say, but there’s no judgment in your voice—just acceptance and a hint of pride that you’re the object of his obsession. “My pervert.”

Something flashes in his eyes—probably relief, gratitude, or maybe hunger—before his mouth crashes against yours in a kiss that’s more possession than passion. His tongue pushes past your lips, claiming your mouth as thoroughly as his cock claims your hand.

When you finally break apart, both gasping for breath, Caleb’s hand returns to guide your movements on his cock. “Not gonna last much longer if you keep that up,” he warns, though the smile on his face makes it clear he has no intention of stopping you. “Too fucking good with those hands, Pips.”

“Then don’t last,” you challenge, emboldened by his reactions. “Cum for me, ge ge. Show me how good I make you feel.”

His response is a groan so deep it seems to come from the center of his chest, his hips jerking upward to fuck into your grip. “Fuck, when you talk like that...” He shakes his head, seemingly unable to complete the thought.

You take his reaction as encouragement, your hand moving faster, grip tightening slightly as you focus on the sensitive head of his cock. Each downward stroke ends with your thumb brushing over the slit, gathering the copious precum there to ease your movements.

“Right there,” Caleb hisses, his free hand squeezing your ass hard enough to leave bruises. “Fuck, that’s perfect. Just like that, Pips. Don’t stop.”

His praise fuels your determination, your hand establishing a rhythm that has his breathing growing more ragged by the second. You can feel him getting harder, the veins along his shaft standing out more prominently as blood rushes to his cock.

“Gonna cum,” he warns, his voice breaking on the words. “Fuck, Y/N, I’m gonna—“

His warning cuts off in a groan as his cock pulses in your hand, the first jet of cum shooting up to land on his stomach. You don’t stop, your hand continuing to stroke him through his orgasm, milking every drop from his sensitive flesh.

“That’s it,” you encourage, watching in fascination as more cum spills over your fingers. “Give me everything, ge ge.”

Caleb’s head falls back, a guttural sound tearing from his throat as his hips continue to jerk upward, chasing the pleasure your hand provides. More cum spills from the tip of his cock, some landing on his stomach, some coating your hand, making your strokes even slicker.

“Fuck, Pips,” he gasps when the worst of the tremors have passed, his hand covering yours to slow your movements. “Too sensitive.”

You reluctantly ease your grip, though you don’t release his cock entirely. Instead, you continue to hold him, feeling the gradual softening of his flesh, the occasional aftershock that makes him twitch in your hand.

“Was it good?” you ask, suddenly shy despite the fact that you’re literally holding his softening cock in your hand.

Caleb’s laugh is warm, tinged with the slight breathlessness of post-orgasmic bliss.

“Was it good?” he repeats, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear with surprising tenderness. “Fuck, mei mei. That was beyond good.” He shakes his head, apparently unable to find the right words.

Caleb’s hand between your legs stills suddenly, his eyes widening slightly as he feels just how soaked you’ve become. His lips curve into a slow, predatory smile as his fingers press more firmly against your panties, gathering evidence of your arousal on the fabric.

“Holy fuck, Pips,” he murmurs, voice rough with renewed desire despite his recent orgasm. “You’re absolutely drowning down here.”

You shift your hips, seeking more pressure from his hand, but Caleb keeps his touch teasingly light. “Please,” you whisper, beyond pride now. “I need more.”

His smile turns wicked as he leans forward, his mouth brushing against your ear. “You need to keep working my cock,” he instructs, his free hand guiding yours back to his softening length.

While your hand works his length, his free hand returns to between your legs. But instead of pressing against your panties as before, his fingers slide beneath the elastic waistband of your panties, slipping underneath to make direct contact with you.

“Fuck,” Caleb groans, his eyes closing briefly as his fingers make contact with your cunt. “Even wetter than I thought.”

“Look at you, getting so fucking wet just from touching my cock. What would people say if they knew what a slut you are for your brother’s dick?”

“Please,” you gasp as his finger makes a slow, deliberate pass through your slit, gathering your wetness on his skin. “Need more, ge ge.”

“Patience,” Caleb chides, though the strain in his voice betrays how affected he is by your eagerness. “Good things come to those who wait.”

Despite his words, his finger makes another pass, this time circling your entrance without pushing inside. The tease is maddening—so close to what you need but not quite giving it to you.

“Caleb,” you whine, your hips shifting to try to force his finger inside. “Please.”

His response is to lean forward, capturing your mouth in a kiss that’s more possession than passion. His tongue pushes past your lips, claiming your mouth as thoroughly as his cock claims your hand. When he finally pulls back, both of you are breathing hard, a strand of saliva connecting your lips for a moment before breaking.

“Since you asked so nicely,” he murmurs, his finger finally pushing forward to breach your entrance.

The sudden intrusion draws a gasp from your throat, your inner walls clenching around the single digit as it slides inside you. You’re so wet that there’s no resistance, just the delicious stretch of being filled, even if it’s only by one finger.

“Fuck,” Caleb breathes, his eyes fixed on where his finger disappears into your body. “So fucking tight around me. Like your pussy was made to take my cock.”

“More,” you beg, your hand still working his cock but your attention now entirely focused on the point where your bodies connect. “Please, ge ge. I need more.”

Caleb shakes his head, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Greedy little thing, aren’t you? Not even giving me a chance to enjoy this before demanding more.”

Despite his teasing, his finger begins to move, establishing a slow, deliberate rhythm as it pushes deeper with each thrust. Your inner walls flutter around the intrusion, your hips rocking to meet each forward push.

“That’s it,” Caleb encourages, his free hand coming up to cup your breast through your pushed-down tank top. “Take it. Show me how much you love having part of me inside you.”

His finger curls slightly as it pushes deep, the new angle allowing him to press against your front wall. The change draws a startled cry from your throat, your back arching as pleasure shoots up your spine.

“There it is,” Caleb murmurs, satisfaction evident in his voice as he focuses his attention on that spot. “Your sweet spot. The place that makes my perfect little sister lose her mind.”

He’s right—each press against that bundle of nerves sends electricity racing through your system, making your thighs tremble and your breath catch.

“Fuck,” you gasp as he adds a second finger, the stretch immediate and intense despite your abundant wetness. “Caleb, that’s—oh god—“

“Too much?” he asks, though he makes no move to withdraw. Instead, his fingers remain still inside you, giving your body time to adjust to the increased fullness.

You shake your head frantically. Relief flashes across his features, quickly replaced by hunger as he begins to move both fingers in tandem.

“Look at you,” Caleb murmurs, his eyes fixed on where his fingers disappear into your body. “Taking two of my fingers like you were made for it. So fucking perfect.”

“Caleb,” you gasp, your free hand flying to his shoulder, fingers digging into the hard muscle there as you seek an anchor in the storm of sensation. “I’m close. So close.”

“Already?” he asks, surprise evident in his voice despite the satisfaction coloring his tone. “Just from my fingers? Such a sensitive little thing.”

He doesn’t ease up—if anything, his movements become more deliberate, more focused on that spot deep inside you that makes your vision blur. His thumb finds your clit, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves.

“That’s it,” he encourages as your breathing grows more ragged, your hips rocking to meet each thrust of his fingers. “Cum for me, mei mei. Show me how good your big brother makes you feel.”

“Caleb,” you warn, your voice breaking as pleasure threatens to overwhelm you. “I’m gonna—“

“Let go,” he commands, his free hand coming up to grip your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. “I want to see it. Want to watch your face when you cum on my fingers.”

The order is the final push you need—the tension breaks, pleasure crashing through you in waves that make your entire body convulse. Your inner walls clamp down on his invading fingers, your back arching sharply as your climax tears a cry from your throat.

“Fuck,” Caleb breathes, his eyes wide with wonder as he watches you come apart. “So fucking beautiful like this. Taking my fingers so well. Cumming all over my hand like the perfect little slut you are.”

You’re dimly aware of your hand still wrapped around his cock, though your movements have grown erratic, uncoordinated as your focus narrows to the point where his fingers fill you.

“That’s it,” Caleb encourages, his fingers continuing their relentless assault on your sweet spot even as your inner walls pulse around them. “Give me everything. Show me how much you love having your brother’s hand inside you.”

When the final pulses of your orgasm begin to fade, Caleb slowly withdraws his fingers, bringing them to his mouth with deliberate slowness. His eyes never leave yours as he sucks your release from his skin, humming appreciatively at the taste.

“Sweet,” he murmurs, voice rough with renewed desire. “Just like I knew you’d be.”

As your orgasm begins to fade, you turn your attention back to Caleb’s cock, still hard and pulsing in your grip. You notice immediately how your movements affect him—each stroke drawing a different reaction, teaching you what he likes, what drives him wild.

A firm upstroke makes his breath catch; a twist of your wrist on the downstroke has his hips jerking forward; a thumb circling the sensitive head draws a groan from deep in his chest. It’s like learning a new language—one written in the tensing of muscles and the catching of breath.

“Fuck,” he hisses, his free hand flying to your wrist as if to stop you, though he makes no actual move to pull you away. “Jesus Christ, Pips. Warn a guy.”

“Did I hurt you?” you ask, concern momentarily overriding your arousal.

Caleb’s laugh is strained, his eyes dark with a hunger that borders on desperation. “No,” he assures you, his thumb brushing across your pulse point in a gesture that’s oddly tender given the obscene situation. “Quite the opposite.”

“Please,” you whisper, your hand moving faster, grip tightening further. “I want to see it, ge ge. Want to see what you’re really like when you stop holding back.”

Encouraged by his reaction, you shift your focus to the head of his cock, your thumb brushing over the sensitive slit where precum continues to bead. The change in technique has an immediate effect—Caleb’s entire body goes taut, a strangled sound escaping his throat as his head falls back.

“That’s it,” you encourage, circling the ridge where head meets shaft with deliberate attention. “Show me how much you like it.”

A drop of saliva escapes the corner of Caleb’s mouth, trailing down his chin before he can catch it with his tongue.

“Fuck,” Caleb gasps, clearly embarrassed by his loss of control even as another drop forms at the corner of his mouth. “Sorry, I—“

“Don’t you dare apologize,” you interrupt, your hand moving faster on his cock. “It’s hot. So fucking hot to see you like this.”

Caleb’s hand returns to between your legs. But this time, there’s a new urgency to his touch—his fingers pushing into your entrance with less finesse than before, driven by the desperate need your hand on his cock has awakened.

“Too much?” he asks, though he makes no move to ease his pace, his fingers establishing a rhythm that has your inner walls fluttering around the intrusion.

You shake your head frantically. “No. God, no. It’s perfect. Just like that, ge ge.”

“Caleb,” you gasp, your hand moving faster on his cock as pleasure threatens to overwhelm you. “You look so... fuck, I can’t even...”

He seems to understand without further explanation, a dark smile curving his lips as he watches your struggle for words. “This what you wanted to see?” he asks, his free hand coming up to frame your face with surprising tenderness. “Your big brother completely losing his mind over you?”

You nod frantically, beyond words now as his fingers find that spot deep inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. “Yes,” you manage between gasps. “Please, ge ge. More.”

His smile turns wicked as he leans forward, his breath hot against your ear. “Since you asked so nicely.”

Without warning, he adds a third finger, pushing it alongside the two already buried inside you. The stretch is immediate and intense, drawing a startled cry from your throat as your inner walls struggle to accommodate the increased fullness.

“Fuck, ride them,” Caleb encourages, his free hand coming to rest on your hip, guiding your movements. “Show me how much you love having your brother’s hand inside you.”

You follow his direction without hesitation, your hips beginning to rock against his hand, taking his fingers deeper with each downward movement. The change in angle allows him to reach spots his previous technique missed, sending fresh waves of pleasure crashing through your system.

“That’s it,” Caleb praises, satisfaction evident in his voice as he watches your face. “Use my hand however you need. Take what you want from me.”

“Caleb,” you warn, your voice breaking as tension builds at the base of your spine. “I’m gonna cum.”

“Let me feel it,” he demands, his voice rough with need. “Cum on my fingers, Pips. Show me how good your big brother makes you feel.”

Your inner walls clamp down on his invading fingers, your back arching sharply as your climax tears a cry from your throat.

“Fuck,” Caleb breathes, his eyes widening with wonder as he watches you come apart. “So fucking beautiful like this. Taking my fingers so well.”

He doesn’t ease up—if anything, his movements become more deliberate, more focused on that spot deep inside you that extends your pleasure with each careful press. More wetness gushes from your core, coating his hand and making obscene, wet sounds that fill the room.

“Can feel you cumming,” Caleb groans, his voice strained with his own need. “So fucking tight around my fingers. So wet for me.”

Caleb grabs your wrist, stopping your strokes. His eyes, dark with hunger, lock with yours as he brings your cum-slicked hand to his cock, using your combined fluids to coat his length.

“Fuck,” he groans, his head falling back as your slick palm makes contact with his sensitive flesh. “So fucking wet. Your perfect little pussy making my cock all nice and slick.”

“Want to feel your hand milking every drop from my cock while I watch that pretty face.” Caleb admits, his voice rough with need.

“Going to cum,” Caleb warns, his voice breaking on the words. “Fuck, Y/N, I’m gonna—“

His warning cuts off in a groan as his cock pulses in your grip, the first jet of cum shooting up to land on his stomach. You don’t stop, your hand continuing to stroke him through his orgasm, milking every drop from his sensitive flesh.

“That’s it,” you encourage, watching in fascination as more cum spills over your fingers. “Give me everything, ge ge.”

Caleb’s head falls back, a guttural sound tearing from his throat as his hips continue to jerk upward, chasing the pleasure your hand provides. More cum spills from the tip of his cock, some landing on his stomach, some coating your hand, making your strokes even slicker.

“Fuck, Pips,” he gasps when the worst of the tremors have passed, though he makes no move to stop your hand. Instead, he tightens his grip, guiding your movements to a slower, more deliberate pace. “Too sensitive. Too good.”

You ease your grip slightly, though you don’t release his cock entirely. Instead, you continue to hold him, feeling the gradual softening of his flesh, the occasional aftershock that makes him twitch in your hand.

“That’s it,” Caleb murmurs, his voice taking on that rough, satisfied edge that only emerges after intense pleasure. “Keep going. Milk every last drop.”

To your shock, he’s not done—despite the copious amount of cum already coating your hand and his stomach, more continues to spill from the tip of his cock with each downward stroke. It’s like he’s been saving up for this moment, his body producing more than seems physically possible.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, eyes wide as you watch another thick rope of cum join the mess on his abdomen. “How are you still—“

Caleb’s laugh is warm, tinged with the slight breathlessness of post-orgasmic bliss. “Told you,” he says, his free hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear with surprising tenderness. “Only for you, Pips. My body knows exactly who it belongs to.”

As if reading your thoughts, Caleb’s smile turns wicked. “Now,” he says, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes your stomach flip, “about this mess.”

Before you can ask what he means, he’s capturing your cum-covered hand, bringing it to his lips. But instead of cleaning it himself, he guides it to your mouth, his eyes never leaving yours as he pushes your fingers between your lips.

“Clean up,” he instructs, his thumb brushing your lower lip. “Show me how much you love the taste of us together.”

The command should shock you, should make you pull away in disgust. Instead, you find yourself obeying without hesitation, your tongue making a broad swipe across your palm to collect a drop of the mixed fluids there.

The taste is complex—bitter and sweet, musky and tangy, neither purely his nor purely yours but something new created from the combination. It should be disgusting. It’s not. It’s intoxicating, addictive—like the man currently watching you with hungry eyes.

“Fuck,” Caleb breathes, his eyes darkening as he watches your tongue work between your fingers. “Look at you, taking it so well. Such a good girl for me.”

His praise fuels your determination, your tongue making another pass, this one focused on cleaning between your fingers where the evidence of your shared pleasure has collected. You work methodically, making sure no drop is wasted, no spot untouched.

When your hand is mostly clean, Caleb captures your wrist again, guiding your still-damp fingers to his chest where a large glob of cum has landed. “Here too,” he instructs, his voice rough with renewed desire. “Can’t let any go to waste, can we?”

You follow his direction without hesitation, leaning down to lap at the mess on his chest. Your tongue makes a broad swipe through the puddle, gathering the thick, white fluid and swallowing it with deliberate slowness.

“That’s it,” Caleb encourages, his hand coming to rest on the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair with surprising gentleness. “Such a perfect little cleaner. Always so eager to please your big brother.”

You continue your careful cleaning, moving from his chest to his stomach, making sure no drop of his release goes untouched. Each new area presents a new challenge—the flat plane of his abdomen, the sensitive skin just above the waistband of his sweatpants, the trail of dark hair leading downward from his navel.

Throughout it all, Caleb watches with hungry eyes, his breathing growing more ragged as your tongue works its magic on his skin.

By the time you’ve cleaned the last visible drop, his cock is beginning to harden again, the tip emerging from the foreskin as blood rushes back to fill it.

“Fuck,” he groans, his hand tightening in your hair as your mouth hovers just inches from his now-half-hard length. “You’re going to be the death of me, Pips.”

You smile against his skin, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot just below his navel. “Only if you’re lucky, ge ge.”

His laugh is warm, tinged with the slight breathlessness of post-orgasmic bliss. “Always so fucking mouthy,” he says, but there’s no heat in the words—just fond exasperation and a hunger that never seems to fully abate. “Even with my cum on your tongue.”

You sit back on your heels, suddenly aware of just how obscene the situation is—you on your knees between your brother’s legs, his cum on your tongue, his cock still exposed from his pushed-down sweatpants.

“Was it good?” you ask again, unable to keep the smug satisfaction from your voice.

“What now?” you ask, suddenly uncertain despite the intensity of what just transpired between you. Are you done? Is this all he wanted from you? The thought sends a pang of disappointment through your chest.

As if reading your mind, Caleb’s expression softens, his hand sliding from your cheek to cup the back of your neck. “Now,” he says, his voice taking on that gentle tone reserved just for you, “we rest.”

Refer to Party RSVP

Comment to be tagged!

@littlewhitefairy7777 @celaenaglynn @mothmans-left-nipple @lotusapple-xia @gflscer @swiggitty-swoogity @aoomiines @puchu-puchuu @fulldoves @goobermi6 @typicalme23 @teira-osairis @vy-olet @calebsbabyapple @xyzyogurt @earthtohoney @skyekudasai @kalydos @navvzy @tempeststhings @young-adult-summer @remnantsofgildedcages @applebite01 @vatarvaliantchaosvalkyrie @applarchve @hangingwiththestars @thisaintviolet69 @asilaydead @snowapples-stuff @calebsmeimeii @cherrysherryblossom @mindelicious1 @nansfyy @ccoeurhee @tomriddleslovergirl @beelpita @cchiiwinkle @feelingfaye @makiishiima @lil-cinn @elegantpoliceflower @brookethebitch-official @sattvasprings

[nottellingofname]

To think I was kinda disappointed with how this turned out... I'm really just hard on myself 😭

[nottellingofname]

For My Caleb ⋆⭒˚｡⋆✈

Gege, i think i shrunk the clothes!

Here’s the thing about trying to do something nice for someone who is annoyingly capable of doing everything himself: it doesn’t work.

You’ve been trying for three weeks.

Three.

And you have nothing to show for it except a slightly bruised ego, a jaw that aches, a pussy that’s always throbbing, and a creeping, maddening awareness that Caleb Xia Yi Zhou might actually be impossible to spoil.

His birthday is in two weeks.

Two weeks, and you’ve cooked him exactly zero meals because every time you shuffle into the kitchen with some grand intention — a recipe pulled up on your phone, ingredients arranged on the counter — Caleb is already there.

Already at the stove.

Already flipping something in a pan with the confidence of a man who learned to cook before he learned to shave.

He’ll glance over his shoulder at you and smile, and it’s that smile, the soft one with the slight crinkle at the corner of his purple eyes, and you’ll feel your irritation deflate like a sad balloon because god, he’s so annoyingly pretty.

You tried cleaning.

You got up early. Practically military-early, which for you is a genuine sacrifice.

You dug out the cleaning supplies from under the sink and you had the vacuum cleaner out before seven in the morning, which should have earned you some kind of medal.

Instead you found the living room already clean. Not recently clean. Impeccably clean. Like it had never been touched by the concept of mess. There was a note on the coffee table in his handwriting: Don’t strain yourself, Pipsqueak. — C.

You may have crumpled that note aggressively.

You may have then proceeded to sit down in the middle of the clean living room floor and have something that could generously be called a meltdown. A tantrum, if you’re being less generous.

Caleb came in from wherever he’d been — still in that black and orange flight jacket, hair slightly messed, looking unfairly effortless — and found you sitting on the floor with your arms crossed and your expression set to full operational sulk.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at you, and then the corner of his mouth tugged upward, and he laughed. Not mean. Never mean with you.

Just warm and rich and a little helpless, like you were the funniest thing he’d ever seen and also slightly exasperating.

“I just wanted to help,” you told him, which came out more like a whine than a declaration.

“I know,” he said, and before you could say anything else he had you up over his shoulder like you weighed nothing — like you were a bag of laundry, like the laws of gravity simply applied differently to you when he decided they did — and the world flipped upside down and his hand was firm and warm on the back of your thigh.

“Caleb—“

“You wanna work so much?” His voice had dropped, that particular low register that lived somewhere between teasing and intent. “Alright. Put that mouth to work.”

And the thing is. The thing is. You’re not going to dwell on what happened after that.

You’re absolutely not going to think about how you ended up on your knees on the floor of his office with his hands loose in your hair and his cock heavy on your tongue, or about the sounds he made, or about the way he looked down at you with those purple eyes gone dark and said good girl like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You are not dwelling on any of that.

You’re especially not dwelling on the fact that you’d have done it again. Enthusiastically.

But the point is — and you have to keep coming back to the point because your brain has a truly inconvenient tendency to wander — his birthday is in two weeks.

And you have done nothing.

Zero.

You’ve been outmaneuvered at every turn by a six-foot-two military pilot who apparently never sleeps and has a pathological need to do everything himself before anyone else can.

Domestic route: blocked. Culinary route: blocked. Cleaning route: blocked and mocked, very gently, via handwritten note.

Fine. Fine.

If he won’t let you help him with the house, you’ll help him in a different way. A much more interesting way.

The idea had come to you in the middle of the night, the way good ideas tend to. If Caleb loves his uniform, and he does, he’s meticulous about it in a way that borders on religious — the pressed lines, the insignia, the whole Colonel energy he wears like a second skin — then what better way to short-circuit his brain than to wear it yourself?

You’d ordered it three weeks ago, back before the tantrum, when you still thought the cooking plan might work.

It had been sitting in your closet ever since, tucked behind a row of regular clothes, hidden in plain sight as something so mundane that Caleb, who does occasionally poke his head into your room to return folded laundry like some kind of domestic nightmare, would never look twice at it.

Just a dry-cleaning bag. Just a work uniform. Nothing to see here.

You pull it out now, holding it up in the soft late-afternoon light that comes through your window, and you look at it critically. It’s exactly right. The cut, the fabric, the insignia you’d had replicated. The jacket. The pants. The whole setup.

Caleb is in his room, the door cracked open the way it always is when he’s working at his desk, which means you can hear the faint occasional sound of papers shifting or his pen moving, which means he is exactly where you want him.

You look at the uniform again. You look at yourself in the mirror on the back of your closet door.

You’re going to march into his room, and you’re going to make Colonel Caleb Xia Yi Zhou lose every single thread of his composure, because it’s almost his birthday and you refuse — refuse — to be outmaneuvered a fourth time.

But here’s what they don’t tell you about ordering a uniform online when you’re more focused on the fantasy of it than the logistics: size matters.

Size matters a lot.

You step into the pants first, which is a process. You get them up past your knees fine. Past your thighs is already a project. By the time you’ve wrestled them up over your hips you’re already slightly out of breath, and when you look in the mirror the fabric is pulled so tight across your ass that you can practically count the individual seams.

You turn sideways. You turn back. You try bending at the knee to test the range of motion and the pants make a sound like a warning.

Don’t, the pants say. Absolutely do not.

Okay, so bending is out.

Moving with anything resembling caution is also out.

If you sit down in these you might genuinely be trapped.

You accept this as the price of the plan and move on to the jacket, which is the least of your problems until it isn’t — the buttons close over your stomach fine, but once you get to your chest it becomes a negotiation.

The fabric strains. The buttons are doing their best. They are trying so hard and they are losing, and there’s a gap between the second and third button from the top that wasn’t there in the product photos, where the fabric pulls apart just enough to show a strip of skin and the edge of your bra.

You look at yourself in the mirror for a long moment.

“Okay,” you say.

Your ass looks genuinely extraordinary. You have to give the too-tight pants that — they’ve done something transcendent back there. The uniform jacket hits just above the curve of it, which means when you lean forward even slightly there is an event happening. And the gap at the chest is doing something. It’s doing something you hadn’t planned, but you’re choosing to count it as a feature.

You rake your hair back, let it fall, tilt your chin. You point at your own reflection.

“He’s not gonna know what hit him.”

Your reflection looks back at you with the energy of someone who is sixty percent confident and forty percent about to back out.

You do not give her the opportunity.

You turn away from the mirror before the forty percent can gain ground, grab the door handle, and head out into the hallway.

The apartment is quiet. The late afternoon has gone gold and long-shadowed, and Caleb’s door is still cracked the way it was before, a thin rectangle of warm light falling across the hall floor. You can hear him in there — the faint shift of paper, the soft particular sound of his pen, totally absorbed. He has no idea.

You stop outside his door. You breathe.

You arrange your face into an expression of worried contrition, which takes some doing because underneath it you are absolutely delighted with yourself, and you knock twice on the door frame, keeping your body just out of sight around the edge.

“Caleb?” Your voice comes out with exactly the right wobble — concerned, a little sheepish, the voice of someone who has done something they feel bad about. “I’m really sorry, but — I was trying to do something nice, and I think I kind of messed up...”

There’s a pause. You hear his pen stop.

“Messed up how?” His voice is careful, not alarmed. Just attentive, the way he always is when you sound uncertain, because Caleb has never once in his life been able to hear you sound uncertain without immediately paying attention. It’s one of his more exploitable qualities.

“I tried washing your uniform for you,” you say, and you let the words come out small and guilty. “And I think — I think it might have... shrunk.”

Another pause. You can picture him at his desk, his brow doing that slight furrow, trying to work out why that’s a problem that requires you to sound this apologetic.

“Sweetheart.” His voice is mild, unoffended, just a little puzzled. The chair shifts. “Let me see it. Come here.”

That’s your cue.

You step around the door frame and into the light of his room, and then you walk toward him. You take your time with it, because the pants make fast movement inadvisable anyway, and because the whole point is to let him see every inch of you in this thing that barely contains you — the jacket pulled tight across your chest, the gap where the buttons strain, the pants that have given up any pretense of modesty and are simply painting you in detail.

Caleb goes completely still.

He’d been turned partway toward the door, one arm braced on his desk, and that’s how he stays — perfectly, completely motionless — as you cross the room toward him.

His mouth doesn’t drop open. He’s more composed than that. But his eyes go somewhere darker and the breath he’d been in the middle of just... stops. You can see it. The stillness of his chest.

His cock is already pressing against his pants. You notice this without looking directly, the way you notice a fire — by the heat of it, by the fact that the room feels different suddenly

You don’t say anything. You walk to his desk, turn so your back is to him, and lean against the edge of it. Your ass settles onto his work papers with a soft, definitive sound. You glance back at him over your shoulder.

He still hasn’t spoken. He’s just watching you.

His eyes trace the uniform, absorbing every detail like a blueprint he’s determined to master. His jaw is tight. The smirk hasn’t arrived yet — it’s building, you can see it in the set of his mouth, the way the corner of his lip is just beginning to pull.

You cross your arms loosely, settle your weight back, and look at him.

“Well?” you say, keeping your voice light, unbothered, like you aren’t desperately aware of your own heartbeat. “What do you think? Think it shrunk?”

And there it is — the smirk, slow and deliberate as a knife being unsheathed, landing at the corner of his mouth like he was never trying to hold it back, just waiting to make sure you were watching when it showed up.

“Mhm,” Caleb says. It’s not an answer. It’s not even a word. It’s just a sound in the low register of his voice that goes directly down your spine. The look in his eyes is the look of a man who has already decided what’s going to happen next and finds it very, very funny that you thought you were in charge of this.

You swallow.

Maybe you didn’t think this through all the way.

You think — well, you THOUGHT — that you have the upper hand here.

You’re sitting on his desk, his papers crinkled under your ass, wearing his uniform like you own it, and he’s just standing there in front of you looking at you with that smirk, and you think: yeah, okay, I’ve got him. You think: he’s flustered and I did that. You think a lot of things very quickly, in the way you do when you’re trying to feel confident and your brain is helping you lie to yourself.

Then Caleb stands up.

He’d been leaning slightly forward, one hand on the arm of his chair. He rises to his full height like the tide coming in, slow and inevitable, and suddenly he is very tall.

You’ve always known he’s tall. Six-foot-two is not a secret.

You have lived with this man, you’ve stood next to him at the grocery store and craned your neck at him across the dinner table and had him tuck you under his arm for years without really registering it the way you register it now.

You have to lean back just to keep eye contact. Your hands go automatically to the desk behind you, bracing.

“Hi,” you say, which is not what you’d planned to say.

He doesn’t answer. Instead he reaches out — and picks you up. Both hands, one at your hip and one at your thigh, and he lifts you like you’re a piece of paper he’s clearing off the desk and deposits you further back on the desk surface, higher up, and the pants — the beautiful, already-suffering pants — finally meet their end.

The seam goes with a sharp tearing sound right down the middle, and you feel the cool air of the room find your inner thighs, and you make a sound you hadn’t planned to make, somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, and your hands fly down to cover yourself automatically. That does nothing, by the way, because Caleb’s hands are already there, wrapping around your wrists and holding them to the side with a calm, immovable firmness.

His hands are enormous around your wrists. You could probably fight it but you don’t, because you’ve already forgotten what you were fighting for.

Your panties are orange. Bright, irreverent orange, the exact same color as the stripe on his flight jacket, and they are completely visible through the wreckage of the pants.

Caleb stares at them.

And then he does something you didn’t predict, because you should have known by now that Caleb in this mode is ungovernable: he drops his head.

He dips down between your thighs and puts his nose right against the fabric, and inhales. Long and deep and completely shameless, like you’re something he’s been wanting to smell for a long time and he is going to take his time about it.

You feel the breath of it through the fabric, warm and deliberate, and your hands jerk reflexively in his grip but he doesn’t let go.

“Caleb—“

He licks. A long, slow drag of his tongue over the front of your underwear, and the fabric is thin enough that you feel all of it — the wet heat, the pressure, the shape of his mouth working against you like he’s trying to memorize you through the cotton.

He does it again. He makes a sound low in his throat that is not a civilized sound, that belongs to something older and less housebroken than any version of Caleb you’ve been allowed to see before.

There is saliva soaking into the fabric now. There is the obscene warmth of his mouth. And there is you, gripping the edge of his desk with fingers gone white, breathing through your teeth.

He lets go of your wrists, steps back, and reaches into his own pants. He doesn’t bother taking them off — just shoves them down to his knees, enough to free himself, and his cock springs out like it’s been waiting for this, already flushed and heavy, standing up toward his stomach.

He wraps one hand around the base of it and strokes it slowly, watching you, watching the orange of your panties, watching the evidence of what he’s already done to them.

“Mmm,” he says again, that low sound from before. Not a word. An assessment.

Then he steps forward, and instead of pushing in — instead of doing the obvious thing, the thing you are absolutely ready for whether you’ll admit it or not — he just leans against you.

Pushes his cock down flat against the front of your panties, along your stomach, and the length of him is just. There. You both look down at the same time.

His tip passes your navel. Surpasses it. There’s cock laid against your stomach in a way that makes the math of the situation very, very clear.

“Look here, Pips.” His voice is low and easy, like he’s making an observation about the weather, like he’s discussing something reasonable and not currently resting every inch of himself against your skin. “I’m gonna be in here one day.”

Not I want to. Not can I? Just — I’m going to. The same tone he uses when he talks about flight routes and promotions and things he’s already decided are going to happen.

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

He pulls back, and there are wet spots on your panties, and he looks at them with an expression of profound satisfaction before he presses himself back against you. Not inside, just along you, rubbing the length of his cock over your pussy through the ruined fabric. You’re so wet that it soaks through immediately and he can feel it.. You can tell by the hitch in his breath and the way his hips rock forward once, twice, following the slick heat of you like he can’t help it.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and it comes out reverent.

His cock moves against you in long, rolling strokes, gathering up your slick, dragging it across the fabric. Spreading isn’t enough. It isn’t enough, and Caleb knows it, and you know it, and the knowing doesn’t stop anything.

You feel the exact moment he loses the last organized thought in his head. It’s in the shift of his hips, the way they press forward with new intent instead of the rolling stroke from before.

His hands grip the backs of your thighs, and he pushes, and the wet cotton of your panties catches him, gives just a little, and his tip nudges in by a fraction — barely there, barely a suggestion of inside — and that’s all it takes.

He cums.

Just like that.

A low, bitten-off sound tears out of him, and you feel it — the heat of it soaking into the fabric, spreading in a wet rush that joins everything already there, and he’s still pressed against you, shuddering, his forehead dropping toward your shoulder without quite landing.

“Jesus—“ he breathes, and it comes out broken, like he wasn’t expecting himself.

You look down. The orange cotton is wrecked, soaked through and stained, clinging to you with the weight of what he’s done, and Caleb is looking down at it too.

“Again,” he decides, out loud, which is not a request.

He draws back and pushes forward again, harder this time, and the fabric holds for approximately one more second before it doesn’t.

The seam at the center tears cleanly, cotton splitting apart, and with the combined slick of you and the mess he’s already made, his cock slides and then doesn’t quite find the angle it was looking for. Instead it slides up, and he ends up fitted snugly between your lips, sandwiched in the wet heat of you, your folds closing around him on either side without him getting inside. The tip of him grazes your clit.

You make a sound that isn’t your voice, or isn’t a voice you’ve used before.

He goes still. Then his hips roll, experimentally, once, feeling it — the slick of you on both sides of him, your flesh pressing in, and the soft brush of your pubic hair against the base of his cock strike him directly in the brain stem.

“Oh, fuck.”

His hips find a rhythm, a steady roll that sends his cock gliding between your lips. Each thrust drags him against your clit, his length slick with your desire and the remnants of his own release. The room echoes with filthy, sloppy sounds—the smack of skin on skin, the lewd squish of his cock plowing through the fucking mess you’ve made together.

He cums again. Just erupts, fountaining up your stomach, over the ripped hem of the costume jacket, and it goes everywhere and he watches it go everywhere. His cock is still twitching.

Then he looks up at you.

“Ma’am,” he says, and the word is wrong and filthy in his mouth. Wrong because you’re not his superior, wrong because he’s never called you that in his life, wrong because of everything. He says it with a straight face.

With his hand already moving, rubbing the flat of his palm over your stomach, spreading what he’s put there into your skin. His jaw is tight. “I don’t think this uniform belongs to me anymore.”

“Caleb—“

“’Yes, sir’ works.” He isn’t looking at your face. He’s watching his own hand move, the cream worked into your skin going slick and shining. His thumb drags through the mess of you and he pushes it between your pussy lips — against them, not in, just the pressure of him insisting — and your thighs try to close and his hips stop them. “You’re so wet for me, Pips. You’re soaking. Did you know that?”

You knew. You’ve known for the last fifteen minutes in excruciating detail.

“You did this to me,” you manage.

“Yeah,” he agrees, like that pleases him enormously. “I did.”

He takes the ruined waistband of your panties in both hands, the torn fabric hanging in tatters, and pulls the remnants taut. A strip of it pressed flat against you, between your lips, and then he presses his cock back over it, and the combined friction is something your nervous system genuinely wasn’t prepared for.

He drags. Long and deliberate and slow, forcing the fabric tight against your skin, and the edge of the seam catches your clit just right and you make a noise loud enough to embarrass yourself, your hands scrabbling at the back of his neck.

“There she is,” Caleb says, very quietly, and he does it again.

Your thighs shake. The pressure builds with a speed that makes you feel cheated out of the anticipation of it, and when you tip over the edge you take him with you. You squirt, sudden and surprised and messy, and it hits him across the lower stomach and the base of his cock and he makes a sound like he’s been hit.

You expected this to slow him down. You expected this to be the moment he regroups, take a breath, bring some of that Colonel composure back to bear.

He grabs your hips instead.

His eyes are wide and dark and there is nothing composed about him. He looks at the mess between your bodies, your slick and his cum and the ruined orange cotton of your underwear, and his expression is the expression of a man who has found the meaning of life,

“Need gege to clean you up?” He asks.

His hips roll forward, coating himself back in you, and the mess makes a sound, and Caleb Xia Yi Zhou, Colonel, decorated pilot, the most responsible person in your life, looks at you with your ruined uniform jacket hanging off your shoulders and your thighs wrapped around him and his cock slick with everything that’s passed between you, and he smiles. Wide and a little wild and completely without apology.

You are in so much trouble.

Caleb grabs the remnants of your panties in both fists and pulls, and they give immediately. The cotton is already destroyed, and the last of it comes away with a sound of final surrender.

He drops it somewhere. He grabs the shredded ends of the costume pants, what’s left of them still clinging to your legs, and those go too, peeled down and discarded over the edge of the desk. You’re bare from the waist down in the ruins of this cheap costume uniform and the cool air of his room comes for your skin all at once.

Caleb doesn’t notice, or maybe he doesn’t care. He’s looking at you with the focused, slightly unhinged attention, and his cock is still hard and flushed and absolutely ready despite cumming all his kids all over you.

He picks his cock back up in his hand. Looks at you. And then he brings it down against your pussy in a single, deliberate slap.

The sound it makes is obscene. Wet and sharp and loud in the quiet room, and the splatter of everything already there — your slick, his cum, the accumulated evidence of the last twenty minutes — goes everywhere, and you jerk. Your thighs try to close and Caleb puts one hand flat on your inner thigh, open-palmed, holding you in place.

“Stay,” he says, like you’re a very beloved problem.

He does it again. The slap of his cock against your pussy, light and then firmer, and every impact sends a shock up through your hips. The wet sound of it fills the room and he is watching — watching it happen, watching the cream fly, watching the way your lips part and close around the impact, and his expression is so rapt and so unabashedly delighted that you almost laugh except that you’re too busy making sounds that aren’t laughter.

“Caleb—“

“Sir,” he corrects, absently, still watching what he’s doing with the focus of someone who finds it genuinely fascinating. “Or ma’am, I don’t care, pick one.”

“I’m not calling you ma’am,” you say, breathless.

“No, you’re the ma’am.” He looks up briefly. “You’re in uniform, Pips.” Then back down. “You’re technically outranking me right now.”

This is demented reasoning and you both know it. But it doesn’t matter because he’s moved on from slapping his dick on you to pressing his tip directly against your clit, circling it in slow, lazy strokes like he’s drawing something. His free hand has found your pussy lips, two fingers sliding along either side, pressing them together, releasing, pressing again, the wet sounds mortifying and you’re watching him do it with your mouth open because apparently your body has decided to spectate.

“Hi,” Caleb says to your pussy, conversationally. His fingers press your lips together again. They make a sound. “Yeah,” he says, nodding, like he’s hearing something only he can understand. “I know. Me too.”

“Are you talking to it—”

“Shh.” His tip presses down and rolls over your clit again and your sentence evaporates. “We’re having a moment.”

You are going to lose your mind.

In fact, you are already losing it.

You lost it approximately seventeen minutes ago and you’ve just been running on the fumes of it.

And Caleb is still working that slow deliberate circle with the head of his cock and squishing your lips between his fingers with the focus of a man who has found his calling.

“You’re so goddamn soft,” he says, and now his voice has dropped all the way down, into that register that does things to your ovaries.

“You know that? Every time I think about how — “ he presses down harder, rolls, and you make a sound that does things to his expression — “how fucking small you are—“ another stroke, the tip dragging slick — “I can’t even, Pips. I would fill you up to your throat, do you understand that? I’m not — I’m being serious right now—“

“Caleb—“

“Sir,” he says again, more firmly this time, though it’s undercut by the fact that he’s clearly struggling to form sentences himself.

His hips have started moving again with that roll, working himself against you, and the slick built between you is audible and continuous and bubbly. “I would split you in half, sweetheart, I would be so far in you—”

He cums.

It happens mid-sentence, which would be funny under other circumstances. His voice just stops, replaced by a rough broken sound, and he tilts forward and his cock kicks upward and he paints you with it. Long white stripes landing across your stomach and the open front of the costume jacket, soaking into the fabric and your skin alike. And he keeps stroking through it with his fist, milking every last drop out, watching it land.

The uniform is destroyed.

It is a complete loss.

There is no dry cleaner in the world that could help this uniform.

You don’t care. You reach out and grab his wrist.

“Again, sir,” you say, which is what he said earlier.

He looks at you. His chest is heaving. His hair is messed up, falling across his forehead. His pants are still at his knees, which looks ridiculous, but on Caleb it just looks like a man who didn’t have time for niceties.

He tries. He genuinely tries.

His hips shift forward, his hand moves, and then his whole body seems to make a decision. Caleb falls forward, catching himself on his forearms on the desk, and lowers his head until his forehead rests in the crook of your neck. His weight on you but managed, warm and enormous, his breath coming against your collarbone in deep, ragged pulls.

He doesn’t move.

The room is very quiet.

After a moment, Caleb says, in a muffled, genuine tone, “I think my soul just left my body, Pips.”

You stare at the ceiling. Your chest is heaving.

There is cum on the costume. There is cum on you.

Your pants are in pieces on the floor and you are sitting on his work papers and his face is in your neck and he has just, apparently, experienced some kind of astral event.

“Are you dead?”

“Yes.” A pause. “Don’t tell Gran.”

You bring your hand up — slowly, because everything is a little slow right now — and rest it on the back of his head.

His hair is soft. It’s always soft, stupidly soft, and he makes a low satisfied sound at the contact like a very large, very spent dog who has found his spot and has no plans to relocate.

“Don’t die yet,” you tell the ceiling.

Caleb laughs into your neck. It’s muffled and helpless and warm, and it shakes through his whole chest and into you, and you feel it everywhere.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Refer to Party RSVP

Comment to be tagged!

@littlewhitefairy7777 @celaenaglynn @mothmans-left-nipple @lotusapple-xia @gflscer @swiggitty-swoogity @aoomiines @puchu-puchuu @fulldoves @goobermi6 @typicalme23 @teira-osairis @vy-olet @calebsbabyapple @xyzyogurt @earthtohoney @skyekudasai @kalydos @navvzy @tempeststhings @young-adult-summer @remnantsofgildedcages @applebite01 @vatarvaliantchaosvalkyrie @applarchve @hangingwiththestars @thisaintviolet69 @asilaydead @snowapples-stuff @calebsmeimeii @cherrysherryblossom @mindelicious1 @nansfyy @ccoeurhee @tomriddleslovergirl @beelpita @cchiiwinkle @feelingfaye @makiishiima @lil-cinn @goonette5 @elegantpoliceflower @brookethebitch-official @sattvasprings @sunlit-apple

[nottellingofname]

For My Caleb ⋆⭒˚｡⋆✈︎

It takes two hands to...

As the days slip by in a blur of Caleb’s hands, mouth, and fingers, you start to notice a pattern.

Your pleasure is a frequent focus—waking to the heat of his tongue between your thighs, falling asleep with the ghost of his touch on your sensitive skin.

But you’ve only tasted him once, and despite your insistence that you want more, Caleb always finds ways to redirect your attention back to your own pleasure.

It’s not that you’re keeping score—okay, maybe you’re keeping a little score—but there’s something about the way he seems to prioritize your satisfaction over his own that both warms your heart and frustrates you to no end.

Tonight is no different.

Caleb has you pinned against the couch, his weight pressing you into the cushions as his mouth works its magic along the column of your throat. His lips find that spot behind your ear that makes your toes curl, then travel down to the sensitive junction where neck meets shoulder.

Your fingers tangle in his dark hair, gripping the soft strands with increasing urgency as his teeth graze your pulse point, sending shivers racing down your spine.

“Wait,” you gasp, tugging at his hair until he lifts his head to look at you. His purple eyes are half-lidded, pupils dilated with desire, lips parted and slightly swollen from kissing you senseless.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, voice rough with arousal as he pushes a strand of hair from your face with unexpected gentleness.

You steel yourself, choosing your words carefully. “I want you to teach me how to make you feel good.”

The surprise that flickers across his face is quickly replaced by a smile. “Pips, you make me feel good all the time.”

“You know what I mean,” you insist, refusing to be distracted by his deflection. “I want to learn how to please you—not just with my mouth.”

Caleb’s hand finds your waist, fingers spreading to span your ribs as his thumb traces small circles on your lower stomach. “Watching you fall apart when I touch you pleases me more than you know.”

It’s such a quintessentially Caleb response—selfless, generous, infuriating—that you want to scream. Or kiss him. Or both, in rapid succession.

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” you huff, pushing at his chest to create some distance between you. “I mean I want to make you cum the way you make me cum.”

The words hang between you, and you watch as something darkens in Caleb’s expression—hunger and reluctance warring in his purple gaze.

“It’s not just about that,” he says finally, his voice dropping to that register that sends heat pooling in your core. “Seeing your pleasure is enough for me.”

You narrow your eyes, suspicion dawning. “Wait a minute. Is this because you’re a raging celibate virgin? Don’t get any when you’re at Skyhaven? Is that why you don’t want me to make you feel good? Because you’re afraid you’ll lose control?”

To your surprise, Caleb laughs, the sound rich and warm as his head drops to your shoulder. “Is that what you think, mei mei?” he asks, voice thick with amusement. “That I’m out there saving myself for marriage while I’m gone?”

“Well, you’re certainly saving yourself from me,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest in what you hope is a convincing show of pique. “Saint Caleb, patron saint of self-control.”

Instead of rising to your bait, he simply cups your face in his hands, thumbs stroking your cheekbones with maddening tenderness. “You have no idea how much control it takes not to devour you the moment I walk through that door.”

You’ve been building to this confrontation for days, watching Caleb bring you to screaming orgasms while remaining frustratingly clothed and composed.

“So you just—what? Beat off in the shower thinking about your sister like some kind of pervert?” The words are deliberately crude, calculated to get a rise out of him.

You watch the muscle in his jaw jump, a flash of something dangerous crossing his features before he reins it in. “Y/N,” he warns, but there’s no real heat in his voice.

“What? That’s not it?” You press on, sensing a crack in his composure. “You’re not a perv? Not a creep? Not a sister-fucking—“

“Enough,” Caleb cuts you off, but there’s still no sign that you’ve truly pushed him past his limits. If anything, he looks amused by your antics, which only makes you more determined to break through.

Your mind races, searching for the one button guaranteed to get a reaction. And then it hits you—the one person who can truly get under Caleb’s skin.

“If you’re not going to teach me,” you say slowly, watching his face carefully, “then maybe I should ask Gideon for lessons instead. I bet he’d be more than happy to show me how to make a man feel good.”

The change is instantaneous and terrifying. Caleb’s body goes rigid against yours, his hands flying to your shoulders to grip them with bruising force. His expression transforms—all traces of amusement vanishing, replaced by something primal and possessive.

“Don’t,” he growls, the single word vibrating with barely contained rage. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” you taunt, your voice dropping to a whisper as you lean closer, knowing exactly what you’re doing now. “If I asked your best friend to fuck me instead of you? If I let him make me scream the way you do?”

Caleb’s eyes narrow, his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave marks. “You have no idea what you’re playing with right now.”

“Then show me,” you challenge, your heart racing as you press your advantage. “Show me what happens when I push you too far.”

For a long moment, Caleb just stares at you, his purple eyes so dark they’re almost black. You can practically see the calculations happening behind them—weighing options, measuring control against desire.

And then, with a speed that leaves you breathless, Caleb moves.

You barely have a moment to catch your breath before Caleb moves with that lightning-quick precision that reminds you of his military training.

His arms—thick, powerful things that make your stomach flip—suddenly wrap around your waist, trapping you against his chest as he settles back onto the couch.

“Ge ge, what—“ you start to ask, but your question is cut short as his hands position you with deliberate strength.

Caleb’s big hands grip your waist, thumbs digging into the soft flesh above your hips as he lifts you effortlessly, arranging you so you’re straddling his lap. Your knees press into the couch cushions on either side of his thighs, your ass settling against the hardness still evident through his sweatpants.

“That’s better,” he murmurs, satisfaction coloring his voice as he looks up at you from this new angle. “Right where you belong.”

You’re still catching your breath from the previous intensity, your legs trembling slightly from both exertion and the sudden rush of new arousal. Caleb notices immediately, his hands running soothingly up and down your sides, though his eyes remain hungry.

“Feel better?” you ask, voice still rough.

His only response is a low growl, a sound that vibrates through your entire body where you’re pressed against his chest. And then his head dips, burying his face in the soft valley between your breasts.

You gasp as his hair tickles your chin, your hands automatically flying to his shoulders for balance as Caleb’s face presses firmly against your chest. His eyes close, nostrils flaring as he takes a deep, deliberate inhale, his breath hot through the thin fabric of your tank top.

“Mmm,” he hums against you, the vibration traveling straight to your core. “Fucking love how you smell, Pips. Always have.”

The admission sends a blush across your cheeks, though there’s no one here to witness it but Caleb—and he’s already seen and done far more intimate things to you than smelling your tits.

“Sweet,” he continues, nuzzling deeper between your breasts, his nose tracing the curve of one and then the other. “Mine.”

His arms tighten around your waist, keeping you securely in his lap as his face continues its exploration of your chest.

“Such pretty tits,” Caleb murmurs, voice muffled against your flesh. “Always knew they’d be perfect. All those years of wondering.” He pulls back slightly, looking up at you with eyes gone dark with hunger. “Worth the wait.”

You want it too—want everything he’s willing to give you. “Please,” you whisper, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair. “Please, ge ge.”

A smile curves his lips, slow and predatory. “Since you asked so nicely...”

With deliberate slowness, Caleb leans forward, his teeth catching on the neckline of your tank top. The wet heat of his mouth against your skin makes you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair as he uses his teeth to tug the fabric down, revealing the top curve of one breast.

He doesn’t stop there, working the neckline lower and lower with a combination of his teeth, lips, and the occasional use of his tongue. Each new inch of skin exposed to the cool air is immediately warmed by his breath, his mouth, until finally the neckline has been pulled down enough to reveal both your nipples.

“Fuck,” Caleb breathes, his eyes fixed on your exposed flesh. “Even prettier than I imagined.”

Before you can respond, his mouth is on you—no teasing, no gradual build-up, just the wet heat of his tongue lapping at your left nipple while his hand comes up to squeeze your right breast. The sudden sensation draws a startled cry from your throat, your back arching to push your chest more firmly into his hands.

“Such sensitive tits,” Caleb murmurs against your skin, his tongue making another broad swipe across your nipple. “Getting so hard for me already.”

He’s right—your nipples have pebbled to tight points at the first touch of his mouth, aching for more contact. You find yourself nodding frantically, unable to form words as Caleb switches his attention to your other breast, his mouth moving to capture your right nipple while his hand takes over the left.

“That’s it,” he encourages as your hips rock forward of their own accord, seeking friction against the hard ridge of his cock beneath you. “Show me how much you like it. How much you need me.”

His free hand slides up to cup the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair to guide your face toward his. You follow his lead without hesitation, your lips meeting his in a kiss that tastes of salt and musk.

Caleb’s tongue pushes into your mouth, mimicking the way his cock had pushed into your throat earlier in the week. You moan around the invasion, your own tongue rising to meet his in a dance that leaves you breathless.

When you finally break apart, gasping for air, Caleb doesn’t give you time to recover before returning to your breasts. But this time, he does something different—he releases his hold on you, using both hands to cup your breasts instead, pushing them together to create a valley between them.

“Fucking perfect,” he growls, his eyes fixed on the sight of your breasts in his hands. “Look at these tits, Pips. Made to be played with.”

To your shock, he gathers saliva in his mouth, then deliberately spits directly onto your exposed cleavage. The warm glob lands between your breasts, some dripping down toward your stomach while the rest coats your skin with a glistening sheen.

“Caleb!” you gasp, too surprised to be properly scandalized.

His only response is a wicked grin before he’s leaning down again, his tongue making a broad swipe through the spit he just deposited on your skin.

“Fuck, that’s good,” he murmurs against your flesh. “So sweet. So fucking perfect.”

His tongue makes another pass, this time focusing on your nipples, each one receiving a thorough licking before he pulls it between his lips, sucking firmly enough to make you gasp.

“Look at you,” Caleb says, his voice rough with arousal as he glances up at your face. “So fucking responsive. Just from playing with these pretty tits.”

He switches breasts, his mouth moving to the one his hand had been attending while his now-free hand squeezes the spit-slick flesh he just abandoned. “Imagine how you’ll react when I get my mouth somewhere else.”

“Please,” you whisper again, no longer caring how desperate you sound. “I need more, ge ge.”

“Mmm, I know you do,” Caleb agrees, finally releasing your breasts to wrap his arms around your waist again. His hands slide down to grip your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave marks. “Such a greedy little sister. Always wanting more than I give you.”

“Only because you make me feel so good,” you admit, your hands moving to frame his face, thumbs tracing the sharp cut of his cheekbones. “Can’t help wanting more.”

A slow smile spreads across his face at your words, pride and hunger mingling in his expression.

“That’s my good girl,” he praises, pressing a kiss to your palm. “Always so honest with me.”

His hands on your ass suddenly tighten, pulling you forward until you’re pressed flush against his chest. Your breasts, still exposed from your pushed-down tank top, make contact with the hard planes of his pectorals, your nipples rubbing against the fabric of his t-shirt.

“Fuck, feel that?” Caleb growls, his hips jerking upward so that his hardness presses directly against your core. “How wet you’re getting just from me playing with your tits?”

You nod, beyond words as you grind against him, seeking more of the friction your body craves. “Please,” you gasp again, the single word encompassing all your desperate wants. “Please, ge ge.”

While Caleb’s mouth continues its relentless assault on your breasts, his right hand suddenly breaks away, reaching up to grab your wrist. His purple eyes lock with yours, pupils blown wide with lust as he slowly, deliberately guides your hand toward his lap.

“Feel how hard you make me,” he murmurs against your sternum, his free hand still working your breast with practiced skill. “Just from playing with these perfect tits.”

Your palm makes contact with the thick ridge straining against his sweatpants, and you can’t help the gasp that escapes your lips. Even through the fabric, the heat of him is intense—like touching a living furnace. And there’s a damp spot where the tip of his cock has leaked enough precum to soak through the thin material.

“So wet for you,” Caleb continues, voice rough with need as he guides your hand to rub up and down his length. “Always so fucking hard and leaking whenever I’m around you. Hasn’t changed since we were kids.”

“Wanted you for so fucking long,” Caleb admits, his lips moving from your breast to your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin beneath your ear. “Every night, lying in bed, thinking about touching you. About you touching me.”

His words make your core clench, another gush of wetness soaking your panties as you continue to rub his cock through his sweatpants. The fabric is growing damper by the second, evidence of just how much he wants you.

“Please,” you whisper, your hand trembling slightly against him. “Can I touch you for real?”

A dark smile curves his lips, satisfaction evident in his expression as he finally gives in to your pleading. With his free hand, he reaches down to the waistband of his sweatpants, tugging it down just enough to free his cock.

“I’ve been dreaming about this,” Caleb says, his voice dropping to that rough register that makes your stomach flip. “Your hand on my cock. Finally giving my little sister what she’s been begging for.”

The first touch of skin on skin draws a groan from deep in his chest, his eyes closing briefly as your fingers make contact with his cock.

He’s even hotter than you expected, the skin velvety soft over the steel-hard shaft beneath. And he’s so wet—precum already coating the head and upper shaft, making your hand slide easily along his length.

“Fuck,” Caleb hisses, his hand tightening around yours as you experimentally stroke up toward the tip. “Your hand feels so fucking good, Pips. So small and soft.”

He’s right—your hand is comically small compared to his cock, your fingers unable to fully wrap around his girth. You’d need both hands to properly encircle him, and even then, your grip would be loose.

“Look at that,” Caleb murmurs, his eyes fixed on where your hand disappears around his shaft. “Your tiny hand can barely hold my cock. Always knew you were made small, but fuck, seeing it like this...”

He guides your hand in another stroke, this one starting at the base and working all the way to the tip, where a fresh bead of precum is already forming. “That’s it,” he encourages as your thumb brushes over the sensitive head. “Get me nice and wet for you.”

As you continue to stroke him, Caleb’s mouth returns to your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin where your pulse jumps beneath the surface. You know what he’s doing—leaving marks, staking his claim—but you don’t care. You let him mark you. Let everyone know exactly who you belong to.

“That’s my good girl,” he praises against your throat, his lips moving to a new spot just below your collarbone. “Taking such good care of my cock.”

His mouth latches onto your skin, sucking hard enough to leave a mark—the first of what will undoubtedly be many by the time he’s done with you. The slight pain mingles with pleasure, your hand moving faster on his cock as he continues his possessive assault on your neck and chest.

“Caleb,” you gasp as his teeth scrape over a particularly sensitive spot. “Feels so good.”

“Mmm, I know it does,” he agrees, pulling back to admire the darkening bruise he’s left on your skin. “You like being marked up? Like everyone knowing you belong to me?”

You nod frantically, too far gone in pleasure to be embarrassed by your eagerness. “Yes. Please, ge ge. More.”

His smile turns predatory as he lowers his head again, this time targeting the upper curve of your breast. “Gonna cover you in marks,” he promises, lips brushing against your skin with each word. “Gonna make sure you remember who you belong to every time you look in the mirror.”

As his mouth works its magic on your skin, his hips begin to move, rocking up to meet each downward stroke of your hand. The rhythm is intoxicating—his cock sliding through your grip, his mouth leaving a trail of pleasure across your chest, his free hand squeezing your ass to guide your movements against him.

“That’s it,” Caleb encourages, his breathing growing ragged as your hand moves faster. “Just like that, mei mei. Show me how badly you want to make your big brother feel good.”

“Fuck, you’re so fucking wet,” Caleb groans, his hand sliding from your ass to between your legs, fingers pressing against your soaked panties. “Just from touching my cock? Such a greedy little slut.”

Each pass of your palm over the slit gathers more precum, making your strokes slicker, smoother.

“Right there,” Caleb hisses when your thumb brushes a particular spot on the underside of his head. “Fuck, that’s perfect.”

You focus your attention there, making sure each stroke includes that sweet spot. The effect is immediate—Caleb’s head falls back, a groan tearing from his throat as his hips jerk upward more forcefully.

“Gonna make me cum if you keep that up,” he warns, though there’s no real concern in his voice—just anticipation and hunger. “You want that, Pips? Want to feel me shoot all over your hand?”

“Yes,” you gasp, your own need making you bold. “Please, ge ge. Want to feel you cum.”

His free hand suddenly grips your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat to his hungry mouth. “Such a good little cocksucker,” he praises against your skin, his teeth grazing your pulse point. “Taking such good care of me.”

The wet sounds of your hand sliding along his cock fill the room, obscene and thrilling.

“That’s it,” Caleb encourages, his voice rough with arousal. “Just like that. Show me how much you love your big brother’s cock.”

You’ve never done this before—never touched a man like this, never felt the power of reducing someone to desperate moans with just your hand. But instinct guides you, your body responding to Caleb’s reactions, learning what makes him groan, what makes his hips jerk, what makes his fingers dig into your flesh hard enough to leave marks.

“So fucking good,” Caleb gasps as you twist your wrist slightly on the upstroke, adding a new sensation to your rhythm. “Your perfect little hand on my cock. Been dreaming about this for years.”

How many nights has he spent wanting you? How many fantasies has he built around the two of you?

“Did you touch yourself thinking about me?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. “While I was sleeping down the hall?”

Caleb’s eyes darken further, his hand in your hair tightening almost painfully. “Every fucking night,” he admits, no shame in his voice—just raw hunger. “Stroking my cock to thoughts of you. Wondering if you’d be as tight as I imagined. If you’d take my whole length or if I’d have to go slow.”

His words paint vivid pictures in your mind—Caleb alone in his room, hand wrapped around his cock, imagining you spread open beneath him. The thought of him wanting you for so long, of him corrupting himself with thoughts of his little sister, makes your hand tremble against his length.

“Fuck, the way you’re looking at me right now,” Caleb groans, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek. “Like you’re finally seeing what I am. What I’ve always been.”

“A pervert,” you say, but there’s no judgment in your voice—just acceptance and a hint of pride that you’re the object of his obsession. “My pervert.”

Something flashes in his eyes—probably relief, gratitude, or maybe hunger—before his mouth crashes against yours in a kiss that’s more possession than passion. His tongue pushes past your lips, claiming your mouth as thoroughly as his cock claims your hand.

When you finally break apart, both gasping for breath, Caleb’s hand returns to guide your movements on his cock. “Not gonna last much longer if you keep that up,” he warns, though the smile on his face makes it clear he has no intention of stopping you. “Too fucking good with those hands, Pips.”

“Then don’t last,” you challenge, emboldened by his reactions. “Cum for me, ge ge. Show me how good I make you feel.”

His response is a groan so deep it seems to come from the center of his chest, his hips jerking upward to fuck into your grip. “Fuck, when you talk like that...” He shakes his head, seemingly unable to complete the thought.

You take his reaction as encouragement, your hand moving faster, grip tightening slightly as you focus on the sensitive head of his cock. Each downward stroke ends with your thumb brushing over the slit, gathering the copious precum there to ease your movements.

“Right there,” Caleb hisses, his free hand squeezing your ass hard enough to leave bruises. “Fuck, that’s perfect. Just like that, Pips. Don’t stop.”

His praise fuels your determination, your hand establishing a rhythm that has his breathing growing more ragged by the second. You can feel him getting harder, the veins along his shaft standing out more prominently as blood rushes to his cock.

“Gonna cum,” he warns, his voice breaking on the words. “Fuck, Y/N, I’m gonna—“

His warning cuts off in a groan as his cock pulses in your hand, the first jet of cum shooting up to land on his stomach. You don’t stop, your hand continuing to stroke him through his orgasm, milking every drop from his sensitive flesh.

“That’s it,” you encourage, watching in fascination as more cum spills over your fingers. “Give me everything, ge ge.”

Caleb’s head falls back, a guttural sound tearing from his throat as his hips continue to jerk upward, chasing the pleasure your hand provides. More cum spills from the tip of his cock, some landing on his stomach, some coating your hand, making your strokes even slicker.

“Fuck, Pips,” he gasps when the worst of the tremors have passed, his hand covering yours to slow your movements. “Too sensitive.”

You reluctantly ease your grip, though you don’t release his cock entirely. Instead, you continue to hold him, feeling the gradual softening of his flesh, the occasional aftershock that makes him twitch in your hand.

“Was it good?” you ask, suddenly shy despite the fact that you’re literally holding his softening cock in your hand.

Caleb’s laugh is warm, tinged with the slight breathlessness of post-orgasmic bliss.

“Was it good?” he repeats, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear with surprising tenderness. “Fuck, mei mei. That was beyond good.” He shakes his head, apparently unable to find the right words.

Caleb’s hand between your legs stills suddenly, his eyes widening slightly as he feels just how soaked you’ve become. His lips curve into a slow, predatory smile as his fingers press more firmly against your panties, gathering evidence of your arousal on the fabric.

“Holy fuck, Pips,” he murmurs, voice rough with renewed desire despite his recent orgasm. “You’re absolutely drowning down here.”

You shift your hips, seeking more pressure from his hand, but Caleb keeps his touch teasingly light. “Please,” you whisper, beyond pride now. “I need more.”

His smile turns wicked as he leans forward, his mouth brushing against your ear. “You need to keep working my cock,” he instructs, his free hand guiding yours back to his softening length.

While your hand works his length, his free hand returns to between your legs. But instead of pressing against your panties as before, his fingers slide beneath the elastic waistband of your panties, slipping underneath to make direct contact with you.

“Fuck,” Caleb groans, his eyes closing briefly as his fingers make contact with your cunt. “Even wetter than I thought.”

“Look at you, getting so fucking wet just from touching my cock. What would people say if they knew what a slut you are for your brother’s dick?”

“Please,” you gasp as his finger makes a slow, deliberate pass through your slit, gathering your wetness on his skin. “Need more, ge ge.”

“Patience,” Caleb chides, though the strain in his voice betrays how affected he is by your eagerness. “Good things come to those who wait.”

Despite his words, his finger makes another pass, this time circling your entrance without pushing inside. The tease is maddening—so close to what you need but not quite giving it to you.

“Caleb,” you whine, your hips shifting to try to force his finger inside. “Please.”

His response is to lean forward, capturing your mouth in a kiss that’s more possession than passion. His tongue pushes past your lips, claiming your mouth as thoroughly as his cock claims your hand. When he finally pulls back, both of you are breathing hard, a strand of saliva connecting your lips for a moment before breaking.

“Since you asked so nicely,” he murmurs, his finger finally pushing forward to breach your entrance.

The sudden intrusion draws a gasp from your throat, your inner walls clenching around the single digit as it slides inside you. You’re so wet that there’s no resistance, just the delicious stretch of being filled, even if it’s only by one finger.

“Fuck,” Caleb breathes, his eyes fixed on where his finger disappears into your body. “So fucking tight around me. Like your pussy was made to take my cock.”

“More,” you beg, your hand still working his cock but your attention now entirely focused on the point where your bodies connect. “Please, ge ge. I need more.”

Caleb shakes his head, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Greedy little thing, aren’t you? Not even giving me a chance to enjoy this before demanding more.”

Despite his teasing, his finger begins to move, establishing a slow, deliberate rhythm as it pushes deeper with each thrust. Your inner walls flutter around the intrusion, your hips rocking to meet each forward push.

“That’s it,” Caleb encourages, his free hand coming up to cup your breast through your pushed-down tank top. “Take it. Show me how much you love having part of me inside you.”

His finger curls slightly as it pushes deep, the new angle allowing him to press against your front wall. The change draws a startled cry from your throat, your back arching as pleasure shoots up your spine.

“There it is,” Caleb murmurs, satisfaction evident in his voice as he focuses his attention on that spot. “Your sweet spot. The place that makes my perfect little sister lose her mind.”

He’s right—each press against that bundle of nerves sends electricity racing through your system, making your thighs tremble and your breath catch.

“Fuck,” you gasp as he adds a second finger, the stretch immediate and intense despite your abundant wetness. “Caleb, that’s—oh god—“

“Too much?” he asks, though he makes no move to withdraw. Instead, his fingers remain still inside you, giving your body time to adjust to the increased fullness.

You shake your head frantically. Relief flashes across his features, quickly replaced by hunger as he begins to move both fingers in tandem.

“Look at you,” Caleb murmurs, his eyes fixed on where his fingers disappear into your body. “Taking two of my fingers like you were made for it. So fucking perfect.”

“Caleb,” you gasp, your free hand flying to his shoulder, fingers digging into the hard muscle there as you seek an anchor in the storm of sensation. “I’m close. So close.”

“Already?” he asks, surprise evident in his voice despite the satisfaction coloring his tone. “Just from my fingers? Such a sensitive little thing.”

He doesn’t ease up—if anything, his movements become more deliberate, more focused on that spot deep inside you that makes your vision blur. His thumb finds your clit, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves.

“That’s it,” he encourages as your breathing grows more ragged, your hips rocking to meet each thrust of his fingers. “Cum for me, mei mei. Show me how good your big brother makes you feel.”

“Caleb,” you warn, your voice breaking as pleasure threatens to overwhelm you. “I’m gonna—“

“Let go,” he commands, his free hand coming up to grip your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. “I want to see it. Want to watch your face when you cum on my fingers.”

The order is the final push you need—the tension breaks, pleasure crashing through you in waves that make your entire body convulse. Your inner walls clamp down on his invading fingers, your back arching sharply as your climax tears a cry from your throat.

“Fuck,” Caleb breathes, his eyes wide with wonder as he watches you come apart. “So fucking beautiful like this. Taking my fingers so well. Cumming all over my hand like the perfect little slut you are.”

You’re dimly aware of your hand still wrapped around his cock, though your movements have grown erratic, uncoordinated as your focus narrows to the point where his fingers fill you.

“That’s it,” Caleb encourages, his fingers continuing their relentless assault on your sweet spot even as your inner walls pulse around them. “Give me everything. Show me how much you love having your brother’s hand inside you.”

When the final pulses of your orgasm begin to fade, Caleb slowly withdraws his fingers, bringing them to his mouth with deliberate slowness. His eyes never leave yours as he sucks your release from his skin, humming appreciatively at the taste.

“Sweet,” he murmurs, voice rough with renewed desire. “Just like I knew you’d be.”

As your orgasm begins to fade, you turn your attention back to Caleb’s cock, still hard and pulsing in your grip. You notice immediately how your movements affect him—each stroke drawing a different reaction, teaching you what he likes, what drives him wild.

A firm upstroke makes his breath catch; a twist of your wrist on the downstroke has his hips jerking forward; a thumb circling the sensitive head draws a groan from deep in his chest. It’s like learning a new language—one written in the tensing of muscles and the catching of breath.

“Fuck,” he hisses, his free hand flying to your wrist as if to stop you, though he makes no actual move to pull you away. “Jesus Christ, Pips. Warn a guy.”

“Did I hurt you?” you ask, concern momentarily overriding your arousal.

Caleb’s laugh is strained, his eyes dark with a hunger that borders on desperation. “No,” he assures you, his thumb brushing across your pulse point in a gesture that’s oddly tender given the obscene situation. “Quite the opposite.”

“Please,” you whisper, your hand moving faster, grip tightening further. “I want to see it, ge ge. Want to see what you’re really like when you stop holding back.”

Encouraged by his reaction, you shift your focus to the head of his cock, your thumb brushing over the sensitive slit where precum continues to bead. The change in technique has an immediate effect—Caleb’s entire body goes taut, a strangled sound escaping his throat as his head falls back.

“That’s it,” you encourage, circling the ridge where head meets shaft with deliberate attention. “Show me how much you like it.”

A drop of saliva escapes the corner of Caleb’s mouth, trailing down his chin before he can catch it with his tongue.

“Fuck,” Caleb gasps, clearly embarrassed by his loss of control even as another drop forms at the corner of his mouth. “Sorry, I—“

“Don’t you dare apologize,” you interrupt, your hand moving faster on his cock. “It’s hot. So fucking hot to see you like this.”

Caleb’s hand returns to between your legs. But this time, there’s a new urgency to his touch—his fingers pushing into your entrance with less finesse than before, driven by the desperate need your hand on his cock has awakened.

“Too much?” he asks, though he makes no move to ease his pace, his fingers establishing a rhythm that has your inner walls fluttering around the intrusion.

You shake your head frantically. “No. God, no. It’s perfect. Just like that, ge ge.”

“Caleb,” you gasp, your hand moving faster on his cock as pleasure threatens to overwhelm you. “You look so... fuck, I can’t even...”

He seems to understand without further explanation, a dark smile curving his lips as he watches your struggle for words. “This what you wanted to see?” he asks, his free hand coming up to frame your face with surprising tenderness. “Your big brother completely losing his mind over you?”

You nod frantically, beyond words now as his fingers find that spot deep inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. “Yes,” you manage between gasps. “Please, ge ge. More.”

His smile turns wicked as he leans forward, his breath hot against your ear. “Since you asked so nicely.”

Without warning, he adds a third finger, pushing it alongside the two already buried inside you. The stretch is immediate and intense, drawing a startled cry from your throat as your inner walls struggle to accommodate the increased fullness.

“Fuck, ride them,” Caleb encourages, his free hand coming to rest on your hip, guiding your movements. “Show me how much you love having your brother’s hand inside you.”

You follow his direction without hesitation, your hips beginning to rock against his hand, taking his fingers deeper with each downward movement. The change in angle allows him to reach spots his previous technique missed, sending fresh waves of pleasure crashing through your system.

“That’s it,” Caleb praises, satisfaction evident in his voice as he watches your face. “Use my hand however you need. Take what you want from me.”

“Caleb,” you warn, your voice breaking as tension builds at the base of your spine. “I’m gonna cum.”

“Let me feel it,” he demands, his voice rough with need. “Cum on my fingers, Pips. Show me how good your big brother makes you feel.”

Your inner walls clamp down on his invading fingers, your back arching sharply as your climax tears a cry from your throat.

“Fuck,” Caleb breathes, his eyes widening with wonder as he watches you come apart. “So fucking beautiful like this. Taking my fingers so well.”

He doesn’t ease up—if anything, his movements become more deliberate, more focused on that spot deep inside you that extends your pleasure with each careful press. More wetness gushes from your core, coating his hand and making obscene, wet sounds that fill the room.

“Can feel you cumming,” Caleb groans, his voice strained with his own need. “So fucking tight around my fingers. So wet for me.”

Caleb grabs your wrist, stopping your strokes. His eyes, dark with hunger, lock with yours as he brings your cum-slicked hand to his cock, using your combined fluids to coat his length.

“Fuck,” he groans, his head falling back as your slick palm makes contact with his sensitive flesh. “So fucking wet. Your perfect little pussy making my cock all nice and slick.”

“Want to feel your hand milking every drop from my cock while I watch that pretty face.” Caleb admits, his voice rough with need.

“Going to cum,” Caleb warns, his voice breaking on the words. “Fuck, Y/N, I’m gonna—“

His warning cuts off in a groan as his cock pulses in your grip, the first jet of cum shooting up to land on his stomach. You don’t stop, your hand continuing to stroke him through his orgasm, milking every drop from his sensitive flesh.

“That’s it,” you encourage, watching in fascination as more cum spills over your fingers. “Give me everything, ge ge.”

Caleb’s head falls back, a guttural sound tearing from his throat as his hips continue to jerk upward, chasing the pleasure your hand provides. More cum spills from the tip of his cock, some landing on his stomach, some coating your hand, making your strokes even slicker.

“Fuck, Pips,” he gasps when the worst of the tremors have passed, though he makes no move to stop your hand. Instead, he tightens his grip, guiding your movements to a slower, more deliberate pace. “Too sensitive. Too good.”

You ease your grip slightly, though you don’t release his cock entirely. Instead, you continue to hold him, feeling the gradual softening of his flesh, the occasional aftershock that makes him twitch in your hand.

“That’s it,” Caleb murmurs, his voice taking on that rough, satisfied edge that only emerges after intense pleasure. “Keep going. Milk every last drop.”

To your shock, he’s not done—despite the copious amount of cum already coating your hand and his stomach, more continues to spill from the tip of his cock with each downward stroke. It’s like he’s been saving up for this moment, his body producing more than seems physically possible.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, eyes wide as you watch another thick rope of cum join the mess on his abdomen. “How are you still—“

Caleb’s laugh is warm, tinged with the slight breathlessness of post-orgasmic bliss. “Told you,” he says, his free hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear with surprising tenderness. “Only for you, Pips. My body knows exactly who it belongs to.”

As if reading your thoughts, Caleb’s smile turns wicked. “Now,” he says, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes your stomach flip, “about this mess.”

Before you can ask what he means, he’s capturing your cum-covered hand, bringing it to his lips. But instead of cleaning it himself, he guides it to your mouth, his eyes never leaving yours as he pushes your fingers between your lips.

“Clean up,” he instructs, his thumb brushing your lower lip. “Show me how much you love the taste of us together.”

The command should shock you, should make you pull away in disgust. Instead, you find yourself obeying without hesitation, your tongue making a broad swipe across your palm to collect a drop of the mixed fluids there.

The taste is complex—bitter and sweet, musky and tangy, neither purely his nor purely yours but something new created from the combination. It should be disgusting. It’s not. It’s intoxicating, addictive—like the man currently watching you with hungry eyes.

“Fuck,” Caleb breathes, his eyes darkening as he watches your tongue work between your fingers. “Look at you, taking it so well. Such a good girl for me.”

His praise fuels your determination, your tongue making another pass, this one focused on cleaning between your fingers where the evidence of your shared pleasure has collected. You work methodically, making sure no drop is wasted, no spot untouched.

When your hand is mostly clean, Caleb captures your wrist again, guiding your still-damp fingers to his chest where a large glob of cum has landed. “Here too,” he instructs, his voice rough with renewed desire. “Can’t let any go to waste, can we?”

You follow his direction without hesitation, leaning down to lap at the mess on his chest. Your tongue makes a broad swipe through the puddle, gathering the thick, white fluid and swallowing it with deliberate slowness.

“That’s it,” Caleb encourages, his hand coming to rest on the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair with surprising gentleness. “Such a perfect little cleaner. Always so eager to please your big brother.”

You continue your careful cleaning, moving from his chest to his stomach, making sure no drop of his release goes untouched. Each new area presents a new challenge—the flat plane of his abdomen, the sensitive skin just above the waistband of his sweatpants, the trail of dark hair leading downward from his navel.

Throughout it all, Caleb watches with hungry eyes, his breathing growing more ragged as your tongue works its magic on his skin.

By the time you’ve cleaned the last visible drop, his cock is beginning to harden again, the tip emerging from the foreskin as blood rushes back to fill it.

“Fuck,” he groans, his hand tightening in your hair as your mouth hovers just inches from his now-half-hard length. “You’re going to be the death of me, Pips.”

You smile against his skin, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot just below his navel. “Only if you’re lucky, ge ge.”

His laugh is warm, tinged with the slight breathlessness of post-orgasmic bliss. “Always so fucking mouthy,” he says, but there’s no heat in the words—just fond exasperation and a hunger that never seems to fully abate. “Even with my cum on your tongue.”

You sit back on your heels, suddenly aware of just how obscene the situation is—you on your knees between your brother’s legs, his cum on your tongue, his cock still exposed from his pushed-down sweatpants.

“Was it good?” you ask again, unable to keep the smug satisfaction from your voice.

“What now?” you ask, suddenly uncertain despite the intensity of what just transpired between you. Are you done? Is this all he wanted from you? The thought sends a pang of disappointment through your chest.

As if reading your mind, Caleb’s expression softens, his hand sliding from your cheek to cup the back of your neck. “Now,” he says, his voice taking on that gentle tone reserved just for you, “we rest.”

Refer to Party RSVP

Comment to be tagged!

@littlewhitefairy7777 @celaenaglynn @mothmans-left-nipple @lotusapple-xia @gflscer @swiggitty-swoogity @aoomiines @puchu-puchuu @fulldoves @goobermi6 @typicalme23 @teira-osairis @vy-olet @calebsbabyapple @xyzyogurt @earthtohoney @skyekudasai @kalydos @navvzy @tempeststhings @young-adult-summer @remnantsofgildedcages @applebite01 @vatarvaliantchaosvalkyrie @applarchve @hangingwiththestars @thisaintviolet69 @asilaydead @snowapples-stuff @calebsmeimeii @cherrysherryblossom @mindelicious1 @nansfyy @ccoeurhee @tomriddleslovergirl @beelpita @cchiiwinkle @feelingfaye @makiishiima @lil-cinn @elegantpoliceflower @brookethebitch-official @sattvasprings

[nottellingofname]

For My Caleb ⋆⭒˚｡⋆✈︎

Colonel Stinkpants!!!

Caleb sits at the kitchen table, focused on paperwork from his squadron, purple eyes scanning each document with military precision.

He’s been like this for hours—calm, collected, frustratingly responsible.

It’s been days since he reduced you to a quivering mess with his fingers buried inside you, and the memory makes you shift in your seat.

You need his attention, and if being good won’t get it, perhaps being bad will.

You stretch, deliberately making your t-shirt ride up above your navel, but Caleb doesn’t even glance your way. His pen scratches against paper in a steady rhythm that only intensifies your growing agitation.

Boredom is a physical ache, and Caleb is the only cure.

“Ge ge,” you call, infusing your voice with sweetness that doesn’t match the mischief bubbling beneath your skin. “I have a question.”

“Hmm?” He doesn’t look up, just makes another note in the margin of whatever document holds his attention captive.

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?”

That gets his attention.

His pen stills, and he looks up at you with one eyebrow raised, purple eyes meeting yours with amused confusion. “A worm?”

“Yeah.” You nod seriously. “Like, a regular earthworm. All slimy and wiggly. Would you still love me then?”

The corners of his mouth twitch. “I suppose I would. Though I’d have to find a very small jar to keep you in.”

“You‘d keep me in a jar?” You feign outrage. “That’s cruel imprisonment!”

“Would you prefer I let you loose in the garden, where birds could eat you?”

He’s back to his paperwork already, amusement dying on his lips as his attention returns to whatever boring military matters consume his day.

This won’t do at all.

You slouch deeper into your chair, studying his profile. His jawline is sharp enough to cut glass, especially when he’s concentrating like this.

You think about how that jaw felt between your thighs, how those perfect lips stretched around your clit, and heat blooms low in your belly.

“Don’t you wish you were taller?” you ask suddenly, knowing full well that at 6’2”, Caleb towers over most people.

He doesn’t even look up this time. “Not particularly.”

“I bet if you were taller, you’d have made Colonel faster.” You keep your tone innocent, fishing for any reaction. “Maybe they’d respect you more.”

Caleb’s lips curve into a patient smile, still not rising to your rage bait. “I think my height is adequate for commanding respect, Pips.”

You huff, frustrated by his nonchalance.

Most brothers would have snapped by now, told you to shut up or go away.

But never Caleb.

His patience with you seems inexhaustible, which only makes you more determined to find his limits.

“I bet I could beat you up,” you declare, rising from your chair to strike a martial arts pose you vaguely remember from a movie.

This earns you a genuine laugh, the sound rich and warm. Caleb finally puts his pen down, giving you his full attention as he leans back in his chair. “Is that so?”

“Absolutely. I’m scrappy. You‘re getting soft behind that desk.” You dance around him, throwing fake punches that disturb the air inches from his shoulders. “All that paperwork. Not enough action. I could totally take you.”

Caleb catches one of your wrists mid-swing, his grip gentle but impossible to break. His thumb presses against your pulse point, feeling it race beneath your skin. “You think so, mei mei?”

There’s a challenge in his voice that makes your stomach flip, but he releases you just as quickly, returning to his paperwork with maddening composure. The brief contact only sharpens your need to provoke him further.

“You didn’t even deny it!” you crow, spinning away. “You know I’m right.”

“I’m simply choosing not to engage with your delusions,” he replies mildly, flipping to the next page in his stack. “Some might call that maturity.”

You stick out your tongue at his bent head, even though he can’t see it. “Maturity is boring.”

“So I’ve been told. Repeatedly. By you.”

His calm dismissal stings more than it should.

You pace the kitchen, trying to think of another angle of attack.

What would actually get under Caleb’s skin? What would crack that infuriating composure?

You glance at him, taking in the steady hands that have explored every inch of your body, the strong neck you’ve marked with your teeth, the mouth that’s tasted every part of you.

And suddenly, you know.

If there’s one thing Caleb can’t stand, it’s having his devotion to you questioned.

The way his face changes when someone even hints you might not be his priority, the possessive gleam that enters his eyes when another man looks your way for too long.

That’s your ammunition.

You pause your pacing, studying him with new purpose. Questioning his love for you—not as a joke, but as a genuine doubt—that’s what will finally break through his calm facade.

The thought sends a thrill down your spine, pooling heat between your legs. You want to see that look again—the one that says he’s going to devour you whole and make you thank him for it.

But you can’t just blurt it out. This requires a more tactical approach, something that will catch him completely off guard.

You need to position yourself where he can’t easily escape, where he has to confront your challenge head-on.

Your eyes drift to the laundry basket by the couch, filled with clean clothes waiting to be folded.

Perfect.

Caleb always folds the laundry when he finishes his paperwork—a habit from his military training. He claims it helps him decompress.

You’ll wait until he moves to that task, then strike. Your bratty behavior has earned you his attention before, but this time, you’re playing for higher stakes.

A slow smile spreads across your face as you watch Caleb sign the last document with a flourish. He stands, stretching his arms above his head, his black t-shirt riding up to reveal a strip of toned abdomen that makes your mouth water.

“Finished?” you ask innocently.

“For now.” He cracks his neck, then glances at the laundry basket. “Thought I’d fold these before dinner.”

You watch him walk to the couch, exactly as predicted, and settle beside the basket. It’s time to put your plan into action.

Without hesitation, you launch yourself across the room and drop directly onto Caleb’s lap, sending a t-shirt he was folding tumbling to the floor.

Your weight lands squarely on his thighs, your back pressed against his chest in a move calculated to disrupt his perfect composure.

His hands immediately fly to your waist, strong fingers gripping your sides to steady you both and prevent you from toppling the entire laundry operation.

“What the—“ he starts, but adapts instantly, his military training showing in how quickly he regains his balance. “Y/N, I’m trying to fold laundry here.”

You wiggle your hips, settling more firmly against him. “Boring.”

Instead of pushing you off as most would, Caleb sighs and stands in one fluid motion, lifting you with him as if you weigh nothing at all.

His hands remain locked around your waist as he carries you the few steps to the couch, then sits back down with you still attached to him like a barnacle.

“There,” he says, his breath tickling the back of your neck. “Now at least the clothes won’t end up on the floor.”

You turn sideways in his lap so you can see his face, your legs draped over his thighs. His expression is one of fond exasperation, purple eyes warm with the affection he never bothers to hide when it comes to you.

“You’re so accommodating,” you say, poking his chest with one finger. “It’s annoying.”

His laugh rumbles through his chest, vibrating against your side. “Would you prefer I toss you on the floor?”

“Maybe,” you challenge, jutting your chin out. “At least that would be exciting.”

Caleb rolls his eyes, one hand settling on your thigh while the other reaches for another shirt from the basket. “Your definition of excitement concerns me sometimes, Pips.”

He attempts to return to folding, managing to fold one sleeve of the shirt while keeping you balanced on his lap. You need more. You need his full attention.

You pout dramatically, pushing out your lower lip and widening your eyes in the expression that used to get you extra dessert when you were children. “You’re ignoring me.”

“I’m multitasking,” Caleb corrects, though his lips twitch with amusement. “Some of us have responsibilities.”

“Folding t-shirts is hardly saving the world,” you scoff, plucking the garment from his hands and tossing it back into the basket. “And you’re avoiding the question.”

His eyebrow arches. “What question? You haven’t asked one.”

Perfect opening. Your heart rate kicks up a notch as you prepare to deploy your tactical strike. You shift in his lap, turning to face him more directly, your eyes locked on his.

“Caleb,” you begin, your voice deliberately soft, vulnerable. “Do you love me?”

The question hangs between you, transforming the air. Caleb’s expression shifts from amusement to something more serious, his purple eyes darkening slightly as they search your face.

“Of course I love you, mei mei,” he answers without hesitation, his hand squeezing your thigh gently. “You know that.”

The tenderness in his voice almost makes you reconsider your plan.

Almost.

But the heat simmering beneath your skin demands more, and you’ve come too far to back down now.

“Then why haven’t I tasted you?” you ask, the words tumbling out in a rush.

You watch his expression carefully, delighting in the way his eyes widen fractionally, the only sign that you’ve caught him off guard.

“If you love me so much, why haven’t you let me taste you the way you’ve tasted me?”

Caleb’s breath catches, his body tensing beneath yours. His hand on your thigh tightens imperceptibly, fingers pressing into your flesh.

“What are you talking about?” he asks, but his voice has dropped half an octave, taking on that rough edge that only emerges when his control begins to slip.

You press your advantage, leaning closer until your chest brushes against his. “You’ve had your tongue all over me, inside me. You’ve tasted every drop I have to give.” Your own boldness surprises you, but you don’t stop.

“But I don’t know what you taste like. Do you taste bad? Is that it?”

A flash of something dangerous crosses his features, there and gone so quickly you might have imagined it. But his breathing has changed, grown deeper, more measured, like he’s deliberately controlling each inhale and exhale.

“You’re crossing a line, Y/N,” he warns, but makes no move to push you away.

“Or maybe,” you continue, ignoring the warning, “it’s because you’re stinky? Poor hygiene? Is that why you won’t let your mei mei taste you?” You wrinkle your nose in mock disgust. “I bet that‘s it. Colonel Stinkypants.”

The ridiculous accusation hangs in the air for a beat before Caleb’s expression transforms. A slow, predatory smile spreads across his face, turning your insides to liquid heat. This is the look of a man who’s decided to stop playing nice.

“I mean, seriously, when was the last time you showered? Yesterday? The day before?”

You continue your teasing assault on Caleb’s cleanliness, the words spilling from your lips in a nervous stream as you register the dangerous shift in his demeanor.

His eyes have darkened to near-black, the purple barely visible around dilated pupils.

“Because I’ve heard that guys can get pretty funky down there if they don’t wash properly, and—“

Your words die in your throat as Caleb moves with military precision—one hand shooting up to grasp the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair and forming a tight fist.

His other hand finds your throat, not squeezing but holding—his thumb and fingers positioned on either side of your windpipe, applying just enough pressure to make his control unmistakable.

“You want to keep running that pretty little mouth?” he asks, voice dangerously soft. The sudden shift in power steals your breath more effectively than his hand on your throat.

Your spine curves like a drawn bow, ribs lifting toward the ceiling as if pulled by invisible strings, a puppet responding to its master's touch without conscious thought.

You try to respond but can only manage a small gasp as Caleb’s grip in your hair tightens, pulling your head back to expose more of your throat to his hold.

“I’ve been patient with you all day,” Caleb continues, his breath hot against your ear. “Answered your stupid questions. Let you sit on my lap and interrupt my work.”

His thumb traces a gentle line along your jawline, contradicting the firmness of his grip. “But questioning my love for you? Suggesting I’m not clean enough for your precious mouth?”

He pulls your head back further, your neck stretched taut under his hand.

“That‘s crossing a line, mei mei.”

You reach up instinctively, your hands finding his forearms, feeling the corded muscles tense beneath your touch. You don’t try to pull him away. Instead, your fingers curl around his wrists, holding on like he’s anchoring you in a storm.

“If you want to act like a brat,” Caleb says, his lips brushing against your ear with each word, “if you want to push me until I snap, then you better be prepared to take whatever I give you. You understand that, Y/N?”

The question demands an answer, but his grip makes it difficult to speak. You manage a small nod, feeling the slight increase in pressure against your throat as you move.

“No,” Caleb tightens his hold on your hair, sending pinpricks of pain across your scalp that somehow translate into pleasure between your legs. “I want to hear you say it. Tell me you understand what happens when you push me too far.”

He releases just enough pressure on your throat to allow you to speak, his eyes watching your face with predatory focus.

“I understand,” you whisper, your voice hoarse and unfamiliar to your own ears.

“And what happens when you push me too far?” He’s teaching you, making you articulate the consequences of your actions.

You swallow hard against his palm. “You—you snap.”

“And when I snap?”

“You take control,” you manage, heat rushing to your cheeks at having to say it aloud. “You make me take whatever you give me.”

“That’s right. And is that what you want, Y/N? For me to take control? To make you take what I decide to give you?”

The question hangs between you, weighted with meaning. This is your chance to back out, to laugh it off and return to safer ground.

But the heat pooling between your legs, the way your nipples have hardened beneath your shirt, the quickening of your breath under his hold—all betray your body’s answer before your lips can form the words.

“Yes,” you gasp, your hips shifting restlessly in his lap. “Please, ge ge.”

His hand moves from your throat to cup your jaw, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your cheeks.

“Such a fucking brat,” he murmurs, but there’s a note of affection beneath the roughness. “Always pushing, always testing limits.”

His thumb traces your lower lip, pressing against it until your mouth parts slightly. “Well, congratulations, mei mei. You’ve found my limit.”

His grip on your hair loosens slightly, not releasing but adjusting for better control. You feel his other hand leave your jaw and slide down to your waist, his fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave marks.

“So you want to know what I taste like?” Caleb asks, his voice pitched low, resonating through your body like a physical touch. “You want to put that smart mouth to better use than asking stupid questions?”

You nod eagerly, your hands still gripping his forearms, feeling the power contained in those muscles.

“Yes,” you breathe, unable to tear your gaze from his face. “I want to taste you. All of you.”

Caleb studies you for a long moment, his eyes tracing every feature of your face as if committing it to memory. Then he nods once, decision made.

“Good,” he says, and there’s that dangerous smile again, the one that promises both pleasure and punishment in equal measure. “Because I’m going to feed you every fucking inch of me until that pretty throat bulges with it. I’m going to make you taste me until you can‘t remember any other flavor.”

“And if you still think I’m ‘stinky’ after that,” he continues, his voice hardening, “I‘ll wash your filthy little mouth out with soap. Understand?”

“Yes, ge ge,” you respond immediately, your body humming with anticipation. “I understand.”

“Then let’s see if you can be a good girl for me after all that bratty behavior.”

Caleb’s hands move with decisive strength, lifting you off his lap only to force you down onto your knees in front of him.

Your legs hit the hardwood floor with a thud that sends shock waves up your spine, the sudden position change making your head spin.

You barely have time to adjust before he‘s spreading his legs wide, his grey sweatpants pulling taut across his thighs as he creates a space for you to kneel between them.

“There,” he says, satisfaction coloring his tone as he looks down at you from his seat on the couch. “That’s where bratty little sisters belong when they question their ge ge’s love. On their fucking knees.”

His hand finds the back of your head again, fingers threading through your hair with deceptive gentleness before closing into a tight fist.

“Caleb—“ you start, but he cuts you off by using his grip to guide your face toward his crotch. Through the thin material of his sweatpants, you can see the outline of his cock beginning to harden, the impressive length making your mouth go dry.

Your hands instinctively fly to his thighs, trying to brace yourself as he pulls you closer. His muscles feel like steel beneath your palms, tense and unyielding.

For a moment, you resist the pressure of his hand in your hair, not out of reluctance but from the sheer overwhelming reality of what’s happening.

“Be a good girl,” Caleb commands, his voice dropping to that low register that bypasses your brain and speaks directly to the ache between your legs.

He tugs your hair sharply, the brief sting bringing tears to your eyes. “After all that talk, all those questions, this is what you wanted, isn‘t it? To taste me?”

You nod as best you can with his firm grip controlling your head. “Yes, ge ge.”

“Then stop fighting me,” he growls. “Put that fucking mouth to better use than asking if I‘m stinky.”

You feel a familiar weightless sensation enveloping your arms. Caleb’s gravity evol activates with a subtle purple glow in his eyes, and your arms are suddenly pulled behind your back, wrists crossing at the small of your spine as if bound by invisible restraints.

“What—“ you gasp, testing the hold and finding it unbreakable. Without your hands to brace yourself, you’re completely at his mercy, your balance dependent entirely on his grip in your hair.

“Can’t have these getting in the way,” Caleb explains, his free hand gesturing toward your restrained arms. “I want your mouth focused on one task only. No helping with your hands like a little cheater.”

“Now,” he continues, gathering your hair into a makeshift ponytail, “since you’re so concerned about my hygiene, why don’t you help me out of these pants?” His smile is all predator as he watches your face. “With your teeth.”

You blink up at him, momentarily stunned by the degrading request. Leaning forward with Caleb’s grip guiding you, you bring your face to the waistband of his sweatpants.

Your nose brushes against the warm skin of his lower abdomen, and you inhale deeply, finding not the imaginary stink you teased him about but the clean scent of soap and that unique musk that's sole scented. He must've been using your soap again.

You open your mouth, catching the elastic band between your teeth. It tastes of laundry detergent and salt, not unpleasant but strange against your tongue. With Caleb’s hand still firmly in your hair, you begin to tug downward, teeth clenched on the fabric.

“That‘s it,” Caleb encourages, lifting his hips slightly to aid your efforts. “Such a good little bitch now that you’re getting what you want.”

The praise makes your core clench, your thighs pressing together as you continue your awkward task.

The waistband rolls down inch by inch, revealing the defined V of his hips, the trail of dark hair leading downward from his navel. When you reach the base of his cock, the fabric catches, requiring a harder tug.

“Come on, mei mei,” Caleb taunts, his voice rough with growing arousal. “Show me how badly you want to see if I’m clean down there.”

Determination fuels your efforts, teeth clamping harder on the fabric as you pull downward with renewed vigor.

The waistband finally clears his cock, which springs free with enough force to make you flinch back slightly.

Caleb’s grip in your hair prevents you from retreating far, holding you just inches away from his now exposed flesh.

“Keep going,” he orders, and you obey, continuing to drag the sweatpants down with your teeth until they’re bunched around his thighs. Only then does he release your hair, allowing you to sit back slightly and take in the sight before you.

Caleb’s cock stands at half-mast, thicker and longer than you’d imagined even in your most private fantasies.

The head is flushed dark pink, emerging partially from the foreskin, a bead of moisture already gathering at the slit. Veins run along the shaft, giving it a texture that makes your mouth water at the thought of feeling it on your tongue.

“See? Not stinky at all,” Caleb says, his tone mock-offended as he watches your wide-eyed assessment. “Clean enough to eat off of.”

His hand returns to your hair, this time grabbing a fistful at the crown of your head. “And that’s exactly what you’re going to do.”

With firm pressure, he guides your face forward until your cheek makes contact with his cock. The heat of it against your skin is startling—like touching velvet-covered steel, hard yet somehow soft on the surface.

Caleb sighs at the contact, his grip tightening as he begins to rub his shaft against your face in slow, deliberate strokes.

“This is what questioning my love gets you,” he murmurs, using your face as if it’s his personal toy. “My cock marking every inch of this pretty face. Is this proof enough for you, Y/N? That I love you enough to let you taste me?”

Your eyes flutter closed as he drags his cock across your cheekbone, then down to trace the seam of your lips. The musky, clean scent of him fills your nostrils, and you can taste the salt of his skin when the head brushes against your mouth.

“Open those eyes,” Caleb commands. “I want you to see what you begged for.”

You comply immediately, looking up to find his purple gaze burning into yours, pupils so dilated they nearly swallow the color entirely. The intensity of his stare pins you in place as effectively as his evol holding your arms.

“Now get it hard for me,” he instructs, still rubbing himself against your face. “Show me what that bratty mouth can do besides ask stupid fucking questions.”

With your arms still pinned behind you by Caleb’s evol, you lean forward and extend your tongue, making that first tentative lick along the underside of his shaft.

The taste is clean, slightly salty—nothing like the imaginary funkiness you teased him about. You trace the prominent vein from base to tip, feeling it pulse against your tongue as his cock hardens further under your attention.

Each stroke of your tongue reveals more of his flavor, drawing a small grunt from deep in his chest that fuels your determination to draw out more sounds.

“See how fucking clean I am?” Caleb taunts, watching your exploration of his cock with hooded eyes. “All that shit-talking about me being stinky, and now you can’t get enough.”

You respond by lapping at him more eagerly, dragging your tongue up and down his length in long, wet strokes.

With each pass of your tongue, his cock grows harder, fuller, the head swelling to an angry purple-red that matches his eyes when he uses his evol.

When you reach the tip, you circle it with your tongue, tracing the ridge where the head meets the shaft before focusing on the sensitive underside. A drop of pre-cum beads at the slit, and you gather it with the flat of your tongue, savoring the slightly bitter tang.

“Fuck,” Caleb hisses, his grip in your hair tightening. “Look at you, finally putting that mouth to good use.”

Emboldened by his reaction, you wrap your lips around the head of his cock, sucking lightly as you glance up to gauge his response. The angle forces you to look up through your lashes.

Caleb’s expression is a mix of arrogance and strain—lips curled in a smirk even as his nostrils flare with each inhale, eyes narrowed but unable to hide the flash of vulnerability your mouth draws from him.

You hollow your cheeks, increasing the suction around his sensitive head, and are rewarded with a sharp exhale that sounds almost like surprise.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, the harshness in his voice softening momentarily. “Take it in that pretty mouth.”

You maintain eye contact as you work your lips further down his shaft, taking him deeper into the wet heat of your mouth.

The size of him stretches your lips wide, the weight of his cock heavy on your tongue. You can only manage about halfway before feeling the urge to gag.

But what you lack in deep-throating skills you make up for in pure horniness, going at his dick like it's your last meal, tongue working overtime while your head bobs up and down like a dashboard ornament on a dirt road.

Caleb rolls his eyes, though the gesture is belied by the pleasure evident in his tense jaw and the pulse you can feel against your tongue.

“Amateur hour,” he taunts, but his breathing has grown ragged, his chest rising and falling more rapidly than before. “Is that the best you can do?”

The challenge in his voice spurs you to take him deeper, relaxing your throat as you’ve seen in videos. Your effort earns you another inch before your body rebels, eyes watering as you pull back slightly.

Apparently tired of your pace, Caleb’s hips suddenly thrust forward, pushing his cock deeper into your mouth than you were prepared for.

The unexpected movement makes you gag slightly, your throat constricting around his intrusion.

“That’s better,” he groans, holding your head in place as he rolls his hips, feeding you more of his length with each shallow thrust. “Taking what I give you, just like you promised.”

Tears spring to your eyes from the effort of accommodating him, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you focus on breathing through your nose, on relaxing your jaw and throat to make room for his increasingly forceful movements.

Just as you’re getting into a rhythm, Caleb abruptly pulls you off his cock, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his glistening head. You gasp for breath, lips swollen and wet, cheeks flushed with exertion and arousal.

“Not bad,” he concedes, his voice rough with desire despite the casual assessment. “But I think we need to make sure you understand exactly who’s in charge here.”

Without warning, he grabs the base of his cock with his free hand, the other still firmly tangled in your hair.

“This cock is a fucking privilege,” Caleb states, his tone shifting to something harder, more colonel than brother. “Not something you get just because you decided to be a brat today.”

Before you can respond, he slaps his cock against your cheek, the wet smack echoing in the quiet room.

The impact isn’t painful—just enough to startle you, to remind you of your position kneeling before him. He does it again, harder this time, leaving a wet streak of pre-cum and your own saliva across your skin.

“This what you wanted?” he asks, continuing to slap his cock against your other cheek, your chin, your forehead. “To be marked up with my cock? To have my cum all over your pretty face?”

Each smack makes your whole body shiver with that dirty, fucked-up pleasure that gets you so wet, the humiliation turning you on even more till you're writhing around on your knees like a bitch in heat, desperate to grind against anything that'll give your aching pussy some relief.

“Open wide,” Caleb commands, his voice leaving no room for hesitation. “Stick out your tongue like a good little slut.”

You comply immediately, opening your mouth and extending your tongue, presenting it as a target for his next blow. Caleb rewards your obedience by slapping his cock directly onto your waiting tongue, the weight and heat of it making you moan around the intrusion.

“That’s it,” he praises, dragging the head of his cock across your outstretched tongue in slow circles. “Taste every fucking inch of how clean I am.”

He keeps it up, switching between smacking that hard dick on your eager tongue and sliding it all over your lips, leaving them sticky and shiny with his juice.

Your jaw aches from being held open, drool beginning to spill down your chin, but damn, the sheer dirtiness of it all has you squeezing your legs together like that's gonna help the throbbing ache between them that's practically begging to be touched.

“Please,” you manage to whisper when he pulls back for a moment, your voice barely recognizable to your own ears.

“Please what?” Caleb asks, eyebrow raised as he continues to stroke himself inches from your face, occasionally tapping the head against your lips.

“Please feed it to me,” you beg, surprised by your own desperation. “I want to taste more of you.”

A slow, predatory smile spreads across his face. “Since you asked so nicely.”

With deliberate patience, Caleb begins to push his cock back into your mouth, inch by excruciating inch. This time, he doesn’t thrust—he simply feeds you his length gradually, allowing you to adjust to the invasion at his pace, not yours.

“Take it all,” he encourages as you struggle with the last few inches. “Breathe through your nose. Relax your throat.”

Following his instructions, you manage to take him deeper than before, your nose nearly touching his lower abdomen as the head of his cock nudges the back of your throat.

Tears stream down your cheeks from the effort, but the pride in Caleb’s eyes makes everything worth it.

“Perfect,” he breathes, holding you there for a moment before allowing you to pull back for air.

As you enthusiastically begin sucking him again, you become increasingly aware of your own neglected arousal.

Without conscious thought, you begin to rock your hips, seeking some relief for the ache between your legs. Finding Caleb’s foot positioned between your knees, you press your core against it, grinding down in small, desperate movements that match the rhythm of your mouth on his cock.

Caleb notices immediately, his lips curving into a smirk. “Look at you, humping my foot like a desperate little dog while you suck my cock.”

He doesn’t move his foot away—if anything, he presses it more firmly against you, giving you something solid to ride. “Go ahead, get yourself off. Show me how much you love serving me.”

You increase the pressure and speed of your grinding, shamelessly using his foot for your pleasure while continuing to work his cock with your mouth.

Your pussy’s soaking wet while his fat cock stretches your mouth open and his foot grinds against your clit, making you dizzy with how fucking good it feels.

“Such a filthy little slut,” Caleb growls, watching you grind against his foot while sucking him. “Look at you, so desperate you’d fuck anything. Even your brother’s feet.”

His words only make you wetter, hungrier for more. “Is this what you wanted all along? Why you were being such a pain in my ass today? Just needed to be put on your knees and shown your place?”

You moan around his cock, the vibration traveling up his shaft and drawing a hiss from between his clenched teeth.

Now you’re exactly where you wanted to be. On your knees, being used for his pleasure while he watches you fuck yourself on his foot.

“That’s it,” he continues, voice rough with arousal. “Take it deeper. Show me how sorry you are for questioning whether I love you enough.”

You relax your throat further, taking him deeper than before, your nose brushing against the coarse hair at the base of his cock.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his hips jerking slightly. “Always knew this fucking mouth was good for something besides talking back.”

Your saliva flows freely now, coating his shaft with each bob of your head, creating obscene wet sounds that fill the room. Strings of drool connect your swollen lips to his glistening cock when you pull back for air, only to dive down again with renewed enthusiasm.

The messier it gets, the more Caleb seems to enjoy it—his breathing growing ragged, his grip in your hair tightening to the point of pain.

“Such a sloppy cocksucker,” he taunts, though the strain in his voice betrays how much your efforts are affecting him. “Getting your fucking drool all over me. This what you needed, huh? To be treated like the little cumslut you are?”

You try to nod around his thickness, earning another grunt of approval as the movement causes your throat to constrict around him.

Growing impatient with your pace, Caleb suddenly releases your hair only to grab your head with both hands, fingers splayed across your scalp for maximum control.

With this new grip, he begins to thrust more forcefully into your mouth, using you as if you’re nothing more than a warm hole for his pleasure.

“Gonna fuck this pretty throat,” he warns, his hips picking up speed. “Show you exactly what happens when you question me, my love.”

You struggle to keep up with his brutal pace, your jaw aching as he pushes deeper with each thrust. Just when you think you might need to tap out, to signal that it‘s too much, Caleb’s foot beneath you flexes, his lace of his feet pressing firmly against your clit through your clothes.

The sudden pressure sends a jolt of pleasure through your core, momentarily distracting you from the assault on your throat.

“That’s right,” Caleb murmurs, noticing your reaction. “Hump my foot like the desperate little bitch you are. Get yourself off while I use your throat.”

“Open wider,” Caleb commands, his voice strained now, control slipping as his pleasure builds. “Let me see those fucking eyes.”

You comply immediately, stretching your jaw to its limit and looking up at him through tear-spiked lashes.

“That’s it,” he praises, his thumbs stroking your temples in a brief moment of tenderness. “Taking my cock so fucking well now. Such a good little sister.”

You moan around him, trying to communicate without words how much you need this, need him.

Suddenly, you feel the restraint of his evol release, your arms falling free at your sides. The return of sensation is almost painful, pins and needles racing up and down your limbs as blood flow returns to normal.

Before you can fully process the change, Caleb’s hands tighten in your hair, holding you firmly in place.

“Gonna cum,” he warns, his voice dropping to a growl that seems torn from somewhere deep inside him. “Gonna fill this fucking throat. And you’re going to swallow every drop, aren’t you?”

You can only make a muffled sound of agreement, your hands now free to clutch at his thighs, feeling the muscles tense beneath your fingers as he approaches his climax.

“Look at me,” Caleb demands, waiting until your eyes lock with his before delivering his final thrust. “Don’t you fucking look away.”

His cock drives deep into your throat one last time, his hands holding your head firmly against his pelvis as his entire body goes rigid.

You feel him pulse against your tongue, hot spurts of cum shooting directly down your throat, giving you no choice but to swallow or choke. His eyes never leave yours, forcing you to witness his pleasure.

Your orgasm crashes through you without warning, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure radiate outward from your core. You moan around his still-pulsing cock, the vibration drawing a hiss from Caleb as he empties himself down your throat.

“Fuck,” he gasps, his hips jerking with aftershocks. “That’s it, take it all. Every fucking drop.”

You swallow reflexively, again and again, your throat working around him as your own orgasm continues to pulse through your system.

As the intensity begins to fade, your movements become languid, your mouth lazily suckling at the head of his cock, reluctant to release him completely.

Your hips continue to roll against his foot in slow, deliberate circles as you chase the last tremors of your climax.

His hands have loosened in your hair, fingers now gently massaging your scalp where he had pulled so roughly moments before.

Slowly, carefully, he withdraws from your mouth, his softening cock slipping past your swollen lips with a wet sound. You open your mouth to show him the evidence of his release—a small pool of cum mixed with your saliva on your tongue.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing your lower lip. “Swallow it.”

You close your mouth and swallow obediently, maintaining eye contact as his seed slides down your already well-used throat.

A small smile of approval curves his lips, but it’s quickly replaced by something more wicked.

Before you can react, Caleb leans down, gathering saliva in his mouth. With deliberate slowness, he spits directly into your open mouth, the warm glob landing on your tongue alongside the lingering taste of his cum.

“That too,” he commands, his voice softer but no less authoritative. “Swallow everything I give you.”

You don’t hesitate, closing your mouth and swallowing his spit just as eagerly as you swallowed his cum.

When you’ve swallowed everything, you open your mouth again to show him your empty tongue, seeking his approval.

Caleb’s thumb traces your swollen bottom lip, his eyes taking in the mess he’s made of you. Your face is tear-streaked from the effort of taking him so deeply, saliva and traces of cum glistening on your chin and cheeks.

With careful movements, he begins to clean you, using his fingers to wipe away the evidence of your submission from your skin.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice gentler now that his lust has been sated. “Such a fucking mess. My mess.”

Instead of wiping it away, he pushes it back between your lips, watching intently as you automatically suck his thumb clean.

“That’s it,” Caleb encourages, repeating the process with another drop that had escaped down your chin. “Don’t want to waste any, do we?”

You shake your head, still floating in the hazy aftermath of your orgasm and the intensity of what just transpired between you.

Caleb continues his cleaning, gathering every stray bit of cum and saliva with his fingers and feeding it back to you.

When he’s satisfied that he’s reclaimed every drop, his hands cup your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones with surprising tenderness.

“So beautiful like this,” he whispers, leaning down from his seat on the couch to press his lips against your forehead. “All fucked out and sweet for me.”

His mouth travels across your face, placing featherlight kisses on your eyelids, your tear-stained cheeks, the tip of your nose.

“Never question my love for you again,” he murmurs against your skin, the words both command and plea. “You understand?”

“Yes, ge ge,” you respond, your voice hoarse from the abuse your throat has taken.

Caleb’s kisses continue their journey, trailing down to your jaw and then your neck. When he reaches the sensitive juncture where neck meets shoulder, he lingers, sucking gently at the skin until you know he’s left a mark.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, pulling back to examine your face with sudden concern. His hands run down your arms, checking for any damage from being restrained by his evol. “Was I too rough?”

You hadn’t considered whether anything that happened could be classified as “too rough.”

“No,” you assure him, your hands reaching up to rest on his thighs. “It was perfect. I wanted all of it.”

“You did so well,” he praises, his fingers threading through your hair much more gently than before. “Taking me so deep. Swallowing everything I gave you.”

His praise warms you from the inside out, making you glow with a sense of accomplishment that seems disproportionate to the act of sucking his cock.

But that’s how it’s always been between you—Caleb’s approval means more than anyone else’s, his praise capable of sustaining you through the darkest times.

“Did I taste bad?” Caleb asks, a hint of teasing returning to his voice as he references your earlier taunts. “Stinky, was it?”

You shake your head, a smile tugging at your lips despite the residual soreness. “No. You tasted...” You search for the right words, wanting to be honest rather than just flattering. “Sweet and tangy. Nothing like I expected.”

“And what were you expecting?” His eyebrow arches, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I just wanted to get a rise out of you.”

Caleb laughs, the sound rich and warm. “Well, you certainly managed that.” His hand drifts to your chin, tilting your face up to ensure you meet his gaze. “You were amazing, Y/N. Taking me like a fucking champ.”

The praise makes you blush, as if you haven't been sucking the life out of him just seconds before.

“My perfect little cocksucker,” he continues, thumb brushing across your still-swollen lips. There’s genuine wonder in his voice, as if he’s discovered something precious and unexpected. “Who knew you had such talents hidden away?”

You duck your head, suddenly shy. Caleb doesn’t allow the retreat for long, his fingers under your chin gently but firmly guiding your gaze back to his.

“Don‘t hide from me,” he says softly. “Not after that. Not after showing me how perfectly you can surrender.”

“I‘m not hiding,” you whisper, your hands sliding up his thighs to rest on his hips. “Just processing.”

Caleb nods, understanding without further explanation. His hand moves to the back of your neck, massaging the tight muscles there with expert pressure.

“How about we get you off this hard floor? Get you cleaned up properly?”

You nod gratefully, allowing Caleb to help you to your feet. Your legs wobble slightly, pins and needles shooting through your calves as circulation returns.

Caleb steadies you, his arm wrapping around your waist. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your temple, pressing another kiss there. “Always got you, mei mei.”

Refer to Party RSVP

Comment to be tagged!

@littlewhitefairy7777 @celaenaglynn @mothmans-left-nipple @lotusapple-xia @gflscer @swiggitty-swoogity @aoomiines @puchu-puchuu @fulldoves @goobermi6 @typicalme23 @teira-osairis @vy-olet @calebsbabyapple @xyzyogurt @earthtohoney @skyekudasai @kalydos @navvzy @tempeststhings @young-adult-summer @remnantsofgildedcages @applebite01 @vatarvaliantchaosvalkyrie @applarchve @hangingwiththestars @thisaintviolet69 @asilaydead @snowapples-stuff @calebsmeimeii @cherrysherryblossom @mindelicious1 @nansfyy @ccoeurhee @tomriddleslovergirl @beelpita @cchiiwinkle @feelingfaye @makiishiima @lil-cinn @elegantpoliceflower @brookethebitch-official

[nottellingofname]

i love being a brat and then getting exactly what i want

[nottellingofname]

Could you pretty please write a stepdad!toji where he has his friends over and he reveals that he’s been sleeping with his stepdaughter and is casually bragging that she’s a squirter but they teasingly don’t believe him so he invites you to come join/meet them and prove them wrong. Like a major emphasis on exhibitionism where they just sit there and watch you on Toji’s lap whilst he turns you into a fountain and !maybe¡ they take turns trying to make you gush like omgggg pls im ovulating. like girl i LOVE your writing style so much this would be top tier 👅💦❤️❤️❤️

Rain On Me ﾟ⋆☂︎⋆

˙⋆✮ Warnings: NSFW / Explicit Sexual Content, MDNI (Minors Do Not Interact), Squirting, Gangbang, Exhibition, Dick Piercings yums, passing out, a whole lotta freak. This request made my pussy so wet i squirted too. 11k filth.

The cold beers sweat in their hands as the men sprawl across Toji’s living room, a haze of cigarette smoke hanging in the air despite the open windows. Another Friday night with the boys, and it’s Toji’s turn to host.

This usually means a steady supply of the good whiskey and, if they’re lucky, maybe some decent food that didn’t come from a delivery app. The conversation flows easy, the insults flying between the men who’ve known each other too long to pretend.

Sukuna stretches his massive frame across the couch, his tattoos rippling as he throws an arm over the backrest. He’s already working on his third beer, the empties lined up on the coffee table like fallen soldiers.

Shiu perches on the edge of the loveseat, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, eyes half-lidded as he watches the others through the smoke.

Naoya’s pacing, all nervous as usual, cracking his knuckles as he waits for his turn in their rotating game of bullshit.

And Toji’s kicked back in his recliner, legs spread, one hand on his whiskey, the other absently scratching at the scar on his lip. There’s something smug in the set of his shoulders tonight, a secret tucked behind those razor-sharp green eyes.

“So I’m telling her to get on all fours,” Sukuna says, his voice dropping into that low register that always signals he’s about to say something filthy. “And this bitch, she’s looking at me like I’m crazy.”

“But you are crazy,” Shiu cuts in, flicking ash into a half-empty pizza box.

Sukuna ignores him. “She says to me, ‘I’m not that kind of girl.’” He mimics a high, prissy voice that makes Naoya snort. “So I say, ‘Baby, you’re exactly that kind of girl. You’re just afraid of how much you’re gonna like it.’”

“You’re so full of shit,” Shiu says, but there’s no heat in it.

“Nah, man, she was begging by the end.” Sukuna grins, all teeth. “Like, literally. ‘Please, please, please.’”

They all know he’s exaggerating, they always do, but that’s half the fun.

“Please,” Naoya scoffs. “I had this girl last week, she was so into it she squirted all over my fucking bed. Had to throw out the mattress.”

That gets everyone’s attention. Sukuna sits up straighter, eyes narrowing. Shiu takes a long drag of his cigarette.

“Bullshit,” Sukuna says. “You couldn’t make a girl squirt if your life depended on it.”

“I swear to god,” Naoya insists, cheeks flushing. “It was like a fucking firehose. She apologized and everything.”

Shiu shakes his head. “She was probably just pissing herself laughing at your sad little dick.”

The room erupts. Sukuna nearly chokes on his beer. Even Toji, who’s been suspiciously quiet, cracks a smile.

“Fuck you,” Naoya spits, but there’s no bite to it. They all know the drill by now. “Whatever. At least I’m not the one paying women to pretend they’re into me.”

Shiu raises an eyebrow. “That’s business, not pleasure. And I get off on watching their bank accounts grow. You wouldn’t understand.”

“You two are fucking sad,” Sukuna says, shaking his head. “I had this one girl last month, she was so into it she let me cum in her mouth and then kiss her. Like, deep. And she swallowed everything.”

They all groan. Classic Sukuna, always trying to one-up everyone with his tales of sexual conquest.

“That’s not even impressive,” Shiu says, but the slight tightening around his eyes says otherwise. “I had a woman once who came three times from just my fingers. Didn’t even need to get my dick out.”

It’s at this point that Sukuna notices Toji hasn’t said a word. Normally, Toji’s the first to jump in with some crude story or another, something to make them all wince or whistle or call him a sick fuck.

“Hey,” Sukuna says, tossing an empty can at Toji’s head. “You dead in there? We’re talking about pussy and you’ve got nothing to say?”

Toji catches the can midair without looking, crushing it in his fist. “Just waiting for you amateurs to finish.”

That gets everyone’s attention. Shiu raises an eyebrow. Naoya stops pacing.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sukuna asks.

Toji takes a long swig of his whiskey, then sets the glass down with a deliberate thunk. “Means I’ve been fucking my stepdaughter for the past six months, and she lets me do anything I want to her.”

The room goes silent. For once, Sukuna has nothing to say. Shiu’s cigarette burns, forgotten, between his fingers. Naoya’s mouth opens and closes like a fish.

“You’re full of shit,” Shiu finally says, but his voice lacks its usual conviction.

Toji just smiles, that slow, dangerous curve of lips that means he’s about to prove someone wrong.

“She’s a squirter,” he says, as casually as if he’s discussing the weather. “Like, for real. Not that pissing shit Naoya’s talking about. The real deal. Soaking the sheets, hitting the headboard. And she begs—fuck, she begs so pretty. ‘Please, Daddy, please.’”

“Stop,” Sukuna says, but he’s leaning forward now, clearly intrigued despite himself. “That’s fucked up, man.”

“What?” Toji shrugs. “She’s legal. And she’s got the tightest pussy I’ve ever had. Takes my whole fist and thanks me for it.”

“I don’t believe you,” Naoya says, but he’s gone pale. “You wouldn’t—she wouldn’t—“

“You calling me a liar?” Toji’s voice drops, dangerous.

“No, but—“ Naoya stumbles over his words. “That’s just—that’s your daughter, man.”

“Stepdaughter,” Toji corrects. “And she’s not my daughter when she’s on her knees.”

The room falls into an uncomfortable silence. Shiu stubs out his cigarette, then immediately lights another. Sukuna takes another swig of his beer, eyes never leaving Toji’s face.

“I want proof,” Sukuna says finally.

“Yeah,” Shiu agrees, surprising everyone. “Show us or it didn’t happen.”

Toji laughs, a sound that sends a chill down even Sukuna’s spine. “You want me to prove I fuck my stepdaughter?”

“That’s fucked up,” Naoya says, but he doesn’t leave. None of them do.

“Wait here,” Toji says, standing up and draining the last of his whiskey. “I’ll be right back.”

And with that, he’s gone, leaving the three men in a silence broken only by the soft crackle of Shiu’s cigarette and the distant sound of Toji’s heavy footsteps heading upstairs.

The bedroom door slams open with enough force to make the walls shudder. You’re sitting cross-legged on your bed, phone in hand, earbuds in, when suddenly there’s Toji, all six-foot-something of him filling your doorway, his eyes dark with that look you’ve come to know all too well.

You barely have time to yank out your earbuds before he’s crossing the room, his hand wrapping around your upper arm.

“What the—“ you start, but Toji cuts you off with a shake of his head.

“No talking,” he says, his voice that special kind of rough that makes your stomach flip. “I’ve got something to show the boys.”

And then you’re airborne—literally—as he hoists you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing.

Your stomach lurches as he turns and heads back toward the door, one hand splayed across the back of your thighs to keep you in place. The world tilts sideways, your hair hanging down past Toji’s shoulder blades, the floor moving beneath you in a nauseating blur.

“Toji!” you hiss, pounding your fists against his lower back. “Put me down!”

“Stop squirming,” he says, giving your ass a warning slap that echoes in the narrow hallway. “You’re gonna make me drop you.”

You know from experience he won’t drop you (Toji’s strong enough to carry you one-handed if he wanted to) but the threat is enough to make you go limp.

Your tank top rides up, exposing a strip of your lower back to the cool air of the house. Your shorts, those thin cotton ones that barely cover your ass on a good day, slide even further up the curve of your thighs.

The living room comes into view, and with it, the shocked faces of Toji’s friends.

You’ve seen them around before. Shiu with his ever-present cigarette, Sukuna with his massive frame and smirk, Naoya with his badly bleached hair and piercings. But never like this. Never with you draped over Toji’s shoulder like some kind of exotic pet.

Toji drops you into his lap as he sinks back into his recliner. Your face burns hot enough to fry an egg as you scramble to hide yourself against his chest, your arms wrapping around his neck, your face pressing into the warm skin where his t-shirt collar hangs loose.

You can feel his heart beating against your cheek, steady and strong, while yours hammers like it’s trying to escape your ribcage.

You’re acutely aware of how you’re sitting—straddling one of his thighs, your knees pressing into the leather on either side of his hips, your ass perched precariously on his other leg.

Your shorts have ridden up so far you can feel the cool air on the exposed skin of your ass cheeks. Your tank top has twisted, exposing a sliver of your stomach where it meets the waistband of your shorts.

“Sshh,” Toji soothes, one big hand running up and down your spine in long, slow strokes. The other hand comes up to card through your hair, fingers gently working through the tangles. “You shy, princess?”

You nod against his neck, not trusting yourself to speak. The living room has gone dead quiet—you can practically hear the smoke from Shiu’s cigarette curling toward the ceiling.

“What the fuck,” Sukuna says finally, breaking the silence. His voice is thick with something you don’t want to identify.

“You can’t just—“ Shiu starts, then stops, seemingly at a loss for words.

It’s Naoya who speaks up next, his voice sharp with indignation. “Don’t be rude,” he says, and you realize with a start that he’s talking to you. “You have guests over.”

You feel Toji’s body tense beneath you, and you peek up just enough to see the glare he’s shooting at Naoya. But then Toji’s hand is on your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

“He’s right, baby,” Toji says, his voice dropping to that tone he uses when it’s just the two of you. “You should say hello to everyone.”

Slowly, reluctantly, you turn in his lap to face the room.

The three men are staring at you with expressions ranging from shock to hunger. You manage a small wave, your fingers barely moving, before embarrassment overtakes you again and you duck back down to hide your face in Toji’s neck.

“Jesus Christ,” Shiu mutters, finally remembering his cigarette and taking a long drag. “She’s actually—“

“Shy,” Toji cuts in, his hand resuming its gentle stroking of your hair. “Aren’t you, princess? But she’s not always like this.” His voice drops even lower, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Are you, baby?”

You shake your head slightly, not trusting your voice.

“The guys don’t believe me,” Toji says, loud enough for everyone to hear. “They think I’m making shit up about how good I make you feel.”

That gets your attention. You lift your head slightly, frowning. “No,” you say, your voice small but clear. “That’s not true. You take good care of me.”

The room goes quiet again. You can feel Toji’s chest rumble with silent laughter beneath your cheek.

“Hear that?” he says to the room at large. “She thinks I take good care of her.”

“She’s just saying that,” Naoya cuts in, his voice tight. “She’s probably scared of you.”

That makes you frown. “I’m not scared of Toji,” you say, a little more firmly. “He’s never hurt me.”

“Not in a bad way,” Toji agrees, and there’s something in his voice that makes your face heat up again.

“Look,” Sukuna says, his massive frame shifting on the couch as he leans forward. “I don’t know what kind of fucked up game you two are playing, but—“

“It’s not a game,” Toji says, cutting him off. “And we’re gonna prove it.” His hand slides down to cup your ass, giving it a squeeze that makes you jump. “Right, baby? We’re gonna show these assholes exactly how good I can make you feel.”

Toji’s looking at you with those eyes, and his hand is warm on your skin, and his voice is doing that thing that makes your stomach flip, and—

“Okay,” you whisper, so quietly you’re not sure anyone but Toji can hear it.

But they must, because the room goes deathly quiet again, the only sound the soft crackle of Shiu’s cigarette as it burns closer to the filter.

Toji’s hand slides down from the small of your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine until they reach the waistband of your shorts.

For a moment, he just rests his palm there, warm and heavy, then slowly, so slowly you can feel each individual callus, his hand cups the roundness of your ass.

His fingers dig in slightly, testing the give of flesh beneath thin cotton, and you can’t stop the small whine that escapes your throat as you bury your face deeper into his neck.

“There it is,” Toji murmurs, voice pitched low for your ears only. “That pretty little sound.”

His hand slides lower, gripping the meat of your ass cheek and giving it a gentle squeeze. Then another, firmer this time, making the flesh jiggle beneath his palm.

The sound seems obscenely loud in the otherwise silent room—the soft smack of skin against skin, your barely-there gasp as you squirm in his lap.

“What the fuck,” Sukuna says again, but there’s a new note in his voice, something hot and hungry that makes your skin prickle.

“Jesus Christ,” Shiu mutters, taking another long drag of his cigarette. “This is fucking—“

“Hot,” Naoya cuts in, his voice tight. “It’s fucking hot, is what it is.”

Toji laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest and into yours. “You ain’t seen nothing yet,” he says, and then his hand is moving again, sliding around to the front of your shorts, dipping beneath the waistband.

You stiffen, a fresh wave of embarrassment washing over you. “Toji,” you whisper, your voice breaking on his name. “They can see—“

“That’s the point, baby,” he murmurs back, and then his fingers are sliding lower, pushing past the elastic of your panties to cup you directly. Your shorts pull taut across the front, the outline of his hand clearly visible beneath the thin fabric.

“Holy shit,” Sukuna breathes, leaning forward on the couch. “Is he—“

“Fuck,” Shiu agrees, his cigarette forgotten between his fingers. “He is.”

Toji’s fingers move, spreading your folds, finding the slick heat of you with unerring accuracy.

Your breath catches as he circles your clit, once, twice, then dips lower to gather the wetness there.

The sound is unmistakable. The soft, obscene squelch of his fingers moving through your arousal.

And you want to die, want to disappear, want to sink into the floor and never come back up.

But then Toji’s finger presses just right, rubbing tight circles against that spot that makes your vision blur, and all you can do is clutch at his shoulders and try to remember how to breathe.

“She’s soaked,” Toji announces to the room, his voice thick with pride. “Always gets this wet for me. Don’t you, princess?”

You nod helplessly, beyond words as his fingers continue their relentless exploration.

“Stand up,” Toji says suddenly, his hand withdrawing from your shorts to grip your waist. “Come on, baby. Up.”

You obey without thinking, your body responding to his command before your brain can catch up.

Your legs are shaky as you stand, the cool air hitting your overheated skin making you shiver. Toji’s hands are on your hips, turning you to face the room, to face his friends. All three of them staring at you.

Toji’s hands move to the waistband of your shorts, fingers hooking under the elastic to tug your shorts and panties down in one smooth motion. The cool air hits your exposed flesh, raising goosebumps along your thighs, between your legs. Your shorts and panties land in a tangle around your ankles, and then Toji’s giving them a flick, sending them flying across the room—directly at Naoya, who catches them with a startled yelp.

“Fuck,” Shiu says, his voice cracking on the word. “She’s completely—“

“Full of hair,” Sukuna finishes, eyes fixed on the juncture of your thighs. “What a woman.”

Toji laughs again, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “Ilike it this way,” he says, one hand coming up to stroke the inside of your thigh. “I don’t mind a little hair in my food.”

Your face burns, but you can’t look away from the three men—can’t tear your eyes from the way Sukuna’s shifted on the couch, one hand adjusting himself through his pants; from the way Shiu’s cigarette has burned down to the filter without him noticing; from the way Naoya’s clutching your discarded underwear like it’s something precious.

“Sit,” Toji says, his hands guiding you back down—but not onto his lap this time. Instead, he’s shifting in the recliner, reaching down to unzip his jeans and free his cock. It springs up, already hard, the tip glistening slightly in the dim light. “Here,” he says, guiding you to straddle him, facing outward toward his friends. “That’s it, baby. Take me in.”

You sink down onto him slowly, your body opening to accept his size. It burns, it always does no matter how many times you’ve done this. But it burns good, stretching you, making your toes curl. Your breath hitches as he bottoms out, his cock hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.

“Fuck,” Sukuna breathes, leaning forward on the couch. “Look at her stomach.”

You glance down, and your breath catches. There’s a visible bulge in your lower abdomen, the outline of Toji’s cock pressing against your skin from the inside. Your pussy clenches around him at the sight, making him groan.

“Holy shit,” Naoya says, his voice higher than usual. “He’s actually deep inside.“

“Fuckin hell,” Shiu starts, his usual composure nowhere to be found. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Toji’s hands come up to grip your thighs, spreading your legs wider to better display you to his audience. Your pussy is stretched obscenely around his girth, your inner lips struggling to close around the intrusion. There’s a glistening ring of cream where your bodies join.

“Ride me,” Toji says, one hand sliding up to wrap around your throat. “Show these assholes what a good girl you are.”

You start to move, rising your hips slightly before sinking back down. The angle is awkward with your legs spread so wide, but Toji’s hands are there to guide you, to set the pace.

Up, down. Up, down. The wet sounds of your arousal fill the room, mixing with your increasingly desperate whimpers and Toji’s occasional grunts of pleasure.

“That’s it,” Toji murmurs, his free hand sliding up under your tank top to cup your breast. His thumb finds your nipple immediately, circling the already hardened peak. “Look at them,” he says, nodding toward his friends. “They can’t take their eyes off you. They’re imagining what it would be like to fuck you. To have you ride their cocks just like this.”

Your cheeks burn at his words, but your body responds anyway, your inner walls clenching around him as heat builds low in your belly.

“Want to see these,” Toji says, his hand moving to the hem of your tank top. With one smooth motion, he tugs it down, exposing your breasts to the cool air—and to the hungry gazes of his friends. Your nipples harden further under their attention, and you can’t stop the small moan that escapes your lips.

“Fuck,” Sukuna says again, apparently beyond any other vocabulary. “They’re perfect.”

“They’re mine,” Toji corrects, his hand coming up to squeeze your breast, fingers digging into the soft flesh. “Aren’t they, baby? You’re all mine.”

You nod helplessly, beyond words as his thumb flicks over your nipple, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your core. Your hips move faster of their own accord, chasing that feeling, that building pressure that promises release.

“Fuck,” Shiu mutters, finally remembering his cigarette and stubbing it out.

“She’s gonna cum,” Toji announces, his voice thick with pride. “Just from my cock and my fingers on her tits. She’s that sensitive.” His hand moves to your other breast, giving it the same treatment. Squeezing, fondling, thumb circling your nipple until it’s a hard, aching point. “Aren’t you, princess? You’re gonna cum just like this, with everyone watching.”

And you are. You’re so close you can taste it, the pressure building at the base of your spine, your thighs starting to shake with the effort of holding yourself up. One more stroke, one more twist of Toji’s fingers, and you’ll—

“Wait,” Toji says suddenly, his hand leaving your breast to grip your hip, stopping your movements. “I’m gonna teach you fuckers something.”

His hands are still on your hips, keeping you immobile on his cock, your inner walls fluttering helplessly around his girth. “You want to know how to make a girl squirt? For real, not that pissing shit Naoya was talking about?” He glances around the room, meeting each of their eyes in turn. “Watch and learn.”

Sukuna leans forward, eyes narrowed. “You’re full of shit.”

“I’m not,” Toji says, his hands sliding up to your waist. “She’s ovulating right now. Makes it easier. She creams up real nice, gets so sensitive she can’t stand it.” His thumbs rub small circles into the soft skin of your stomach. “You just have to overstimulate her. Push her past what she thinks she can take.”

It’s true, you are ovulating, your body extra responsive, extra eager.

But hearing Toji say it out loud, in front of his friends, makes your stomach twist with a confusing mix of embarrassment and arousal.

“First,” Toji says, his hands moving up to cup your breasts again, “you gotta get her nice and worked up.” His fingers find your nipples, pinching lightly—then, without warning, he pulls.

You arch into the touch, a startled gasp escaping your lips. The sensation is electric, making your head spin. Your back bows, pushing your chest further into Toji’s hands, your hips rocking forward of their own accord.

“That’s it,” Toji murmurs, his voice dropping to that register meant for your ears only. “She likes it a little rough. Don’t you, princess?”

You nod helplessly, beyond words as he gives your nipples another tug, then another, each one sending a fresh jolt of pleasure straight to your core. Your pussy clenches around his cock, still buried deep inside you, and you can feel him pulse in response.

Toji’s hands leave your breasts, one coming up to cup the back of your neck, guiding your face to his. For a moment, you think he’s going to kiss you. But his mouth is on your neck instead, teeth scraping lightly over your pulse point before his tongue soothes the sting.

He works his way down, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, the top curve of your breast, before moving back up to suck a dark mark into the sensitive spot just below your ear.

You whimper, the sound embarrassingly needy, as his teeth graze your skin. Your hips move without your permission, rocking back and forth on his cock, seeking friction, seeking release.

“That’s it,” Toji groans, his voice hot against your ear. “Take what you need. Use my cock however you want.”

His hands move to your ass, gripping the soft flesh and guiding your movements. The wet sounds of your arousal fill the room, mixing with your increasingly desperate whimpers and Toji’s occasional grunts of pleasure.

“Give them a show,” Toji continues, one hand sliding up to grip your hair, tilting your head back to better display your throat. “Let them see how good I make you feel.”

Your hips move faster, chasing that feeling, that building pressure that promises release.

“That’s it,” Toji murmurs, his free hand sliding down your stomach to where your bodies join. “You’re doing so good, princess. So fucking good for me.”

His fingers find your clit without looking, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves. The touch is almost too much after the building pleasure of his cock inside you—and you jerk in his lap, a startled gasp escaping your lips.

“Shh,” Toji soothes, his other hand coming up to cover your mouth. “You can take it. I know you can.”

His fingers move faster, tighter circles against your clit that make your vision blur. Your inner walls clench around his cock, your thighs starting to shake with the effort of holding yourself up. And then Toji’s fingers change direction, pinching your clit between his thumb and forefinger. And you break.

It hits you like a freight train, your orgasm crashing through you with enough force to make your back arch, your head thrown back.

Your pussy clenches around Toji’s cock, milking him as pleasure radiates outward from your core. But it’s not just the orgasm. It’s what comes with it, the sudden gush of wetness that erupts from you, splashing over Toji’s hand, his cock, dripping down to darken the fabric of the recliner beneath you.

“Oh fuck,” Sukuna breathes, leaning forward on the couch.

“She’s squirting,” Shiu finishes, his cigarette burning forgotten between his fingers. “Fucking hell.”

Toji doesn’t stop—if anything, he doubles down, his fingers swiping through the mess you’ve made to circle your clit again. “That’s it,” he praises, his voice thick with pride. “Let go. Give me everything.”

And you do, another gush of clear fluid erupting from you, then another, each one accompanied by a broken moan that Toji’s hand does little to muffle. Your hips move of their own accord, riding out the waves of pleasure, your inner walls fluttering around Toji’s cock as he continues to stroke you through it.

By the time it’s over, you’re slumped against his chest, boneless and shaking, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Toji’s cock is still buried deep inside you, his heartbeat strong and steady beneath your ear. His hand moves from between your legs to your hair, fingers gently working through the tangles.

“There you go,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “That’s my good girl.”

“Impressive,” Shiu speaks up, finally remembering his cigarette and taking a long drag. “I’ll give you that.”

“Anyone want to try?” Toji asks, his voice casual despite the way his cock twitches inside you at the words. “Show me what you learned?”

The room goes quiet, the three men exchanging glances. No one moves—they’re all still mesmerized by what they’ve just witnessed. Your inner walls still occasionally clenching around his cock as aftershocks of pleasure ripple through you.

“Come on,” Toji taunts, one hand idly stroking your hair. “Don’t tell me you’re all talk. I just gave you a free lesson.”

Still no one moves. Sukuna shifts on the couch, his massive frame seeming suddenly restless. Shiu takes another drag of his cigarette, eyes never leaving the point where your bodies join. Naoya stands frozen, his expression unreadable.

“No takers?” Toji says, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that always makes your stomach flip. “Guess I’ll have to keep her all to myself, then.”

No one moves. The room is frozen in a tableau of lust and shock. They’re not sure if Toji’s just challenging them or actually inviting them. Even the air seems still, heavy with the mingled scents of sex and smoke and anticipation.

It’s Shiu who breaks first, glancing away and clearing his throat. He reaches for the ashtray, stubbing out his cigarette with slightly shaking hands. His eyes dart around the room, landing everywhere but on you—on the TV, on the ceiling, on the half-empty beer bottles lined up on the coffee table.

“See something you like?” Toji asks, his voice thick with amusement. His hand is still in your hair, fingers gently working through the tangles as you catch your breath against his chest.

“Just surprised, is all,” Shiu says, his voice carefully neutral. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Toji laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest and into yours. “There’s a lot about me you don’t know,” he says, one hand sliding up to cup your tits, giving it a possessive squeeze. “Come closer. Get a better look.”

Shiu shakes his head. “I’m good from here.”

“Come on,” Toji coaxes, his voice dropping to that dangerous register. “Don’t be shy. She doesn’t bite.” A pause, then, “Unless you ask nicely.”

“Please,” you hear yourself say, the word barely more than a whisper. “I want... I want you to come closer.”

Shiu’s eyes snap to yours, surprise flashing across his face before he can hide it. “What?”

“Please,” you say again, your voice stronger this time. “I want to see you. Want you to see me.”

Something flickers in Shiu’s eyes, caution maybe, but he’s already moving, crossing the room with measured steps until he’s standing just beyond arm’s reach of Toji’s recliner.

Up close, he’s even more intimidating. Shiu is tall and lean, with that perpetually tired look that comes from too many cigarettes and not enough sleep. His slanted eyes never leave your face, even as his hand comes up to adjust his collar.

“Closer,” Toji says, his voice leaving no room for argument. “She won’t break.”

Shiu takes another step forward, close enough now that you could reach out and touch him if you wanted to.

And you do want to. The realization hits you with the force of a physical blow, your hand moving of its own accord to grab his belt, fingers curling around the leather with surprising strength.

“Fuck,” Shiu breathes, his composure cracking for just a moment as you tug him forward, your other hand working at his belt buckle with surprising dexterity. “Wait, I—“

But it’s too late—his belt is already coming loose, his zipper already sliding down, and then his cock is springing free, hitting you square in the face with enough force to make your eyes water. It’s already hard, the tip glistening slightly with pre-cum, the veins standing out prominently along its length.

“Calm down,” Shiu mutters, one hand coming up as if to push you away but then stopping, hovering uncertainly in the air between you. “You don’t have to—“

You cut him off by wrapping your lips around the head of his cock, your tongue flattening against the underside as you take him into your mouth.

He’s hot and heavy on your tongue, slightly bitter with the taste of pre-cum, the musky scent of him filling your nostrils. You work your way down his length slowly, taking him deeper with each bob of your head, saliva already beginning to pool in your mouth.

“Nnnghh, fuck,” Shiu breathes, his hand finally settling on the top of your head, fingers threading through your hair. “Fuck, that’s—“

He doesn’t finish the thought, too caught up in the sensation of your mouth around him, your tongue working along his length.

Your cheeks hollow as you suck, your hand coming up to wrap around the base of his cock, twisting slightly on the upstroke. Drool escapes the corner of your mouth, sliding down your chin to drip onto your exposed breasts, but you’re beyond caring about how you look.

Shiu doesn’t know what to do with his hands. One second they’re on your head, the next they’re gripping his own hips, white-knuckled with the effort of holding himself back. His breath comes in short, sharp gasps, his hips jerking forward slightly with each downward movement of your head.

“She likes it rough,” Toji says, his voice cutting through the haze of pleasure clouding your mind. “Don’t you, baby? You like it when they use your mouth?”

You nod as best you can with Shiu’s cock halfway down your throat, a muffled sound of agreement escaping around his length. Toji chuckles, and the low vibration rolls from his chest into yours.

“See?” he says, reaching up to grab Shiu’s wrists. “Like this.” He guides Shiu’s hands to your head, positioning them on either side with your hair wrapped around his fingers. “Hold her still. Push her down if you want. She can take it.”

Shiu looks doubtful for a moment. Then Toji’s hand is on the back of your head, pushing you down until Shiu’s cock hits the back of your throat. You gag slightly, tears springing to your eyes, but the feeling is quickly overshadowed by the rush of pleasure that comes with Shiu’s broken moan, his fingers tightening in your hair.

“That’s it,” Toji praises, his hand keeping steady pressure on the back of your head. “Take it all. Show him what a good girl you are.”

You relax your throat, letting Shiu slide deeper, your nose now pressed against the coarse hair at the base of his cock. He’s so far down your throat you can’t breathe, black spots dancing at the edges of your vision, but the sounds he’s making, those desperate, broken moans, make it worth every second of discomfort.

“Fuck,” Shiu gasps, his hips jerking forward of their own accord. “I’m gonna—I’m close—“

And then Toji’s hand is on your shoulder, yanking you back with enough force to make your neck snap. Shiu’s cock slides from your mouth with a wet pop, a strand of saliva connecting your lips to the glistening head for one obscene moment before breaking.

“What the fuck?” Shiu demands, his voice cracking on the words. “I was right there—“

“You can finish inside her,” Toji says, his voice casual despite the way his cock twitches inside you at the words. “Your dick just needed to be wet enough to fit in her while I’m still here.”

Shiu blinks, clearly struggling to process this new information. “You want me to—“

“Fuck her,” Toji finishes for him. “Yeah. That’s the idea.”

At this point, everyone is itching for a turn. Sukuna has moved to the edge of the couch, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the point where your bodies join. Naoya is practically vibrating with anticipation, one hand conspicuously adjusting himself through his pants.

“Jesus Christ,” Sukuna says, his voice rough with want. “Hurry the fuck up. Some of us are waiting for a turn.”

“Yeah,” Naoya agrees, taking a step closer. “Stop being such a pussy and just fuck her already.”

Even Toji is getting impatient, his hands tightening on your hips. “Come on,” he says, spreading your legs wider with his knees. “She’s waiting.”

Shiu takes a deep breath, clearly steeling himself, then moves closer.

His hands find your ankles, pushing your legs up and back until they’re practically folded against Toji’s chest. The new position spreads you open obscenely, your pussy on full display for everyone to see, the glistening evidence of your arousal, the stretched ring of your entrance where Toji’s cock is still buried deep inside you.

“Fuck,” Shiu breathes, his cock bobbing heavily between his legs, the tip now dangerously close to your exposed folds. “I don’t know if she can take—“

“She can take it,” Toji interrupts, his voice leaving no room for argument. “She’s taken bigger. Haven’t you, princess?”

You nod helplessly, beyond words as Shiu’s hands move to your hips, his cock nudging against your entrance.

It’s already wet from your arousal, from the saliva still coating his length but it’s still a tight fit as he begins to push inside, the head of his cock stretching you around Toji’s girth.

“God damn,” Sukuna mutters, moving to sit on the arm of the recliner for a better view.

“This is so fucking hot,” Naoya whispers to himself, now standing directly behind Shiu, close enough that his breath ruffles the hair at the back of Shiu’s neck. “So fucking hot.”

You’re stretched obscenely around the two cocks now, your inner walls struggling to accommodate their combined girth. Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps, your hands finding Shiu’s hips to guide him deeper.

“That’s it,” Toji murmurs, his hands moving to your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples. “Take him all the way. Show him what a good girl you are.”

Shiu bottoms out with a groan that seems torn from the depths of his chest, his hips flush against yours, his cock buried to the hilt alongside Toji’s.

For a moment, he just stays there, seemingly overwhelmed by the sensation of your tight heat around him, by the obscene sight of your stretched pussy struggling to contain them both.

“Move,” you beg, your voice breaking on the word. “Please, I need—“

You don’t get to finish the thought before Shiu’s hips are moving, pulling back slightly before driving forward again.

Your legs are splayed wide, almost obscenely so, but it lets him ram right against that spot, that fucking sweet spot that makes your vision go fuzzy and your insides clamp down like a vise around both their cocks.

“Fuck,” Shiu gasps, his rhythm already faltering, his movements growing erratic. “I’m not gonna last—she’s too fucking tight—“

“Then don’t,” Toji says, his voice thick with amusement. “Cum in her. Fill her up.”

And Shiu does. With a broken moan that sounds almost like pain, his hips jerking forward one final time as he spills inside you, his cock pulsing against your inner walls.

The sensation of his release triggers your own orgasm, your back arching, your inner walls clamping down around the two cocks still buried inside you.

But with the climax comes a rush of release, a sudden flood of clear liquid that bursts from you, drenching Shiu’s stomach and chest, and soaking into the fabric of the recliner below.

He looks down in shock, his composure completely shattered as he watches you squirt all over him, your pussy still pulsing around his cock.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, eyes wide with disbelief. “She actually squirts.“

Seeing you cum all over Shiu, Sukuna practically leaps off the couch. He’s across the room in two massive strides, hands grabbing Shiu’s shoulders and yanking him back with enough force to send him stumbling.

“My turn,” Sukuna growls, already working at his belt with one hand. His massive frame towers over the recliner, all lean muscle and barely contained energy. His pink hair is mussed, falling across his forehead in a way that somehow makes him look even more dangerous. “Move.”

“Wait your fucking turn,” Toji says, his voice leaving no room for argument despite the way his cock twitches inside you at the sight of Sukuna’s barely contained lust. “I’m still in her.”

Sukuna’s jaw clenches, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “I’ve been waiting,” he says, each word precise and dangerous. “Watching you two fuck her. Watching her take it. I’m done waiting.”

He’s about to go crazy. You can see it in the tension in his shoulders, in the way his hands curl into fists at his sides. His red eyes never leave the point where your bodies join, where Shiu’s cum is already beginning to leak out around Toji’s still-buried cock.

And then your foot, bare, slightly cold from the air-conditioned room, lands on Sukuna’s shoulder.

It’s not quite a kick, more of a gentle press, but it stops him dead in his tracks. His eyes snap to yours, surprise flashing across his face before he can hide it.

“Patience,” you say, your voice surprisingly steady given the circumstances. “You’ll get your turn.”

Something clicks in Sukuna’s mind and then, to everyone’s shock, he’s dropping to his knees. Just like that, the dangerous, barely controlled man is gone, replaced by someone almost... pliant. His massive frame seems to shrink as he kneels, his eyes never leaving yours as he leans forward to press a kiss to your ankle.

“What the fuck,” Naoya mutters from somewhere behind Sukuna. “I’ve never seen him like this.”

No one has.

Sukuna—brash, loud, unfiltered Sukuna—is practically putty at your feet, his lips moving from your ankle to the sensitive spot behind your knee, then higher, to the inside of your thigh.

Each kiss is reverent, almost worshipful, a stark contrast to the hunger in his eyes when he glances up to meet your gaze.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, the words hot against your skin. “Watching you take them both—fuck, I’ve never seen anything hotter.”

His hands are gentle as they grip your thighs, spreading you wider to give himself better access. And then he’s moving lower, his mouth replacing his hands as he works his way toward the center of your needy cunt. You expect him to start eating you out immediately. That’s what other people would have done, after all. But instead, his hand reaches for Toji’s cock, still buried deep inside you.

“Let me,” Sukuna says, his voice leaving no room for argument despite the gentle request.

Toji hesitates for just a moment. Then he’s pulling out, his cock sliding free with a wet sound that makes you blush.

He’s covered in a mixture of your arousal and Shiu’s cum, the head glistening obscenely in the dim light. Your pussy feels empty without him, already clenching around nothing, a fresh trickle of combined fluids leaking out to join the mess on the recliner.

Sukuna doesn’t hesitate—he wraps his hand around Toji’s cock, giving it a few experimental strokes that make Toji’s breath catch. Then, without warning, he’s guiding it toward your ass, the head nudging against your puckered hole.

“Wait,” you start, but Toji’s hand is already on the back of your head, guiding your face to his.

“Sshh,” he soothes, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You can take it. I know you can.”

And you can, you have before, many times, but it’s still a shock when Sukuna pushes Toji’s cock into your ass, the thick head stretching you obscenely. You gasp, your pussy walls clenching around nothing as the feeling of emptiness and fullness overwhelms you.

But then Sukuna’s mouth is on you, his tongue flat against your folds as he eats you out like a man starved.

He’s not gentle at all. His tongue fucks into you with brutal efficiency, curling to hit that spot inside that makes your vision blur. One hand comes up to circle your clit, fingers moving in tight, fast circles that have you seeing stars within seconds.

Toji’s hands move to your legs, holding them open to give Sukuna better access. “That’s it,” he praises, his voice thick with pride. “Get her nice and wet. Make her cum again.”

And you are so fucking close you can taste it, the pressure building at the base of your spine, threatening to break. Your inner walls clench around nothing, your hips moving of their own accord to meet Sukuna’s relentless mouth.

But before you can tip over the edge, Sukuna is pulling back, standing in one fluid motion. His cock springs free from his pants, already hard, the tip glistening with pre-cum. It’s massive—bigger than Toji’s, bigger than Shiu’s, thick enough that your mouth waters at the sight of it.

“You ready?” he asks, his voice rough with want. “Ready to take all of me?”

You nod helplessly, beyond words as he lines himself up with your entrance. And then he’s pushing in, the head of his cock stretching you obscenely around his girth.

“Fuck,” Sukuna breathes, his rhythm already faltering. “She’s so fucking tight—taking Toji’s cock in her ass and still so tight around me—“

He bottoms out with a groan that seems torn from the depths of his chest, his hips flush against yours, his cock buried to the hilt. For a moment, he just stays there, seemingly overwhelmed by the sensation of your tight heat around him, by the obscene sight of your stretched pussy struggling to contain him.

And then he’s moving, pulling back slightly before driving forward again. His pace is crazy fast from the start, each thrust powerful enough to shake the recliner, to push you further into Toji’s chest.

One hand comes up to grip your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat to his hungry mouth. His teeth scrape over your pulse point before his tongue soothes the sting, then move lower to suck a dark mark into the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder.

His other hand finds your breast, fingers digging into the soft flesh with enough force to leave bruises. “Fuck,” he gasps against your skin. “You’re so fucking perfect. Taking my cock like you were made for it.”

You are stretched obscenely around him, your inner walls struggling to accommodate his massive girth.

He’s so big he’s practically covering you, engulfing you, his massive frame bending over yours in a way that makes you feel tiny, fragile. His pace never slows, each thrust driving the breath from your lungs, pushing incoherent sounds from your throat.

“I can’t see shit,” Naoya complains from somewhere behind Sukuna. “You’re blocking the view.”

“Move back,” Shiu agrees, already adjusting his position for a better angle. “Let us see her face.”

Sukuna growls, the sound rumbling through his chest and into yours, but he does pull back slightly. Just enough that the others can see your face, can see the way your eyes roll back with each particularly powerful thrust, can see the string of saliva connecting your lips as your mouth falls open in a silent scream.

And then he feels it, the first pulse of your inner walls around his cock, the first gush of wetness that signals your approaching orgasm.

His rhythm falters for just a moment, surprise flashing across his face before determination replaces it. His hand moves between your bodies, thumb finding your clit.

“Cum for me,” he commands, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Cum on my cock. Show me how good I make you feel.”

You cum with a broken moan that sounds almost like pain, your back arches, your inner walls clamping down around Sukuna’s massive cock as pleasure crashes through you.

“Fuck,” Sukuna gasps, his rhythm becoming erratic as your pussy pulses around him. “She’s squirting—fucking hell—“

He pulls out suddenly, leaning back just enough that everyone can see your stretched pussy struggling to close around nothing, can see the mixture of fluids leaking out to join the mess on the recliner.

His hand moves to his cock, giving it a few quick strokes before he swipes the head across your clit, the sensitive bundle of nerves still pulsing with aftershocks of pleasure.

You jerk beneath him, a startled gasp escaping your lips. But Sukuna doesn’t stop, his thumb circling your clit as his cock continues to rub against it, the sensation sending fresh waves of pleasure crashing through you.

Then, with a ragged groan that’s almost a cry of pain, he cums. His hips convulse as he erupts, hot streams landing on your stomach, your breasts, your throat. Each pulse of his release triggers a fresh gush from you, your pussy clenching around nothing as you squirt again, clear fluid mixing with Sukuna’s cum.

His hand is still between your legs, thumb still circling your oversensitive clit, drawing out each pulse of your orgasm until you’re shaking with it, until tears spring to your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice surprisingly gentle given the brutal pace he just set. “Give me everything. Let me see it all.”

And another gush of clear fluid erupting from you, then another, each one accompanied by a broken moan that seems torn from the depths of your chest.

By the time it’s over, you’re slumped against Toji’s chest, boneless and shaking, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

Sukuna bullies Naoya next, grabbing a fistful of his badly bleached hair and yanking him forward. “Your turn,” he growls, voice rough with exertion and lingering pleasure. “Clean her up.”

“What?” Naoya squawks, trying to pull away from Sukuna’s iron grip. “You want me to—“

“Lick her clean,” Sukuna finishes, pushing Naoya’s face toward the mess between your legs. “All that cum. All that squirt. Get it all.”

“I don’t—“ Naoya starts, but then Sukuna’s hand is on the back of his head, pushing him forward until his face is pressed against your folds.

“Lick,” Sukuna commands, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Or I’ll make you.”

Naoya’s tongue is on you, flat against your folds, lapping up the mixture of fluids with surprising enthusiasm. What started as reluctance quickly turns into hunger, his tongue pushing deeper, curling to hit that spot inside that makes your vision blur. His hands come up to grip your thighs, spreading you wider to give himself better access.

“Look at him go.”

Naoya is into it. Completely, unabashedly into it.

One hand moves to circle your clit, fingers moving in tight, fast circles that have you seeing stars within seconds.

But then he’s pulling back, his mouth full of the mixture of fluids he’s just collected. For a moment, you think he’s going to swallow, but then he’s leaning forward again, spitting it all back into your pussy. It’s filthy. The heat, the wetness, the mingled tastes of all three men invading your senses as Naoya’s tongue forces the liquid back into you.

“What the fuck,” Sukuna says, his voice somewhere between disgust and fascination.

Naoya doesn’t stop. He works his tongue deeper, sucking the fluid back out only to spit it in again. Each cycle leaves you more sensitive than before, your inner walls clenching around nothing, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. By the time he’s done, you’re shaking with it, on the edge of another orgasm from his mouth alone.

And then he’s moving up your body, his mouth finding yours without warning.

His tongue pushes past your lips, and suddenly you’re tasting it. Everything Naoya’s just collected from between your legs. You try to pull back, but his hand is on the back of your head, holding you in place as he forces the fluid into your mouth.

“Swallow,” he commands, his voice rough with want. “Show me how much of a good girl you are.”

There’s something about the way he’s looking at you that makes your throat work of its own accord, swallowing down the mixture with a grimace.

“That’s it,” Naoya praises, his voice dropping to that register that always makes your stomach flip. “Good girl. My good girl.”

“You’re fucking disgusting,” Sukuna says, but there’s no heat in it—if anything, he sounds impressed. “Both of you.”

“Brave, though,” Toji cuts in, his voice thick with pride. “Not everyone would do that. Would you, Shiu?”

Shiu just shakes his head, lighting another cigarette with slightly shaking hands. “I’ll pass on the cum swapping, thanks.”

Toji laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Your loss.” He glances down at you, still sprawled across his lap, then at Naoya, still kneeling between your spread legs. “Switch,” he says, already moving to stand. “My turn to watch.”

There’s a moment of confusion as Toji stands, carefully transferring you to Naoya’s lap without dislodging you from either of them. Naoya’s hands come up to grip your hips, steadying you as you straddle him, your back now to his chest. The position spreads you open obscenely, your pussy on full display for everyone to see. The glistening evidence of your arousal, the stretched ring of your entrance still occasionally pulsing with aftershocks of pleasure.

“That’s it,” Toji praises, moving to stand behind you. His hands find your ass, spreading your cheeks to better display your puckered hole. “Hold her still for me.”

Naoya’s hands move to your waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh with enough force to leave bruises. His mouth finds the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder, teeth scraping over your pulse point before his tongue soothes the sting. “You’re so fucking wet,” he murmurs against your skin. “Taking all of them and still so fucking wet for me.”

You are wet. Obscenely so.

Your inner walls still clenching around nothing, a fresh trickle of arousal leaking out to join the mess on your thighs.

Your breasts heave with each ragged breath, nipples hardened to aching points from the cool air and Naoya’s occasional attention.

But then Toji’s hand is on the back of your head, guiding your face to his. “Look at me,” he says, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Watch what I do to you.”

You do as you’re told, eyes meeting his as he spits directly onto your puckered hole, the warm fluid trailing down to join the mess between your legs. His cock nudges against your entrance, the head already slick with pre-cum, and then he’s pushing in, the thick head stretching you obscenely around his girth.

“That’s it,” Toji praises, his hands moving to grip your hips. “Take it all. Show Naoya how good you can be.”

Your hands move without your permission, reaching for the waistband of Naoya’s pants. You want to take him inside you alongside Toji, want to be filled completely. But Naoya thrashes, his hands coming up to grab your wrists, stopping your exploration.

“Wait,” he says, his voice cracking on the word. “Not yet—“

“What’s he hiding?” Sukuna asks, already moving closer for a better look. “Come on, Naoya. Let her see.”

“Yeah,” Shiu agrees, adjusting his position on the loveseat. “What’s under there that’s so special?”

Naoya shakes his head, his cheeks flushing with what might be embarrassment. “Nothing. It’s just—“

But it’s too late, your hand has already found its way past his defenses, fingers working at his belt with surprising dexterity. His zipper slides down, and then his cock is springing free, hitting you square in the stomach.

And suddenly you understand his reluctance. His dick is pierced, not once but multiple times, a row of metal bars running along the underside from base to tip. The head is already leaking pre-cum, the fluid collecting in the divot created by the final piercing just below the crown.

“Jesus Christ, Naoya.”

Naoya’s cheeks burn hotter, but there’s pride in his voice when he speaks. “They’re called Prince Alberts,” he says, one hand coming up to adjust himself. “They—they feel good. For both of us.”

You don’t need to be told twice. Your hand wraps around his length, feeling the cool metal against your palm, the ridges created by each piercing. Without thinking, you’re rising up on your knees, positioning yourself above him.

“Wait,” Naoya starts, but then you’re sinking down, taking him inside you in one smooth motion. The piercings drag against your inner walls, each ridge creating a new point of friction, a new source of pleasure. You gasp, your inner walls clenching around him as your body struggles to accommodate the new sensation.

“Fuck,” Naoya breathes, his hands coming up to grip your hips.

The piercings create ridges that hit every sensitive spot inside you, the cool metal a shocking contrast to the heat of your arousal. You move in short, desperate rolls of your hips, each one pulling a ragged breath from your throat.

“That’s it,” Toji praises, his hands moving to grip your waist. “Take us both. Show us how good you can be.”

You start to move, rising up slightly before sinking back down.

And then Naoya’s mouth is on your breast, his tongue flat against your nipple before his teeth scrape over the sensitive peak. Your back arches, pushing your chest further into Naoya’s mouth, your hips moving faster to meet each thrust.

“I’m close,” Naoya gasps, his rhythm already faltering. “Fuck, I’m gonna—“

“That’s it,” Toji praises, his hands moving to grip your waist. “Together. On three.”

You count with him and then you’re cumming, your back arching, your inner walls clamping down around both cocks as pleasure crashes through you. But then there’s something else.

Naoya’s sharp intake of breath, the way Toji goes suddenly still behind you, the warm splash of fluid hitting Naoya’s stomach, his chest, running in rivulets down to pool in the crease of his hip where it meets the recliner beneath you.

“Holy shit,” Naoya gasps, his rhythm becoming erratic as your pussy pulses around him. “Fucking hell. Yeah, squirt all over me, ya’ nasty bitch,“

And then he’s cumming too—with a broken moan that sounds almost like pain, his hips jerking forward as he spills inside you, his cock pulsing against your inner walls. The sensation of his release triggers Toji’s own orgasm, his hands tightening on your waist as he bottoms out, filling your ass with his seed.

Your body moves without asking—back arching off Toji’s chest, thighs seizing, moans escaping your throat. Another gush of clear fluid erupts from you, then another, each one accompanied by a broken moan that seems torn from the depths of your chest. Your vision blurs, black spots dancing at the edges as pleasure crashes through you with enough force to make your head spin.

“That’s it,” Toji murmurs, his voice surprisingly gentle given the brutal pace he just set. “Give us everything. Let us see it all.”

By the time it’s over, you’re slumped against Naoya’s chest, boneless and shaking, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Both men are still buried inside you, their cocks still occasionally pulsing with aftershocks of pleasure.

“She passed out,” Sukuna says, his voice somewhere between concern and amusement. “You actually fucked her unconscious.”

“She’s not passed out,” Toji corrects, already carefully extracting himself from your ass. “Just resting. Right, princess?”

You manage a weak nod, beyond words as Naoya follows Toji’s example, his pierced cock sliding free with a wet sound that makes your cheeks burn. The sudden emptiness hits you like a loss, your pussy clenching desperately around nothing, cum already dripping out of you and soaking into the recliner beneath.

“I think,” Shiu says, lighting another cigarette with slightly shaking hands, “that we might have broken her.”

But you’re not broken, just exhausted. Your body still occasionally pulsing with aftershocks of pleasure as the three men exchange glances above you. Your vision blurs, the edges going dark as your head lolls against Naoya’s chest.

“Shit,” Toji says, his voice suddenly sharp with concern. “I think she’s actually—“

But you don’t hear the rest, already slipping into unconsciousness as the pleasure and exertion finally catch up with you.

You wake to the smell of coffee and bacon, your body strangely weightless and warm.

For a moment, you can’t remember where you are or what happened. And then it all comes rushing back, the events of last night hitting you with the force of a physical blow. You blink awake into unfamiliar light, heat crawling up your neck and into your face.

You’re no longer in the living room.

No longer sprawled across the recliner with your legs spread. No longer covered in the evidence of your pleasure and the men’s releases.

Instead, you’re in a bed. Toji’s bed, you realize with a start, recognizing the dark blue sheets, the massive headboard, the smell of his cologne lingering on the pillows.

You’re clean, your skin free of the sticky mess that had covered you last night, your hair still damp at the roots as if someone’s recently washed it.

More surprising still, you’re dressed… Sort of.

You’re wearing what looks like Shiu’s dress shirt, the white fabric hanging loose around your frame, the sleeves rolled up to accommodate your smaller arms.

Your legs are covered by a pair of black pants that are definitely not yours. They’re too long, the waistband rolled several times to keep them from falling down, the material thin and slightly stretched at the knees. Naoya’s, you realize with another flush of embarrassment.

They’ve dressed you in their clothes, like you’re some kind of doll they’re playing with.

And then there’s the weight across your waist. An arm, heavy with muscle, draped possessively over your midsection.

You turn slightly, and there’s Sukuna, sprawled across the bed beside you, his massive frame taking up more than his fair share of the mattress.

He’s shirtless, his tattoos on full display, intricate patterns of black ink that swirl across his chest, down his arms, disappearing beneath the waistband of his loose-fitting sweats. His eyes are closed, his breathing deep and even, one hand splayed across your stomach as if to keep you in place even in sleep.

From somewhere beyond the bedroom door comes the sound of voices. Low, masculine murmurs punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter. Toji, Shiu, and Naoya, you realize with another flush of embarrassment.

They’re in the kitchen, making breakfast if the smells are anything to go by.

Your body aches in places you didn’t know could ache, a pleasant soreness that reminds you of exactly what you did, exactly what they did to you. There’s something about the weight of Sukuna beside you. The gentle rise and fall of his chest makes it hard to move, hard to think beyond the warm, satisfied buzz still lingering in your limbs.

So instead of getting up, instead of facing what happened, you cuddle deeper into Sukuna’s side.

Your head finds the space between his arm and his chest, your hand coming to rest on the flat plane of his stomach. He’s warm, almost feverishly so, his skin radiating heat like a furnace beneath your palm. Even in sleep, his body responds to your touch, a soft sound escaping his throat as his arm tightens around your waist.

It’s a bad idea. You know it is the moment you feel him stir beside you, his massive frame shifting to accommodate your smaller one.

But it’s too late. Your movement has already woken him, his red eyes blinking open to fix on your face with startling intensity.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep. “You’re awake.”

You nod, suddenly unable to form words as his hand moves from your waist to your hair, fingers gently working through the tangles.

“How do you feel?” he asks, his thumb brushing along your jawline. “We were starting to get worried. You’ve been out for almost twelve hours.”

Twelve hours.

“I’m fine,” you manage, your voice embarrassingly small. “Just... tired.”

Sukuna laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest and into yours. “I bet,” he says, his hand sliding from your hair to cup your cheek. “You took quite the beating last night. All of us, one after another. And you still kept cumming.”

Your inner walls clench at the memory, your breath catching in your throat as Sukuna’s thumb brushes over your lower lip.

“You’re thinking about it,” he says, not a question but a statement. “I can tell. Your pupils just got huge.”

You nod helplessly in agreement.

“That’s my girl,” Sukuna praises, his hand sliding from your cheek to the back of your neck. “Always so honest. Always so fucking eager.”

And then he’s kissing you. He’s almost desperate, his tongue pushing past your lips to tangle with yours. His hand moves from your neck to your waist, then lower, pushing beneath the borrowed shirt to cup your breast. His thumb finds your nipple immediately, circling the already hardened peak with enough pressure to make you gasp into his mouth.

“You’re already getting hard again,” you murmur against his lips, feeling the evidence of his arousal pressing against your thigh. “After last night? Really?”

Sukuna laughs, the sound warm against your mouth. “What can I say? You’re addictive.” His hand moves from your breast to your hip, then lower, pushing beneath the waistband of Naoya’s borrowed pants. “And you’re already wet for me. Fuck, you’re dripping.”

He’s not wrong. You’re drenched, your inner walls already clenching at the thought of having him inside you again. Your hips move of their own accord, seeking that feeling of fullness that only his massive cock can provide.

“I want you,” you hear yourself say, the words barely more than a whisper. “Again. Now.”

“Toji’s gonna be pissed,” he says, but he’s already moving, already shifting to position himself above you. “He specifically said to let you rest.”

“I don’t care,” you say, your voice stronger now. “I want you. Now.”

Sukuna hesitates for just a moment. Then he’s reaching for the waistband of Naoya’s borrowed pants, tugging them down your legs with surprising gentleness. “When Toji finds out I fucked you without him—“

“Ahem.”

Yea, you’re fucked.

Request more omg the way i couldn't stop writing...

[nottellingofname]

Thank you for 1k on this!!! (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

Originally, Choso was supposed to be in this as well but i figured maybe that might be too much LOL. Anyways, if there's a demand for part 2, I might release a lil smt with different characters HEHE

EDIT:

This is a scheduled post. So far, i've gotten requests and comments for a part 2 HAHAHA sooo part 2 on the way!!!

[angel06babysworld]

Fav fics rn?

rafe loves overstimulating you (smut, obx) - @rosiecherie

Rain On Me (smut, jjk) - @nottellingofname

Love Me Harder (mimi series, bot) - @sugarhigh14

Boyfriend ASMR (smut, jjk) - @yoonsucks

Crazy gf!reader changing bio to ‘single’ after Boyfriend!Sukuna doesn’t reply to a text immediately (fluff, jjk) - @reignpage

Do You Get Deja Vu? (angst, obx) - @bittersweetlyblue

nerdy rafe invites you over for dinner at his house, but you had other plans (smut, obx) - @drewsbby

she’s crazy but shes mine (fluff, jjk) - @lilithkleia

blues muse (fluff, dc) - @hufflezki

no ones ever had me, not like you (literally everything, obx) - @evansbby

[nottellingofname]

I'm blushing... Thank you for thinking of my humble "rain on me" post 🫶🏻

[nottellingofname]

For My Caleb ⋆⭒˚｡⋆✈︎

Colonel Stinkpants!!!

Caleb sits at the kitchen table, focused on paperwork from his squadron, purple eyes scanning each document with military precision.

He’s been like this for hours—calm, collected, frustratingly responsible.

It’s been days since he reduced you to a quivering mess with his fingers buried inside you, and the memory makes you shift in your seat.

You need his attention, and if being good won’t get it, perhaps being bad will.

You stretch, deliberately making your t-shirt ride up above your navel, but Caleb doesn’t even glance your way. His pen scratches against paper in a steady rhythm that only intensifies your growing agitation.

Boredom is a physical ache, and Caleb is the only cure.

“Ge ge,” you call, infusing your voice with sweetness that doesn’t match the mischief bubbling beneath your skin. “I have a question.”

“Hmm?” He doesn’t look up, just makes another note in the margin of whatever document holds his attention captive.

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?”

That gets his attention.

His pen stills, and he looks up at you with one eyebrow raised, purple eyes meeting yours with amused confusion. “A worm?”

“Yeah.” You nod seriously. “Like, a regular earthworm. All slimy and wiggly. Would you still love me then?”

The corners of his mouth twitch. “I suppose I would. Though I’d have to find a very small jar to keep you in.”

“You‘d keep me in a jar?” You feign outrage. “That’s cruel imprisonment!”

“Would you prefer I let you loose in the garden, where birds could eat you?”

He’s back to his paperwork already, amusement dying on his lips as his attention returns to whatever boring military matters consume his day.

This won’t do at all.

You slouch deeper into your chair, studying his profile. His jawline is sharp enough to cut glass, especially when he’s concentrating like this.

You think about how that jaw felt between your thighs, how those perfect lips stretched around your clit, and heat blooms low in your belly.

“Don’t you wish you were taller?” you ask suddenly, knowing full well that at 6’2”, Caleb towers over most people.

He doesn’t even look up this time. “Not particularly.”

“I bet if you were taller, you’d have made Colonel faster.” You keep your tone innocent, fishing for any reaction. “Maybe they’d respect you more.”

Caleb’s lips curve into a patient smile, still not rising to your rage bait. “I think my height is adequate for commanding respect, Pips.”

You huff, frustrated by his nonchalance.

Most brothers would have snapped by now, told you to shut up or go away.

But never Caleb.

His patience with you seems inexhaustible, which only makes you more determined to find his limits.

“I bet I could beat you up,” you declare, rising from your chair to strike a martial arts pose you vaguely remember from a movie.

This earns you a genuine laugh, the sound rich and warm. Caleb finally puts his pen down, giving you his full attention as he leans back in his chair. “Is that so?”

“Absolutely. I’m scrappy. You‘re getting soft behind that desk.” You dance around him, throwing fake punches that disturb the air inches from his shoulders. “All that paperwork. Not enough action. I could totally take you.”

Caleb catches one of your wrists mid-swing, his grip gentle but impossible to break. His thumb presses against your pulse point, feeling it race beneath your skin. “You think so, mei mei?”

There’s a challenge in his voice that makes your stomach flip, but he releases you just as quickly, returning to his paperwork with maddening composure. The brief contact only sharpens your need to provoke him further.

“You didn’t even deny it!” you crow, spinning away. “You know I’m right.”

“I’m simply choosing not to engage with your delusions,” he replies mildly, flipping to the next page in his stack. “Some might call that maturity.”

You stick out your tongue at his bent head, even though he can’t see it. “Maturity is boring.”

“So I’ve been told. Repeatedly. By you.”

His calm dismissal stings more than it should.

You pace the kitchen, trying to think of another angle of attack.

What would actually get under Caleb’s skin? What would crack that infuriating composure?

You glance at him, taking in the steady hands that have explored every inch of your body, the strong neck you’ve marked with your teeth, the mouth that’s tasted every part of you.

And suddenly, you know.

If there’s one thing Caleb can’t stand, it’s having his devotion to you questioned.

The way his face changes when someone even hints you might not be his priority, the possessive gleam that enters his eyes when another man looks your way for too long.

That’s your ammunition.

You pause your pacing, studying him with new purpose. Questioning his love for you—not as a joke, but as a genuine doubt—that’s what will finally break through his calm facade.

The thought sends a thrill down your spine, pooling heat between your legs. You want to see that look again—the one that says he’s going to devour you whole and make you thank him for it.

But you can’t just blurt it out. This requires a more tactical approach, something that will catch him completely off guard.

You need to position yourself where he can’t easily escape, where he has to confront your challenge head-on.

Your eyes drift to the laundry basket by the couch, filled with clean clothes waiting to be folded.

Perfect.

Caleb always folds the laundry when he finishes his paperwork—a habit from his military training. He claims it helps him decompress.

You’ll wait until he moves to that task, then strike. Your bratty behavior has earned you his attention before, but this time, you’re playing for higher stakes.

A slow smile spreads across your face as you watch Caleb sign the last document with a flourish. He stands, stretching his arms above his head, his black t-shirt riding up to reveal a strip of toned abdomen that makes your mouth water.

“Finished?” you ask innocently.

“For now.” He cracks his neck, then glances at the laundry basket. “Thought I’d fold these before dinner.”

You watch him walk to the couch, exactly as predicted, and settle beside the basket. It’s time to put your plan into action.

Without hesitation, you launch yourself across the room and drop directly onto Caleb’s lap, sending a t-shirt he was folding tumbling to the floor.

Your weight lands squarely on his thighs, your back pressed against his chest in a move calculated to disrupt his perfect composure.

His hands immediately fly to your waist, strong fingers gripping your sides to steady you both and prevent you from toppling the entire laundry operation.

“What the—“ he starts, but adapts instantly, his military training showing in how quickly he regains his balance. “Y/N, I’m trying to fold laundry here.”

You wiggle your hips, settling more firmly against him. “Boring.”

Instead of pushing you off as most would, Caleb sighs and stands in one fluid motion, lifting you with him as if you weigh nothing at all.

His hands remain locked around your waist as he carries you the few steps to the couch, then sits back down with you still attached to him like a barnacle.

“There,” he says, his breath tickling the back of your neck. “Now at least the clothes won’t end up on the floor.”

You turn sideways in his lap so you can see his face, your legs draped over his thighs. His expression is one of fond exasperation, purple eyes warm with the affection he never bothers to hide when it comes to you.

“You’re so accommodating,” you say, poking his chest with one finger. “It’s annoying.”

His laugh rumbles through his chest, vibrating against your side. “Would you prefer I toss you on the floor?”

“Maybe,” you challenge, jutting your chin out. “At least that would be exciting.”

Caleb rolls his eyes, one hand settling on your thigh while the other reaches for another shirt from the basket. “Your definition of excitement concerns me sometimes, Pips.”

He attempts to return to folding, managing to fold one sleeve of the shirt while keeping you balanced on his lap. You need more. You need his full attention.

You pout dramatically, pushing out your lower lip and widening your eyes in the expression that used to get you extra dessert when you were children. “You’re ignoring me.”

“I’m multitasking,” Caleb corrects, though his lips twitch with amusement. “Some of us have responsibilities.”

“Folding t-shirts is hardly saving the world,” you scoff, plucking the garment from his hands and tossing it back into the basket. “And you’re avoiding the question.”

His eyebrow arches. “What question? You haven’t asked one.”

Perfect opening. Your heart rate kicks up a notch as you prepare to deploy your tactical strike. You shift in his lap, turning to face him more directly, your eyes locked on his.

“Caleb,” you begin, your voice deliberately soft, vulnerable. “Do you love me?”

The question hangs between you, transforming the air. Caleb’s expression shifts from amusement to something more serious, his purple eyes darkening slightly as they search your face.

“Of course I love you, mei mei,” he answers without hesitation, his hand squeezing your thigh gently. “You know that.”

The tenderness in his voice almost makes you reconsider your plan.

Almost.

But the heat simmering beneath your skin demands more, and you’ve come too far to back down now.

“Then why haven’t I tasted you?” you ask, the words tumbling out in a rush.

You watch his expression carefully, delighting in the way his eyes widen fractionally, the only sign that you’ve caught him off guard.

“If you love me so much, why haven’t you let me taste you the way you’ve tasted me?”

Caleb’s breath catches, his body tensing beneath yours. His hand on your thigh tightens imperceptibly, fingers pressing into your flesh.

“What are you talking about?” he asks, but his voice has dropped half an octave, taking on that rough edge that only emerges when his control begins to slip.

You press your advantage, leaning closer until your chest brushes against his. “You’ve had your tongue all over me, inside me. You’ve tasted every drop I have to give.” Your own boldness surprises you, but you don’t stop.

“But I don’t know what you taste like. Do you taste bad? Is that it?”

A flash of something dangerous crosses his features, there and gone so quickly you might have imagined it. But his breathing has changed, grown deeper, more measured, like he’s deliberately controlling each inhale and exhale.

“You’re crossing a line, Y/N,” he warns, but makes no move to push you away.

“Or maybe,” you continue, ignoring the warning, “it’s because you’re stinky? Poor hygiene? Is that why you won’t let your mei mei taste you?” You wrinkle your nose in mock disgust. “I bet that‘s it. Colonel Stinkypants.”

The ridiculous accusation hangs in the air for a beat before Caleb’s expression transforms. A slow, predatory smile spreads across his face, turning your insides to liquid heat. This is the look of a man who’s decided to stop playing nice.

“I mean, seriously, when was the last time you showered? Yesterday? The day before?”

You continue your teasing assault on Caleb’s cleanliness, the words spilling from your lips in a nervous stream as you register the dangerous shift in his demeanor.

His eyes have darkened to near-black, the purple barely visible around dilated pupils.

“Because I’ve heard that guys can get pretty funky down there if they don’t wash properly, and—“

Your words die in your throat as Caleb moves with military precision—one hand shooting up to grasp the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair and forming a tight fist.

His other hand finds your throat, not squeezing but holding—his thumb and fingers positioned on either side of your windpipe, applying just enough pressure to make his control unmistakable.

“You want to keep running that pretty little mouth?” he asks, voice dangerously soft. The sudden shift in power steals your breath more effectively than his hand on your throat.

Your spine curves like a drawn bow, ribs lifting toward the ceiling as if pulled by invisible strings, a puppet responding to its master's touch without conscious thought.

You try to respond but can only manage a small gasp as Caleb’s grip in your hair tightens, pulling your head back to expose more of your throat to his hold.

“I’ve been patient with you all day,” Caleb continues, his breath hot against your ear. “Answered your stupid questions. Let you sit on my lap and interrupt my work.”

His thumb traces a gentle line along your jawline, contradicting the firmness of his grip. “But questioning my love for you? Suggesting I’m not clean enough for your precious mouth?”

He pulls your head back further, your neck stretched taut under his hand.

“That‘s crossing a line, mei mei.”

You reach up instinctively, your hands finding his forearms, feeling the corded muscles tense beneath your touch. You don’t try to pull him away. Instead, your fingers curl around his wrists, holding on like he’s anchoring you in a storm.

“If you want to act like a brat,” Caleb says, his lips brushing against your ear with each word, “if you want to push me until I snap, then you better be prepared to take whatever I give you. You understand that, Y/N?”

The question demands an answer, but his grip makes it difficult to speak. You manage a small nod, feeling the slight increase in pressure against your throat as you move.

“No,” Caleb tightens his hold on your hair, sending pinpricks of pain across your scalp that somehow translate into pleasure between your legs. “I want to hear you say it. Tell me you understand what happens when you push me too far.”

He releases just enough pressure on your throat to allow you to speak, his eyes watching your face with predatory focus.

“I understand,” you whisper, your voice hoarse and unfamiliar to your own ears.

“And what happens when you push me too far?” He’s teaching you, making you articulate the consequences of your actions.

You swallow hard against his palm. “You—you snap.”

“And when I snap?”

“You take control,” you manage, heat rushing to your cheeks at having to say it aloud. “You make me take whatever you give me.”

“That’s right. And is that what you want, Y/N? For me to take control? To make you take what I decide to give you?”

The question hangs between you, weighted with meaning. This is your chance to back out, to laugh it off and return to safer ground.

But the heat pooling between your legs, the way your nipples have hardened beneath your shirt, the quickening of your breath under his hold—all betray your body’s answer before your lips can form the words.

“Yes,” you gasp, your hips shifting restlessly in his lap. “Please, ge ge.”

His hand moves from your throat to cup your jaw, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your cheeks.

“Such a fucking brat,” he murmurs, but there’s a note of affection beneath the roughness. “Always pushing, always testing limits.”

His thumb traces your lower lip, pressing against it until your mouth parts slightly. “Well, congratulations, mei mei. You’ve found my limit.”

His grip on your hair loosens slightly, not releasing but adjusting for better control. You feel his other hand leave your jaw and slide down to your waist, his fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave marks.

“So you want to know what I taste like?” Caleb asks, his voice pitched low, resonating through your body like a physical touch. “You want to put that smart mouth to better use than asking stupid questions?”

You nod eagerly, your hands still gripping his forearms, feeling the power contained in those muscles.

“Yes,” you breathe, unable to tear your gaze from his face. “I want to taste you. All of you.”

Caleb studies you for a long moment, his eyes tracing every feature of your face as if committing it to memory. Then he nods once, decision made.

“Good,” he says, and there’s that dangerous smile again, the one that promises both pleasure and punishment in equal measure. “Because I’m going to feed you every fucking inch of me until that pretty throat bulges with it. I’m going to make you taste me until you can‘t remember any other flavor.”

“And if you still think I’m ‘stinky’ after that,” he continues, his voice hardening, “I‘ll wash your filthy little mouth out with soap. Understand?”

“Yes, ge ge,” you respond immediately, your body humming with anticipation. “I understand.”

“Then let’s see if you can be a good girl for me after all that bratty behavior.”

Caleb’s hands move with decisive strength, lifting you off his lap only to force you down onto your knees in front of him.

Your legs hit the hardwood floor with a thud that sends shock waves up your spine, the sudden position change making your head spin.

You barely have time to adjust before he‘s spreading his legs wide, his grey sweatpants pulling taut across his thighs as he creates a space for you to kneel between them.

“There,” he says, satisfaction coloring his tone as he looks down at you from his seat on the couch. “That’s where bratty little sisters belong when they question their ge ge’s love. On their fucking knees.”

His hand finds the back of your head again, fingers threading through your hair with deceptive gentleness before closing into a tight fist.

“Caleb—“ you start, but he cuts you off by using his grip to guide your face toward his crotch. Through the thin material of his sweatpants, you can see the outline of his cock beginning to harden, the impressive length making your mouth go dry.

Your hands instinctively fly to his thighs, trying to brace yourself as he pulls you closer. His muscles feel like steel beneath your palms, tense and unyielding.

For a moment, you resist the pressure of his hand in your hair, not out of reluctance but from the sheer overwhelming reality of what’s happening.

“Be a good girl,” Caleb commands, his voice dropping to that low register that bypasses your brain and speaks directly to the ache between your legs.

He tugs your hair sharply, the brief sting bringing tears to your eyes. “After all that talk, all those questions, this is what you wanted, isn‘t it? To taste me?”

You nod as best you can with his firm grip controlling your head. “Yes, ge ge.”

“Then stop fighting me,” he growls. “Put that fucking mouth to better use than asking if I‘m stinky.”

You feel a familiar weightless sensation enveloping your arms. Caleb’s gravity evol activates with a subtle purple glow in his eyes, and your arms are suddenly pulled behind your back, wrists crossing at the small of your spine as if bound by invisible restraints.

“What—“ you gasp, testing the hold and finding it unbreakable. Without your hands to brace yourself, you’re completely at his mercy, your balance dependent entirely on his grip in your hair.

“Can’t have these getting in the way,” Caleb explains, his free hand gesturing toward your restrained arms. “I want your mouth focused on one task only. No helping with your hands like a little cheater.”

“Now,” he continues, gathering your hair into a makeshift ponytail, “since you’re so concerned about my hygiene, why don’t you help me out of these pants?” His smile is all predator as he watches your face. “With your teeth.”

You blink up at him, momentarily stunned by the degrading request. Leaning forward with Caleb’s grip guiding you, you bring your face to the waistband of his sweatpants.

Your nose brushes against the warm skin of his lower abdomen, and you inhale deeply, finding not the imaginary stink you teased him about but the clean scent of soap and that unique musk that's sole scented. He must've been using your soap again.

You open your mouth, catching the elastic band between your teeth. It tastes of laundry detergent and salt, not unpleasant but strange against your tongue. With Caleb’s hand still firmly in your hair, you begin to tug downward, teeth clenched on the fabric.

“That‘s it,” Caleb encourages, lifting his hips slightly to aid your efforts. “Such a good little bitch now that you’re getting what you want.”

The praise makes your core clench, your thighs pressing together as you continue your awkward task.

The waistband rolls down inch by inch, revealing the defined V of his hips, the trail of dark hair leading downward from his navel. When you reach the base of his cock, the fabric catches, requiring a harder tug.

“Come on, mei mei,” Caleb taunts, his voice rough with growing arousal. “Show me how badly you want to see if I’m clean down there.”

Determination fuels your efforts, teeth clamping harder on the fabric as you pull downward with renewed vigor.

The waistband finally clears his cock, which springs free with enough force to make you flinch back slightly.

Caleb’s grip in your hair prevents you from retreating far, holding you just inches away from his now exposed flesh.

“Keep going,” he orders, and you obey, continuing to drag the sweatpants down with your teeth until they’re bunched around his thighs. Only then does he release your hair, allowing you to sit back slightly and take in the sight before you.

Caleb’s cock stands at half-mast, thicker and longer than you’d imagined even in your most private fantasies.

The head is flushed dark pink, emerging partially from the foreskin, a bead of moisture already gathering at the slit. Veins run along the shaft, giving it a texture that makes your mouth water at the thought of feeling it on your tongue.

“See? Not stinky at all,” Caleb says, his tone mock-offended as he watches your wide-eyed assessment. “Clean enough to eat off of.”

His hand returns to your hair, this time grabbing a fistful at the crown of your head. “And that’s exactly what you’re going to do.”

With firm pressure, he guides your face forward until your cheek makes contact with his cock. The heat of it against your skin is startling—like touching velvet-covered steel, hard yet somehow soft on the surface.

Caleb sighs at the contact, his grip tightening as he begins to rub his shaft against your face in slow, deliberate strokes.

“This is what questioning my love gets you,” he murmurs, using your face as if it’s his personal toy. “My cock marking every inch of this pretty face. Is this proof enough for you, Y/N? That I love you enough to let you taste me?”

Your eyes flutter closed as he drags his cock across your cheekbone, then down to trace the seam of your lips. The musky, clean scent of him fills your nostrils, and you can taste the salt of his skin when the head brushes against your mouth.

“Open those eyes,” Caleb commands. “I want you to see what you begged for.”

You comply immediately, looking up to find his purple gaze burning into yours, pupils so dilated they nearly swallow the color entirely. The intensity of his stare pins you in place as effectively as his evol holding your arms.

“Now get it hard for me,” he instructs, still rubbing himself against your face. “Show me what that bratty mouth can do besides ask stupid fucking questions.”

With your arms still pinned behind you by Caleb’s evol, you lean forward and extend your tongue, making that first tentative lick along the underside of his shaft.

The taste is clean, slightly salty—nothing like the imaginary funkiness you teased him about. You trace the prominent vein from base to tip, feeling it pulse against your tongue as his cock hardens further under your attention.

Each stroke of your tongue reveals more of his flavor, drawing a small grunt from deep in his chest that fuels your determination to draw out more sounds.

“See how fucking clean I am?” Caleb taunts, watching your exploration of his cock with hooded eyes. “All that shit-talking about me being stinky, and now you can’t get enough.”

You respond by lapping at him more eagerly, dragging your tongue up and down his length in long, wet strokes.

With each pass of your tongue, his cock grows harder, fuller, the head swelling to an angry purple-red that matches his eyes when he uses his evol.

When you reach the tip, you circle it with your tongue, tracing the ridge where the head meets the shaft before focusing on the sensitive underside. A drop of pre-cum beads at the slit, and you gather it with the flat of your tongue, savoring the slightly bitter tang.

“Fuck,” Caleb hisses, his grip in your hair tightening. “Look at you, finally putting that mouth to good use.”

Emboldened by his reaction, you wrap your lips around the head of his cock, sucking lightly as you glance up to gauge his response. The angle forces you to look up through your lashes.

Caleb’s expression is a mix of arrogance and strain—lips curled in a smirk even as his nostrils flare with each inhale, eyes narrowed but unable to hide the flash of vulnerability your mouth draws from him.

You hollow your cheeks, increasing the suction around his sensitive head, and are rewarded with a sharp exhale that sounds almost like surprise.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, the harshness in his voice softening momentarily. “Take it in that pretty mouth.”

You maintain eye contact as you work your lips further down his shaft, taking him deeper into the wet heat of your mouth.

The size of him stretches your lips wide, the weight of his cock heavy on your tongue. You can only manage about halfway before feeling the urge to gag.

But what you lack in deep-throating skills you make up for in pure horniness, going at his dick like it's your last meal, tongue working overtime while your head bobs up and down like a dashboard ornament on a dirt road.

Caleb rolls his eyes, though the gesture is belied by the pleasure evident in his tense jaw and the pulse you can feel against your tongue.

“Amateur hour,” he taunts, but his breathing has grown ragged, his chest rising and falling more rapidly than before. “Is that the best you can do?”

The challenge in his voice spurs you to take him deeper, relaxing your throat as you’ve seen in videos. Your effort earns you another inch before your body rebels, eyes watering as you pull back slightly.

Apparently tired of your pace, Caleb’s hips suddenly thrust forward, pushing his cock deeper into your mouth than you were prepared for.

The unexpected movement makes you gag slightly, your throat constricting around his intrusion.

“That’s better,” he groans, holding your head in place as he rolls his hips, feeding you more of his length with each shallow thrust. “Taking what I give you, just like you promised.”

Tears spring to your eyes from the effort of accommodating him, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you focus on breathing through your nose, on relaxing your jaw and throat to make room for his increasingly forceful movements.

Just as you’re getting into a rhythm, Caleb abruptly pulls you off his cock, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his glistening head. You gasp for breath, lips swollen and wet, cheeks flushed with exertion and arousal.

“Not bad,” he concedes, his voice rough with desire despite the casual assessment. “But I think we need to make sure you understand exactly who’s in charge here.”

Without warning, he grabs the base of his cock with his free hand, the other still firmly tangled in your hair.

“This cock is a fucking privilege,” Caleb states, his tone shifting to something harder, more colonel than brother. “Not something you get just because you decided to be a brat today.”

Before you can respond, he slaps his cock against your cheek, the wet smack echoing in the quiet room.

The impact isn’t painful—just enough to startle you, to remind you of your position kneeling before him. He does it again, harder this time, leaving a wet streak of pre-cum and your own saliva across your skin.

“This what you wanted?” he asks, continuing to slap his cock against your other cheek, your chin, your forehead. “To be marked up with my cock? To have my cum all over your pretty face?”

Each smack makes your whole body shiver with that dirty, fucked-up pleasure that gets you so wet, the humiliation turning you on even more till you're writhing around on your knees like a bitch in heat, desperate to grind against anything that'll give your aching pussy some relief.

“Open wide,” Caleb commands, his voice leaving no room for hesitation. “Stick out your tongue like a good little slut.”

You comply immediately, opening your mouth and extending your tongue, presenting it as a target for his next blow. Caleb rewards your obedience by slapping his cock directly onto your waiting tongue, the weight and heat of it making you moan around the intrusion.

“That’s it,” he praises, dragging the head of his cock across your outstretched tongue in slow circles. “Taste every fucking inch of how clean I am.”

He keeps it up, switching between smacking that hard dick on your eager tongue and sliding it all over your lips, leaving them sticky and shiny with his juice.

Your jaw aches from being held open, drool beginning to spill down your chin, but damn, the sheer dirtiness of it all has you squeezing your legs together like that's gonna help the throbbing ache between them that's practically begging to be touched.

“Please,” you manage to whisper when he pulls back for a moment, your voice barely recognizable to your own ears.

“Please what?” Caleb asks, eyebrow raised as he continues to stroke himself inches from your face, occasionally tapping the head against your lips.

“Please feed it to me,” you beg, surprised by your own desperation. “I want to taste more of you.”

A slow, predatory smile spreads across his face. “Since you asked so nicely.”

With deliberate patience, Caleb begins to push his cock back into your mouth, inch by excruciating inch. This time, he doesn’t thrust—he simply feeds you his length gradually, allowing you to adjust to the invasion at his pace, not yours.

“Take it all,” he encourages as you struggle with the last few inches. “Breathe through your nose. Relax your throat.”

Following his instructions, you manage to take him deeper than before, your nose nearly touching his lower abdomen as the head of his cock nudges the back of your throat.

Tears stream down your cheeks from the effort, but the pride in Caleb’s eyes makes everything worth it.

“Perfect,” he breathes, holding you there for a moment before allowing you to pull back for air.

As you enthusiastically begin sucking him again, you become increasingly aware of your own neglected arousal.

Without conscious thought, you begin to rock your hips, seeking some relief for the ache between your legs. Finding Caleb’s foot positioned between your knees, you press your core against it, grinding down in small, desperate movements that match the rhythm of your mouth on his cock.

Caleb notices immediately, his lips curving into a smirk. “Look at you, humping my foot like a desperate little dog while you suck my cock.”

He doesn’t move his foot away—if anything, he presses it more firmly against you, giving you something solid to ride. “Go ahead, get yourself off. Show me how much you love serving me.”

You increase the pressure and speed of your grinding, shamelessly using his foot for your pleasure while continuing to work his cock with your mouth.

Your pussy’s soaking wet while his fat cock stretches your mouth open and his foot grinds against your clit, making you dizzy with how fucking good it feels.

“Such a filthy little slut,” Caleb growls, watching you grind against his foot while sucking him. “Look at you, so desperate you’d fuck anything. Even your brother’s feet.”

His words only make you wetter, hungrier for more. “Is this what you wanted all along? Why you were being such a pain in my ass today? Just needed to be put on your knees and shown your place?”

You moan around his cock, the vibration traveling up his shaft and drawing a hiss from between his clenched teeth.

Now you’re exactly where you wanted to be. On your knees, being used for his pleasure while he watches you fuck yourself on his foot.

“That’s it,” he continues, voice rough with arousal. “Take it deeper. Show me how sorry you are for questioning whether I love you enough.”

You relax your throat further, taking him deeper than before, your nose brushing against the coarse hair at the base of his cock.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his hips jerking slightly. “Always knew this fucking mouth was good for something besides talking back.”

Your saliva flows freely now, coating his shaft with each bob of your head, creating obscene wet sounds that fill the room. Strings of drool connect your swollen lips to his glistening cock when you pull back for air, only to dive down again with renewed enthusiasm.

The messier it gets, the more Caleb seems to enjoy it—his breathing growing ragged, his grip in your hair tightening to the point of pain.

“Such a sloppy cocksucker,” he taunts, though the strain in his voice betrays how much your efforts are affecting him. “Getting your fucking drool all over me. This what you needed, huh? To be treated like the little cumslut you are?”

You try to nod around his thickness, earning another grunt of approval as the movement causes your throat to constrict around him.

Growing impatient with your pace, Caleb suddenly releases your hair only to grab your head with both hands, fingers splayed across your scalp for maximum control.

With this new grip, he begins to thrust more forcefully into your mouth, using you as if you’re nothing more than a warm hole for his pleasure.

“Gonna fuck this pretty throat,” he warns, his hips picking up speed. “Show you exactly what happens when you question me, my love.”

You struggle to keep up with his brutal pace, your jaw aching as he pushes deeper with each thrust. Just when you think you might need to tap out, to signal that it‘s too much, Caleb’s foot beneath you flexes, his lace of his feet pressing firmly against your clit through your clothes.

The sudden pressure sends a jolt of pleasure through your core, momentarily distracting you from the assault on your throat.

“That’s right,” Caleb murmurs, noticing your reaction. “Hump my foot like the desperate little bitch you are. Get yourself off while I use your throat.”

“Open wider,” Caleb commands, his voice strained now, control slipping as his pleasure builds. “Let me see those fucking eyes.”

You comply immediately, stretching your jaw to its limit and looking up at him through tear-spiked lashes.

“That’s it,” he praises, his thumbs stroking your temples in a brief moment of tenderness. “Taking my cock so fucking well now. Such a good little sister.”

You moan around him, trying to communicate without words how much you need this, need him.

Suddenly, you feel the restraint of his evol release, your arms falling free at your sides. The return of sensation is almost painful, pins and needles racing up and down your limbs as blood flow returns to normal.

Before you can fully process the change, Caleb’s hands tighten in your hair, holding you firmly in place.

“Gonna cum,” he warns, his voice dropping to a growl that seems torn from somewhere deep inside him. “Gonna fill this fucking throat. And you’re going to swallow every drop, aren’t you?”

You can only make a muffled sound of agreement, your hands now free to clutch at his thighs, feeling the muscles tense beneath your fingers as he approaches his climax.

“Look at me,” Caleb demands, waiting until your eyes lock with his before delivering his final thrust. “Don’t you fucking look away.”

His cock drives deep into your throat one last time, his hands holding your head firmly against his pelvis as his entire body goes rigid.

You feel him pulse against your tongue, hot spurts of cum shooting directly down your throat, giving you no choice but to swallow or choke. His eyes never leave yours, forcing you to witness his pleasure.

Your orgasm crashes through you without warning, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure radiate outward from your core. You moan around his still-pulsing cock, the vibration drawing a hiss from Caleb as he empties himself down your throat.

“Fuck,” he gasps, his hips jerking with aftershocks. “That’s it, take it all. Every fucking drop.”

You swallow reflexively, again and again, your throat working around him as your own orgasm continues to pulse through your system.

As the intensity begins to fade, your movements become languid, your mouth lazily suckling at the head of his cock, reluctant to release him completely.

Your hips continue to roll against his foot in slow, deliberate circles as you chase the last tremors of your climax.

His hands have loosened in your hair, fingers now gently massaging your scalp where he had pulled so roughly moments before.

Slowly, carefully, he withdraws from your mouth, his softening cock slipping past your swollen lips with a wet sound. You open your mouth to show him the evidence of his release—a small pool of cum mixed with your saliva on your tongue.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing your lower lip. “Swallow it.”

You close your mouth and swallow obediently, maintaining eye contact as his seed slides down your already well-used throat.

A small smile of approval curves his lips, but it’s quickly replaced by something more wicked.

Before you can react, Caleb leans down, gathering saliva in his mouth. With deliberate slowness, he spits directly into your open mouth, the warm glob landing on your tongue alongside the lingering taste of his cum.

“That too,” he commands, his voice softer but no less authoritative. “Swallow everything I give you.”

You don’t hesitate, closing your mouth and swallowing his spit just as eagerly as you swallowed his cum.

When you’ve swallowed everything, you open your mouth again to show him your empty tongue, seeking his approval.

Caleb’s thumb traces your swollen bottom lip, his eyes taking in the mess he’s made of you. Your face is tear-streaked from the effort of taking him so deeply, saliva and traces of cum glistening on your chin and cheeks.

With careful movements, he begins to clean you, using his fingers to wipe away the evidence of your submission from your skin.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice gentler now that his lust has been sated. “Such a fucking mess. My mess.”

Instead of wiping it away, he pushes it back between your lips, watching intently as you automatically suck his thumb clean.

“That’s it,” Caleb encourages, repeating the process with another drop that had escaped down your chin. “Don’t want to waste any, do we?”

You shake your head, still floating in the hazy aftermath of your orgasm and the intensity of what just transpired between you.

Caleb continues his cleaning, gathering every stray bit of cum and saliva with his fingers and feeding it back to you.

When he’s satisfied that he’s reclaimed every drop, his hands cup your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones with surprising tenderness.

“So beautiful like this,” he whispers, leaning down from his seat on the couch to press his lips against your forehead. “All fucked out and sweet for me.”

His mouth travels across your face, placing featherlight kisses on your eyelids, your tear-stained cheeks, the tip of your nose.

“Never question my love for you again,” he murmurs against your skin, the words both command and plea. “You understand?”

“Yes, ge ge,” you respond, your voice hoarse from the abuse your throat has taken.

Caleb’s kisses continue their journey, trailing down to your jaw and then your neck. When he reaches the sensitive juncture where neck meets shoulder, he lingers, sucking gently at the skin until you know he’s left a mark.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, pulling back to examine your face with sudden concern. His hands run down your arms, checking for any damage from being restrained by his evol. “Was I too rough?”

You hadn’t considered whether anything that happened could be classified as “too rough.”

“No,” you assure him, your hands reaching up to rest on his thighs. “It was perfect. I wanted all of it.”

“You did so well,” he praises, his fingers threading through your hair much more gently than before. “Taking me so deep. Swallowing everything I gave you.”

His praise warms you from the inside out, making you glow with a sense of accomplishment that seems disproportionate to the act of sucking his cock.

But that’s how it’s always been between you—Caleb’s approval means more than anyone else’s, his praise capable of sustaining you through the darkest times.

“Did I taste bad?” Caleb asks, a hint of teasing returning to his voice as he references your earlier taunts. “Stinky, was it?”

You shake your head, a smile tugging at your lips despite the residual soreness. “No. You tasted...” You search for the right words, wanting to be honest rather than just flattering. “Sweet and tangy. Nothing like I expected.”

“And what were you expecting?” His eyebrow arches, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I just wanted to get a rise out of you.”

Caleb laughs, the sound rich and warm. “Well, you certainly managed that.” His hand drifts to your chin, tilting your face up to ensure you meet his gaze. “You were amazing, Y/N. Taking me like a fucking champ.”

The praise makes you blush, as if you haven't been sucking the life out of him just seconds before.

“My perfect little cocksucker,” he continues, thumb brushing across your still-swollen lips. There’s genuine wonder in his voice, as if he’s discovered something precious and unexpected. “Who knew you had such talents hidden away?”

You duck your head, suddenly shy. Caleb doesn’t allow the retreat for long, his fingers under your chin gently but firmly guiding your gaze back to his.

“Don‘t hide from me,” he says softly. “Not after that. Not after showing me how perfectly you can surrender.”

“I‘m not hiding,” you whisper, your hands sliding up his thighs to rest on his hips. “Just processing.”

Caleb nods, understanding without further explanation. His hand moves to the back of your neck, massaging the tight muscles there with expert pressure.

“How about we get you off this hard floor? Get you cleaned up properly?”

You nod gratefully, allowing Caleb to help you to your feet. Your legs wobble slightly, pins and needles shooting through your calves as circulation returns.

Caleb steadies you, his arm wrapping around your waist. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your temple, pressing another kiss there. “Always got you, mei mei.”

Refer to Party RSVP

Comment to be tagged!

@littlewhitefairy7777 @celaenaglynn @mothmans-left-nipple @lotusapple-xia @gflscer @swiggitty-swoogity @aoomiines @puchu-puchuu @fulldoves @goobermi6 @typicalme23 @teira-osairis @vy-olet @calebsbabyapple @xyzyogurt @earthtohoney @skyekudasai @kalydos @navvzy @tempeststhings @young-adult-summer @remnantsofgildedcages @applebite01 @vatarvaliantchaosvalkyrie @applarchve @hangingwiththestars @thisaintviolet69 @asilaydead @snowapples-stuff @calebsmeimeii @cherrysherryblossom @mindelicious1 @nansfyy @ccoeurhee @tomriddleslovergirl @beelpita @cchiiwinkle @feelingfaye @makiishiima @lil-cinn @elegantpoliceflower @brookethebitch-official

[nottellingofname]

Could you pretty please write a stepdad!toji where he has his friends over and he reveals that he’s been sleeping with his stepdaughter and is casually bragging that she’s a squirter but they teasingly don’t believe him so he invites you to come join/meet them and prove them wrong. Like a major emphasis on exhibitionism where they just sit there and watch you on Toji’s lap whilst he turns you into a fountain and !maybe¡ they take turns trying to make you gush like omgggg pls im ovulating. like girl i LOVE your writing style so much this would be top tier 👅💦❤️❤️❤️

Rain On Me ﾟ⋆☂︎⋆

˙⋆✮ Warnings: NSFW / Explicit Sexual Content, MDNI (Minors Do Not Interact), Squirting, Gangbang, Exhibition, Dick Piercings yums, passing out, a whole lotta freak. This request made my pussy so wet i squirted too. 11k filth.

The cold beers sweat in their hands as the men sprawl across Toji’s living room, a haze of cigarette smoke hanging in the air despite the open windows. Another Friday night with the boys, and it’s Toji’s turn to host.

This usually means a steady supply of the good whiskey and, if they’re lucky, maybe some decent food that didn’t come from a delivery app. The conversation flows easy, the insults flying between the men who’ve known each other too long to pretend.

Sukuna stretches his massive frame across the couch, his tattoos rippling as he throws an arm over the backrest. He’s already working on his third beer, the empties lined up on the coffee table like fallen soldiers.

Shiu perches on the edge of the loveseat, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, eyes half-lidded as he watches the others through the smoke.

Naoya’s pacing, all nervous as usual, cracking his knuckles as he waits for his turn in their rotating game of bullshit.

And Toji’s kicked back in his recliner, legs spread, one hand on his whiskey, the other absently scratching at the scar on his lip. There’s something smug in the set of his shoulders tonight, a secret tucked behind those razor-sharp green eyes.

“So I’m telling her to get on all fours,” Sukuna says, his voice dropping into that low register that always signals he’s about to say something filthy. “And this bitch, she’s looking at me like I’m crazy.”

“But you are crazy,” Shiu cuts in, flicking ash into a half-empty pizza box.

Sukuna ignores him. “She says to me, ‘I’m not that kind of girl.’” He mimics a high, prissy voice that makes Naoya snort. “So I say, ‘Baby, you’re exactly that kind of girl. You’re just afraid of how much you’re gonna like it.’”

“You’re so full of shit,” Shiu says, but there’s no heat in it.

“Nah, man, she was begging by the end.” Sukuna grins, all teeth. “Like, literally. ‘Please, please, please.’”

They all know he’s exaggerating, they always do, but that’s half the fun.

“Please,” Naoya scoffs. “I had this girl last week, she was so into it she squirted all over my fucking bed. Had to throw out the mattress.”

That gets everyone’s attention. Sukuna sits up straighter, eyes narrowing. Shiu takes a long drag of his cigarette.

“Bullshit,” Sukuna says. “You couldn’t make a girl squirt if your life depended on it.”

“I swear to god,” Naoya insists, cheeks flushing. “It was like a fucking firehose. She apologized and everything.”

Shiu shakes his head. “She was probably just pissing herself laughing at your sad little dick.”

The room erupts. Sukuna nearly chokes on his beer. Even Toji, who’s been suspiciously quiet, cracks a smile.

“Fuck you,” Naoya spits, but there’s no bite to it. They all know the drill by now. “Whatever. At least I’m not the one paying women to pretend they’re into me.”

Shiu raises an eyebrow. “That’s business, not pleasure. And I get off on watching their bank accounts grow. You wouldn’t understand.”

“You two are fucking sad,” Sukuna says, shaking his head. “I had this one girl last month, she was so into it she let me cum in her mouth and then kiss her. Like, deep. And she swallowed everything.”

They all groan. Classic Sukuna, always trying to one-up everyone with his tales of sexual conquest.

“That’s not even impressive,” Shiu says, but the slight tightening around his eyes says otherwise. “I had a woman once who came three times from just my fingers. Didn’t even need to get my dick out.”

It’s at this point that Sukuna notices Toji hasn’t said a word. Normally, Toji’s the first to jump in with some crude story or another, something to make them all wince or whistle or call him a sick fuck.

“Hey,” Sukuna says, tossing an empty can at Toji’s head. “You dead in there? We’re talking about pussy and you’ve got nothing to say?”

Toji catches the can midair without looking, crushing it in his fist. “Just waiting for you amateurs to finish.”

That gets everyone’s attention. Shiu raises an eyebrow. Naoya stops pacing.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sukuna asks.

Toji takes a long swig of his whiskey, then sets the glass down with a deliberate thunk. “Means I’ve been fucking my stepdaughter for the past six months, and she lets me do anything I want to her.”

The room goes silent. For once, Sukuna has nothing to say. Shiu’s cigarette burns, forgotten, between his fingers. Naoya’s mouth opens and closes like a fish.

“You’re full of shit,” Shiu finally says, but his voice lacks its usual conviction.

Toji just smiles, that slow, dangerous curve of lips that means he’s about to prove someone wrong.

“She’s a squirter,” he says, as casually as if he’s discussing the weather. “Like, for real. Not that pissing shit Naoya’s talking about. The real deal. Soaking the sheets, hitting the headboard. And she begs—fuck, she begs so pretty. ‘Please, Daddy, please.’”

“Stop,” Sukuna says, but he’s leaning forward now, clearly intrigued despite himself. “That’s fucked up, man.”

“What?” Toji shrugs. “She’s legal. And she’s got the tightest pussy I’ve ever had. Takes my whole fist and thanks me for it.”

“I don’t believe you,” Naoya says, but he’s gone pale. “You wouldn’t—she wouldn’t—“

“You calling me a liar?” Toji’s voice drops, dangerous.

“No, but—“ Naoya stumbles over his words. “That’s just—that’s your daughter, man.”

“Stepdaughter,” Toji corrects. “And she’s not my daughter when she’s on her knees.”

The room falls into an uncomfortable silence. Shiu stubs out his cigarette, then immediately lights another. Sukuna takes another swig of his beer, eyes never leaving Toji’s face.

“I want proof,” Sukuna says finally.

“Yeah,” Shiu agrees, surprising everyone. “Show us or it didn’t happen.”

Toji laughs, a sound that sends a chill down even Sukuna’s spine. “You want me to prove I fuck my stepdaughter?”

“That’s fucked up,” Naoya says, but he doesn’t leave. None of them do.

“Wait here,” Toji says, standing up and draining the last of his whiskey. “I’ll be right back.”

And with that, he’s gone, leaving the three men in a silence broken only by the soft crackle of Shiu’s cigarette and the distant sound of Toji’s heavy footsteps heading upstairs.

The bedroom door slams open with enough force to make the walls shudder. You’re sitting cross-legged on your bed, phone in hand, earbuds in, when suddenly there’s Toji, all six-foot-something of him filling your doorway, his eyes dark with that look you’ve come to know all too well.

You barely have time to yank out your earbuds before he’s crossing the room, his hand wrapping around your upper arm.

“What the—“ you start, but Toji cuts you off with a shake of his head.

“No talking,” he says, his voice that special kind of rough that makes your stomach flip. “I’ve got something to show the boys.”

And then you’re airborne—literally—as he hoists you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing.

Your stomach lurches as he turns and heads back toward the door, one hand splayed across the back of your thighs to keep you in place. The world tilts sideways, your hair hanging down past Toji’s shoulder blades, the floor moving beneath you in a nauseating blur.

“Toji!” you hiss, pounding your fists against his lower back. “Put me down!”

“Stop squirming,” he says, giving your ass a warning slap that echoes in the narrow hallway. “You’re gonna make me drop you.”

You know from experience he won’t drop you (Toji’s strong enough to carry you one-handed if he wanted to) but the threat is enough to make you go limp.

Your tank top rides up, exposing a strip of your lower back to the cool air of the house. Your shorts, those thin cotton ones that barely cover your ass on a good day, slide even further up the curve of your thighs.

The living room comes into view, and with it, the shocked faces of Toji’s friends.

You’ve seen them around before. Shiu with his ever-present cigarette, Sukuna with his massive frame and smirk, Naoya with his badly bleached hair and piercings. But never like this. Never with you draped over Toji’s shoulder like some kind of exotic pet.

Toji drops you into his lap as he sinks back into his recliner. Your face burns hot enough to fry an egg as you scramble to hide yourself against his chest, your arms wrapping around his neck, your face pressing into the warm skin where his t-shirt collar hangs loose.

You can feel his heart beating against your cheek, steady and strong, while yours hammers like it’s trying to escape your ribcage.

You’re acutely aware of how you’re sitting—straddling one of his thighs, your knees pressing into the leather on either side of his hips, your ass perched precariously on his other leg.

Your shorts have ridden up so far you can feel the cool air on the exposed skin of your ass cheeks. Your tank top has twisted, exposing a sliver of your stomach where it meets the waistband of your shorts.

“Sshh,” Toji soothes, one big hand running up and down your spine in long, slow strokes. The other hand comes up to card through your hair, fingers gently working through the tangles. “You shy, princess?”

You nod against his neck, not trusting yourself to speak. The living room has gone dead quiet—you can practically hear the smoke from Shiu’s cigarette curling toward the ceiling.

“What the fuck,” Sukuna says finally, breaking the silence. His voice is thick with something you don’t want to identify.

“You can’t just—“ Shiu starts, then stops, seemingly at a loss for words.

It’s Naoya who speaks up next, his voice sharp with indignation. “Don’t be rude,” he says, and you realize with a start that he’s talking to you. “You have guests over.”

You feel Toji’s body tense beneath you, and you peek up just enough to see the glare he’s shooting at Naoya. But then Toji’s hand is on your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

“He’s right, baby,” Toji says, his voice dropping to that tone he uses when it’s just the two of you. “You should say hello to everyone.”

Slowly, reluctantly, you turn in his lap to face the room.

The three men are staring at you with expressions ranging from shock to hunger. You manage a small wave, your fingers barely moving, before embarrassment overtakes you again and you duck back down to hide your face in Toji’s neck.

“Jesus Christ,” Shiu mutters, finally remembering his cigarette and taking a long drag. “She’s actually—“

“Shy,” Toji cuts in, his hand resuming its gentle stroking of your hair. “Aren’t you, princess? But she’s not always like this.” His voice drops even lower, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Are you, baby?”

You shake your head slightly, not trusting your voice.

“The guys don’t believe me,” Toji says, loud enough for everyone to hear. “They think I’m making shit up about how good I make you feel.”

That gets your attention. You lift your head slightly, frowning. “No,” you say, your voice small but clear. “That’s not true. You take good care of me.”

The room goes quiet again. You can feel Toji’s chest rumble with silent laughter beneath your cheek.

“Hear that?” he says to the room at large. “She thinks I take good care of her.”

“She’s just saying that,” Naoya cuts in, his voice tight. “She’s probably scared of you.”

That makes you frown. “I’m not scared of Toji,” you say, a little more firmly. “He’s never hurt me.”

“Not in a bad way,” Toji agrees, and there’s something in his voice that makes your face heat up again.

“Look,” Sukuna says, his massive frame shifting on the couch as he leans forward. “I don’t know what kind of fucked up game you two are playing, but—“

“It’s not a game,” Toji says, cutting him off. “And we’re gonna prove it.” His hand slides down to cup your ass, giving it a squeeze that makes you jump. “Right, baby? We’re gonna show these assholes exactly how good I can make you feel.”

Toji’s looking at you with those eyes, and his hand is warm on your skin, and his voice is doing that thing that makes your stomach flip, and—

“Okay,” you whisper, so quietly you’re not sure anyone but Toji can hear it.

But they must, because the room goes deathly quiet again, the only sound the soft crackle of Shiu’s cigarette as it burns closer to the filter.

Toji’s hand slides down from the small of your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine until they reach the waistband of your shorts.

For a moment, he just rests his palm there, warm and heavy, then slowly, so slowly you can feel each individual callus, his hand cups the roundness of your ass.

His fingers dig in slightly, testing the give of flesh beneath thin cotton, and you can’t stop the small whine that escapes your throat as you bury your face deeper into his neck.

“There it is,” Toji murmurs, voice pitched low for your ears only. “That pretty little sound.”

His hand slides lower, gripping the meat of your ass cheek and giving it a gentle squeeze. Then another, firmer this time, making the flesh jiggle beneath his palm.

The sound seems obscenely loud in the otherwise silent room—the soft smack of skin against skin, your barely-there gasp as you squirm in his lap.

“What the fuck,” Sukuna says again, but there’s a new note in his voice, something hot and hungry that makes your skin prickle.

“Jesus Christ,” Shiu mutters, taking another long drag of his cigarette. “This is fucking—“

“Hot,” Naoya cuts in, his voice tight. “It’s fucking hot, is what it is.”

Toji laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest and into yours. “You ain’t seen nothing yet,” he says, and then his hand is moving again, sliding around to the front of your shorts, dipping beneath the waistband.

You stiffen, a fresh wave of embarrassment washing over you. “Toji,” you whisper, your voice breaking on his name. “They can see—“

“That’s the point, baby,” he murmurs back, and then his fingers are sliding lower, pushing past the elastic of your panties to cup you directly. Your shorts pull taut across the front, the outline of his hand clearly visible beneath the thin fabric.

“Holy shit,” Sukuna breathes, leaning forward on the couch. “Is he—“

“Fuck,” Shiu agrees, his cigarette forgotten between his fingers. “He is.”

Toji’s fingers move, spreading your folds, finding the slick heat of you with unerring accuracy.

Your breath catches as he circles your clit, once, twice, then dips lower to gather the wetness there.

The sound is unmistakable. The soft, obscene squelch of his fingers moving through your arousal.

And you want to die, want to disappear, want to sink into the floor and never come back up.

But then Toji’s finger presses just right, rubbing tight circles against that spot that makes your vision blur, and all you can do is clutch at his shoulders and try to remember how to breathe.

“She’s soaked,” Toji announces to the room, his voice thick with pride. “Always gets this wet for me. Don’t you, princess?”

You nod helplessly, beyond words as his fingers continue their relentless exploration.

“Stand up,” Toji says suddenly, his hand withdrawing from your shorts to grip your waist. “Come on, baby. Up.”

You obey without thinking, your body responding to his command before your brain can catch up.

Your legs are shaky as you stand, the cool air hitting your overheated skin making you shiver. Toji’s hands are on your hips, turning you to face the room, to face his friends. All three of them staring at you.

Toji’s hands move to the waistband of your shorts, fingers hooking under the elastic to tug your shorts and panties down in one smooth motion. The cool air hits your exposed flesh, raising goosebumps along your thighs, between your legs. Your shorts and panties land in a tangle around your ankles, and then Toji’s giving them a flick, sending them flying across the room—directly at Naoya, who catches them with a startled yelp.

“Fuck,” Shiu says, his voice cracking on the word. “She’s completely—“

“Full of hair,” Sukuna finishes, eyes fixed on the juncture of your thighs. “What a woman.”

Toji laughs again, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “Ilike it this way,” he says, one hand coming up to stroke the inside of your thigh. “I don’t mind a little hair in my food.”

Your face burns, but you can’t look away from the three men—can’t tear your eyes from the way Sukuna’s shifted on the couch, one hand adjusting himself through his pants; from the way Shiu’s cigarette has burned down to the filter without him noticing; from the way Naoya’s clutching your discarded underwear like it’s something precious.

“Sit,” Toji says, his hands guiding you back down—but not onto his lap this time. Instead, he’s shifting in the recliner, reaching down to unzip his jeans and free his cock. It springs up, already hard, the tip glistening slightly in the dim light. “Here,” he says, guiding you to straddle him, facing outward toward his friends. “That’s it, baby. Take me in.”

You sink down onto him slowly, your body opening to accept his size. It burns, it always does no matter how many times you’ve done this. But it burns good, stretching you, making your toes curl. Your breath hitches as he bottoms out, his cock hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.

“Fuck,” Sukuna breathes, leaning forward on the couch. “Look at her stomach.”

You glance down, and your breath catches. There’s a visible bulge in your lower abdomen, the outline of Toji’s cock pressing against your skin from the inside. Your pussy clenches around him at the sight, making him groan.

“Holy shit,” Naoya says, his voice higher than usual. “He’s actually deep inside.“

“Fuckin hell,” Shiu starts, his usual composure nowhere to be found. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Toji’s hands come up to grip your thighs, spreading your legs wider to better display you to his audience. Your pussy is stretched obscenely around his girth, your inner lips struggling to close around the intrusion. There’s a glistening ring of cream where your bodies join.

“Ride me,” Toji says, one hand sliding up to wrap around your throat. “Show these assholes what a good girl you are.”

You start to move, rising your hips slightly before sinking back down. The angle is awkward with your legs spread so wide, but Toji’s hands are there to guide you, to set the pace.

Up, down. Up, down. The wet sounds of your arousal fill the room, mixing with your increasingly desperate whimpers and Toji’s occasional grunts of pleasure.

“That’s it,” Toji murmurs, his free hand sliding up under your tank top to cup your breast. His thumb finds your nipple immediately, circling the already hardened peak. “Look at them,” he says, nodding toward his friends. “They can’t take their eyes off you. They’re imagining what it would be like to fuck you. To have you ride their cocks just like this.”

Your cheeks burn at his words, but your body responds anyway, your inner walls clenching around him as heat builds low in your belly.

“Want to see these,” Toji says, his hand moving to the hem of your tank top. With one smooth motion, he tugs it down, exposing your breasts to the cool air—and to the hungry gazes of his friends. Your nipples harden further under their attention, and you can’t stop the small moan that escapes your lips.

“Fuck,” Sukuna says again, apparently beyond any other vocabulary. “They’re perfect.”

“They’re mine,” Toji corrects, his hand coming up to squeeze your breast, fingers digging into the soft flesh. “Aren’t they, baby? You’re all mine.”

You nod helplessly, beyond words as his thumb flicks over your nipple, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your core. Your hips move faster of their own accord, chasing that feeling, that building pressure that promises release.

“Fuck,” Shiu mutters, finally remembering his cigarette and stubbing it out.

“She’s gonna cum,” Toji announces, his voice thick with pride. “Just from my cock and my fingers on her tits. She’s that sensitive.” His hand moves to your other breast, giving it the same treatment. Squeezing, fondling, thumb circling your nipple until it’s a hard, aching point. “Aren’t you, princess? You’re gonna cum just like this, with everyone watching.”

And you are. You’re so close you can taste it, the pressure building at the base of your spine, your thighs starting to shake with the effort of holding yourself up. One more stroke, one more twist of Toji’s fingers, and you’ll—

“Wait,” Toji says suddenly, his hand leaving your breast to grip your hip, stopping your movements. “I’m gonna teach you fuckers something.”

His hands are still on your hips, keeping you immobile on his cock, your inner walls fluttering helplessly around his girth. “You want to know how to make a girl squirt? For real, not that pissing shit Naoya was talking about?” He glances around the room, meeting each of their eyes in turn. “Watch and learn.”

Sukuna leans forward, eyes narrowed. “You’re full of shit.”

“I’m not,” Toji says, his hands sliding up to your waist. “She’s ovulating right now. Makes it easier. She creams up real nice, gets so sensitive she can’t stand it.” His thumbs rub small circles into the soft skin of your stomach. “You just have to overstimulate her. Push her past what she thinks she can take.”

It’s true, you are ovulating, your body extra responsive, extra eager.

But hearing Toji say it out loud, in front of his friends, makes your stomach twist with a confusing mix of embarrassment and arousal.

“First,” Toji says, his hands moving up to cup your breasts again, “you gotta get her nice and worked up.” His fingers find your nipples, pinching lightly—then, without warning, he pulls.

You arch into the touch, a startled gasp escaping your lips. The sensation is electric, making your head spin. Your back bows, pushing your chest further into Toji’s hands, your hips rocking forward of their own accord.

“That’s it,” Toji murmurs, his voice dropping to that register meant for your ears only. “She likes it a little rough. Don’t you, princess?”

You nod helplessly, beyond words as he gives your nipples another tug, then another, each one sending a fresh jolt of pleasure straight to your core. Your pussy clenches around his cock, still buried deep inside you, and you can feel him pulse in response.

Toji’s hands leave your breasts, one coming up to cup the back of your neck, guiding your face to his. For a moment, you think he’s going to kiss you. But his mouth is on your neck instead, teeth scraping lightly over your pulse point before his tongue soothes the sting.

He works his way down, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, the top curve of your breast, before moving back up to suck a dark mark into the sensitive spot just below your ear.

You whimper, the sound embarrassingly needy, as his teeth graze your skin. Your hips move without your permission, rocking back and forth on his cock, seeking friction, seeking release.

“That’s it,” Toji groans, his voice hot against your ear. “Take what you need. Use my cock however you want.”

His hands move to your ass, gripping the soft flesh and guiding your movements. The wet sounds of your arousal fill the room, mixing with your increasingly desperate whimpers and Toji’s occasional grunts of pleasure.

“Give them a show,” Toji continues, one hand sliding up to grip your hair, tilting your head back to better display your throat. “Let them see how good I make you feel.”

Your hips move faster, chasing that feeling, that building pressure that promises release.

“That’s it,” Toji murmurs, his free hand sliding down your stomach to where your bodies join. “You’re doing so good, princess. So fucking good for me.”

His fingers find your clit without looking, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves. The touch is almost too much after the building pleasure of his cock inside you—and you jerk in his lap, a startled gasp escaping your lips.

“Shh,” Toji soothes, his other hand coming up to cover your mouth. “You can take it. I know you can.”

His fingers move faster, tighter circles against your clit that make your vision blur. Your inner walls clench around his cock, your thighs starting to shake with the effort of holding yourself up. And then Toji’s fingers change direction, pinching your clit between his thumb and forefinger. And you break.

It hits you like a freight train, your orgasm crashing through you with enough force to make your back arch, your head thrown back.

Your pussy clenches around Toji’s cock, milking him as pleasure radiates outward from your core. But it’s not just the orgasm. It’s what comes with it, the sudden gush of wetness that erupts from you, splashing over Toji’s hand, his cock, dripping down to darken the fabric of the recliner beneath you.

“Oh fuck,” Sukuna breathes, leaning forward on the couch.

“She’s squirting,” Shiu finishes, his cigarette burning forgotten between his fingers. “Fucking hell.”

Toji doesn’t stop—if anything, he doubles down, his fingers swiping through the mess you’ve made to circle your clit again. “That’s it,” he praises, his voice thick with pride. “Let go. Give me everything.”

And you do, another gush of clear fluid erupting from you, then another, each one accompanied by a broken moan that Toji’s hand does little to muffle. Your hips move of their own accord, riding out the waves of pleasure, your inner walls fluttering around Toji’s cock as he continues to stroke you through it.

By the time it’s over, you’re slumped against his chest, boneless and shaking, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Toji’s cock is still buried deep inside you, his heartbeat strong and steady beneath your ear. His hand moves from between your legs to your hair, fingers gently working through the tangles.

“There you go,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “That’s my good girl.”

“Impressive,” Shiu speaks up, finally remembering his cigarette and taking a long drag. “I’ll give you that.”

“Anyone want to try?” Toji asks, his voice casual despite the way his cock twitches inside you at the words. “Show me what you learned?”

The room goes quiet, the three men exchanging glances. No one moves—they’re all still mesmerized by what they’ve just witnessed. Your inner walls still occasionally clenching around his cock as aftershocks of pleasure ripple through you.

“Come on,” Toji taunts, one hand idly stroking your hair. “Don’t tell me you’re all talk. I just gave you a free lesson.”

Still no one moves. Sukuna shifts on the couch, his massive frame seeming suddenly restless. Shiu takes another drag of his cigarette, eyes never leaving the point where your bodies join. Naoya stands frozen, his expression unreadable.

“No takers?” Toji says, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that always makes your stomach flip. “Guess I’ll have to keep her all to myself, then.”

No one moves. The room is frozen in a tableau of lust and shock. They’re not sure if Toji’s just challenging them or actually inviting them. Even the air seems still, heavy with the mingled scents of sex and smoke and anticipation.

It’s Shiu who breaks first, glancing away and clearing his throat. He reaches for the ashtray, stubbing out his cigarette with slightly shaking hands. His eyes dart around the room, landing everywhere but on you—on the TV, on the ceiling, on the half-empty beer bottles lined up on the coffee table.

“See something you like?” Toji asks, his voice thick with amusement. His hand is still in your hair, fingers gently working through the tangles as you catch your breath against his chest.

“Just surprised, is all,” Shiu says, his voice carefully neutral. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Toji laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest and into yours. “There’s a lot about me you don’t know,” he says, one hand sliding up to cup your tits, giving it a possessive squeeze. “Come closer. Get a better look.”

Shiu shakes his head. “I’m good from here.”

“Come on,” Toji coaxes, his voice dropping to that dangerous register. “Don’t be shy. She doesn’t bite.” A pause, then, “Unless you ask nicely.”

“Please,” you hear yourself say, the word barely more than a whisper. “I want... I want you to come closer.”

Shiu’s eyes snap to yours, surprise flashing across his face before he can hide it. “What?”

“Please,” you say again, your voice stronger this time. “I want to see you. Want you to see me.”

Something flickers in Shiu’s eyes, caution maybe, but he’s already moving, crossing the room with measured steps until he’s standing just beyond arm’s reach of Toji’s recliner.

Up close, he’s even more intimidating. Shiu is tall and lean, with that perpetually tired look that comes from too many cigarettes and not enough sleep. His slanted eyes never leave your face, even as his hand comes up to adjust his collar.

“Closer,” Toji says, his voice leaving no room for argument. “She won’t break.”

Shiu takes another step forward, close enough now that you could reach out and touch him if you wanted to.

And you do want to. The realization hits you with the force of a physical blow, your hand moving of its own accord to grab his belt, fingers curling around the leather with surprising strength.

“Fuck,” Shiu breathes, his composure cracking for just a moment as you tug him forward, your other hand working at his belt buckle with surprising dexterity. “Wait, I—“

But it’s too late—his belt is already coming loose, his zipper already sliding down, and then his cock is springing free, hitting you square in the face with enough force to make your eyes water. It’s already hard, the tip glistening slightly with pre-cum, the veins standing out prominently along its length.

“Calm down,” Shiu mutters, one hand coming up as if to push you away but then stopping, hovering uncertainly in the air between you. “You don’t have to—“

You cut him off by wrapping your lips around the head of his cock, your tongue flattening against the underside as you take him into your mouth.

He’s hot and heavy on your tongue, slightly bitter with the taste of pre-cum, the musky scent of him filling your nostrils. You work your way down his length slowly, taking him deeper with each bob of your head, saliva already beginning to pool in your mouth.

“Nnnghh, fuck,” Shiu breathes, his hand finally settling on the top of your head, fingers threading through your hair. “Fuck, that’s—“

He doesn’t finish the thought, too caught up in the sensation of your mouth around him, your tongue working along his length.

Your cheeks hollow as you suck, your hand coming up to wrap around the base of his cock, twisting slightly on the upstroke. Drool escapes the corner of your mouth, sliding down your chin to drip onto your exposed breasts, but you’re beyond caring about how you look.

Shiu doesn’t know what to do with his hands. One second they’re on your head, the next they’re gripping his own hips, white-knuckled with the effort of holding himself back. His breath comes in short, sharp gasps, his hips jerking forward slightly with each downward movement of your head.

“She likes it rough,” Toji says, his voice cutting through the haze of pleasure clouding your mind. “Don’t you, baby? You like it when they use your mouth?”

You nod as best you can with Shiu’s cock halfway down your throat, a muffled sound of agreement escaping around his length. Toji chuckles, and the low vibration rolls from his chest into yours.

“See?” he says, reaching up to grab Shiu’s wrists. “Like this.” He guides Shiu’s hands to your head, positioning them on either side with your hair wrapped around his fingers. “Hold her still. Push her down if you want. She can take it.”

Shiu looks doubtful for a moment. Then Toji’s hand is on the back of your head, pushing you down until Shiu’s cock hits the back of your throat. You gag slightly, tears springing to your eyes, but the feeling is quickly overshadowed by the rush of pleasure that comes with Shiu’s broken moan, his fingers tightening in your hair.

“That’s it,” Toji praises, his hand keeping steady pressure on the back of your head. “Take it all. Show him what a good girl you are.”

You relax your throat, letting Shiu slide deeper, your nose now pressed against the coarse hair at the base of his cock. He’s so far down your throat you can’t breathe, black spots dancing at the edges of your vision, but the sounds he’s making, those desperate, broken moans, make it worth every second of discomfort.

“Fuck,” Shiu gasps, his hips jerking forward of their own accord. “I’m gonna—I’m close—“

And then Toji’s hand is on your shoulder, yanking you back with enough force to make your neck snap. Shiu’s cock slides from your mouth with a wet pop, a strand of saliva connecting your lips to the glistening head for one obscene moment before breaking.

“What the fuck?” Shiu demands, his voice cracking on the words. “I was right there—“

“You can finish inside her,” Toji says, his voice casual despite the way his cock twitches inside you at the words. “Your dick just needed to be wet enough to fit in her while I’m still here.”

Shiu blinks, clearly struggling to process this new information. “You want me to—“

“Fuck her,” Toji finishes for him. “Yeah. That’s the idea.”

At this point, everyone is itching for a turn. Sukuna has moved to the edge of the couch, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the point where your bodies join. Naoya is practically vibrating with anticipation, one hand conspicuously adjusting himself through his pants.

“Jesus Christ,” Sukuna says, his voice rough with want. “Hurry the fuck up. Some of us are waiting for a turn.”

“Yeah,” Naoya agrees, taking a step closer. “Stop being such a pussy and just fuck her already.”

Even Toji is getting impatient, his hands tightening on your hips. “Come on,” he says, spreading your legs wider with his knees. “She’s waiting.”

Shiu takes a deep breath, clearly steeling himself, then moves closer.

His hands find your ankles, pushing your legs up and back until they’re practically folded against Toji’s chest. The new position spreads you open obscenely, your pussy on full display for everyone to see, the glistening evidence of your arousal, the stretched ring of your entrance where Toji’s cock is still buried deep inside you.

“Fuck,” Shiu breathes, his cock bobbing heavily between his legs, the tip now dangerously close to your exposed folds. “I don’t know if she can take—“

“She can take it,” Toji interrupts, his voice leaving no room for argument. “She’s taken bigger. Haven’t you, princess?”

You nod helplessly, beyond words as Shiu’s hands move to your hips, his cock nudging against your entrance.

It’s already wet from your arousal, from the saliva still coating his length but it’s still a tight fit as he begins to push inside, the head of his cock stretching you around Toji’s girth.

“God damn,” Sukuna mutters, moving to sit on the arm of the recliner for a better view.

“This is so fucking hot,” Naoya whispers to himself, now standing directly behind Shiu, close enough that his breath ruffles the hair at the back of Shiu’s neck. “So fucking hot.”

You’re stretched obscenely around the two cocks now, your inner walls struggling to accommodate their combined girth. Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps, your hands finding Shiu’s hips to guide him deeper.

“That’s it,” Toji murmurs, his hands moving to your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples. “Take him all the way. Show him what a good girl you are.”

Shiu bottoms out with a groan that seems torn from the depths of his chest, his hips flush against yours, his cock buried to the hilt alongside Toji’s.

For a moment, he just stays there, seemingly overwhelmed by the sensation of your tight heat around him, by the obscene sight of your stretched pussy struggling to contain them both.

“Move,” you beg, your voice breaking on the word. “Please, I need—“

You don’t get to finish the thought before Shiu’s hips are moving, pulling back slightly before driving forward again.

Your legs are splayed wide, almost obscenely so, but it lets him ram right against that spot, that fucking sweet spot that makes your vision go fuzzy and your insides clamp down like a vise around both their cocks.

“Fuck,” Shiu gasps, his rhythm already faltering, his movements growing erratic. “I’m not gonna last—she’s too fucking tight—“

“Then don’t,” Toji says, his voice thick with amusement. “Cum in her. Fill her up.”

And Shiu does. With a broken moan that sounds almost like pain, his hips jerking forward one final time as he spills inside you, his cock pulsing against your inner walls.

The sensation of his release triggers your own orgasm, your back arching, your inner walls clamping down around the two cocks still buried inside you.

But with the climax comes a rush of release, a sudden flood of clear liquid that bursts from you, drenching Shiu’s stomach and chest, and soaking into the fabric of the recliner below.

He looks down in shock, his composure completely shattered as he watches you squirt all over him, your pussy still pulsing around his cock.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, eyes wide with disbelief. “She actually squirts.“

Seeing you cum all over Shiu, Sukuna practically leaps off the couch. He’s across the room in two massive strides, hands grabbing Shiu’s shoulders and yanking him back with enough force to send him stumbling.

“My turn,” Sukuna growls, already working at his belt with one hand. His massive frame towers over the recliner, all lean muscle and barely contained energy. His pink hair is mussed, falling across his forehead in a way that somehow makes him look even more dangerous. “Move.”

“Wait your fucking turn,” Toji says, his voice leaving no room for argument despite the way his cock twitches inside you at the sight of Sukuna’s barely contained lust. “I’m still in her.”

Sukuna’s jaw clenches, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “I’ve been waiting,” he says, each word precise and dangerous. “Watching you two fuck her. Watching her take it. I’m done waiting.”

He’s about to go crazy. You can see it in the tension in his shoulders, in the way his hands curl into fists at his sides. His red eyes never leave the point where your bodies join, where Shiu’s cum is already beginning to leak out around Toji’s still-buried cock.

And then your foot, bare, slightly cold from the air-conditioned room, lands on Sukuna’s shoulder.

It’s not quite a kick, more of a gentle press, but it stops him dead in his tracks. His eyes snap to yours, surprise flashing across his face before he can hide it.

“Patience,” you say, your voice surprisingly steady given the circumstances. “You’ll get your turn.”

Something clicks in Sukuna’s mind and then, to everyone’s shock, he’s dropping to his knees. Just like that, the dangerous, barely controlled man is gone, replaced by someone almost... pliant. His massive frame seems to shrink as he kneels, his eyes never leaving yours as he leans forward to press a kiss to your ankle.

“What the fuck,” Naoya mutters from somewhere behind Sukuna. “I’ve never seen him like this.”

No one has.

Sukuna—brash, loud, unfiltered Sukuna—is practically putty at your feet, his lips moving from your ankle to the sensitive spot behind your knee, then higher, to the inside of your thigh.

Each kiss is reverent, almost worshipful, a stark contrast to the hunger in his eyes when he glances up to meet your gaze.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, the words hot against your skin. “Watching you take them both—fuck, I’ve never seen anything hotter.”

His hands are gentle as they grip your thighs, spreading you wider to give himself better access. And then he’s moving lower, his mouth replacing his hands as he works his way toward the center of your needy cunt. You expect him to start eating you out immediately. That’s what other people would have done, after all. But instead, his hand reaches for Toji’s cock, still buried deep inside you.

“Let me,” Sukuna says, his voice leaving no room for argument despite the gentle request.

Toji hesitates for just a moment. Then he’s pulling out, his cock sliding free with a wet sound that makes you blush.

He’s covered in a mixture of your arousal and Shiu’s cum, the head glistening obscenely in the dim light. Your pussy feels empty without him, already clenching around nothing, a fresh trickle of combined fluids leaking out to join the mess on the recliner.

Sukuna doesn’t hesitate—he wraps his hand around Toji’s cock, giving it a few experimental strokes that make Toji’s breath catch. Then, without warning, he’s guiding it toward your ass, the head nudging against your puckered hole.

“Wait,” you start, but Toji’s hand is already on the back of your head, guiding your face to his.

“Sshh,” he soothes, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You can take it. I know you can.”

And you can, you have before, many times, but it’s still a shock when Sukuna pushes Toji’s cock into your ass, the thick head stretching you obscenely. You gasp, your pussy walls clenching around nothing as the feeling of emptiness and fullness overwhelms you.

But then Sukuna’s mouth is on you, his tongue flat against your folds as he eats you out like a man starved.

He’s not gentle at all. His tongue fucks into you with brutal efficiency, curling to hit that spot inside that makes your vision blur. One hand comes up to circle your clit, fingers moving in tight, fast circles that have you seeing stars within seconds.

Toji’s hands move to your legs, holding them open to give Sukuna better access. “That’s it,” he praises, his voice thick with pride. “Get her nice and wet. Make her cum again.”

And you are so fucking close you can taste it, the pressure building at the base of your spine, threatening to break. Your inner walls clench around nothing, your hips moving of their own accord to meet Sukuna’s relentless mouth.

But before you can tip over the edge, Sukuna is pulling back, standing in one fluid motion. His cock springs free from his pants, already hard, the tip glistening with pre-cum. It’s massive—bigger than Toji’s, bigger than Shiu’s, thick enough that your mouth waters at the sight of it.

“You ready?” he asks, his voice rough with want. “Ready to take all of me?”

You nod helplessly, beyond words as he lines himself up with your entrance. And then he’s pushing in, the head of his cock stretching you obscenely around his girth.

“Fuck,” Sukuna breathes, his rhythm already faltering. “She’s so fucking tight—taking Toji’s cock in her ass and still so tight around me—“

He bottoms out with a groan that seems torn from the depths of his chest, his hips flush against yours, his cock buried to the hilt. For a moment, he just stays there, seemingly overwhelmed by the sensation of your tight heat around him, by the obscene sight of your stretched pussy struggling to contain him.

And then he’s moving, pulling back slightly before driving forward again. His pace is crazy fast from the start, each thrust powerful enough to shake the recliner, to push you further into Toji’s chest.

One hand comes up to grip your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat to his hungry mouth. His teeth scrape over your pulse point before his tongue soothes the sting, then move lower to suck a dark mark into the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder.

His other hand finds your breast, fingers digging into the soft flesh with enough force to leave bruises. “Fuck,” he gasps against your skin. “You’re so fucking perfect. Taking my cock like you were made for it.”

You are stretched obscenely around him, your inner walls struggling to accommodate his massive girth.

He’s so big he’s practically covering you, engulfing you, his massive frame bending over yours in a way that makes you feel tiny, fragile. His pace never slows, each thrust driving the breath from your lungs, pushing incoherent sounds from your throat.

“I can’t see shit,” Naoya complains from somewhere behind Sukuna. “You’re blocking the view.”

“Move back,” Shiu agrees, already adjusting his position for a better angle. “Let us see her face.”

Sukuna growls, the sound rumbling through his chest and into yours, but he does pull back slightly. Just enough that the others can see your face, can see the way your eyes roll back with each particularly powerful thrust, can see the string of saliva connecting your lips as your mouth falls open in a silent scream.

And then he feels it, the first pulse of your inner walls around his cock, the first gush of wetness that signals your approaching orgasm.

His rhythm falters for just a moment, surprise flashing across his face before determination replaces it. His hand moves between your bodies, thumb finding your clit.

“Cum for me,” he commands, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Cum on my cock. Show me how good I make you feel.”

You cum with a broken moan that sounds almost like pain, your back arches, your inner walls clamping down around Sukuna’s massive cock as pleasure crashes through you.

“Fuck,” Sukuna gasps, his rhythm becoming erratic as your pussy pulses around him. “She’s squirting—fucking hell—“

He pulls out suddenly, leaning back just enough that everyone can see your stretched pussy struggling to close around nothing, can see the mixture of fluids leaking out to join the mess on the recliner.

His hand moves to his cock, giving it a few quick strokes before he swipes the head across your clit, the sensitive bundle of nerves still pulsing with aftershocks of pleasure.

You jerk beneath him, a startled gasp escaping your lips. But Sukuna doesn’t stop, his thumb circling your clit as his cock continues to rub against it, the sensation sending fresh waves of pleasure crashing through you.

Then, with a ragged groan that’s almost a cry of pain, he cums. His hips convulse as he erupts, hot streams landing on your stomach, your breasts, your throat. Each pulse of his release triggers a fresh gush from you, your pussy clenching around nothing as you squirt again, clear fluid mixing with Sukuna’s cum.

His hand is still between your legs, thumb still circling your oversensitive clit, drawing out each pulse of your orgasm until you’re shaking with it, until tears spring to your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice surprisingly gentle given the brutal pace he just set. “Give me everything. Let me see it all.”

And another gush of clear fluid erupting from you, then another, each one accompanied by a broken moan that seems torn from the depths of your chest.

By the time it’s over, you’re slumped against Toji’s chest, boneless and shaking, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

Sukuna bullies Naoya next, grabbing a fistful of his badly bleached hair and yanking him forward. “Your turn,” he growls, voice rough with exertion and lingering pleasure. “Clean her up.”

“What?” Naoya squawks, trying to pull away from Sukuna’s iron grip. “You want me to—“

“Lick her clean,” Sukuna finishes, pushing Naoya’s face toward the mess between your legs. “All that cum. All that squirt. Get it all.”

“I don’t—“ Naoya starts, but then Sukuna’s hand is on the back of his head, pushing him forward until his face is pressed against your folds.

“Lick,” Sukuna commands, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Or I’ll make you.”

Naoya’s tongue is on you, flat against your folds, lapping up the mixture of fluids with surprising enthusiasm. What started as reluctance quickly turns into hunger, his tongue pushing deeper, curling to hit that spot inside that makes your vision blur. His hands come up to grip your thighs, spreading you wider to give himself better access.

“Look at him go.”

Naoya is into it. Completely, unabashedly into it.

One hand moves to circle your clit, fingers moving in tight, fast circles that have you seeing stars within seconds.

But then he’s pulling back, his mouth full of the mixture of fluids he’s just collected. For a moment, you think he’s going to swallow, but then he’s leaning forward again, spitting it all back into your pussy. It’s filthy. The heat, the wetness, the mingled tastes of all three men invading your senses as Naoya’s tongue forces the liquid back into you.

“What the fuck,” Sukuna says, his voice somewhere between disgust and fascination.

Naoya doesn’t stop. He works his tongue deeper, sucking the fluid back out only to spit it in again. Each cycle leaves you more sensitive than before, your inner walls clenching around nothing, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. By the time he’s done, you’re shaking with it, on the edge of another orgasm from his mouth alone.

And then he’s moving up your body, his mouth finding yours without warning.

His tongue pushes past your lips, and suddenly you’re tasting it. Everything Naoya’s just collected from between your legs. You try to pull back, but his hand is on the back of your head, holding you in place as he forces the fluid into your mouth.

“Swallow,” he commands, his voice rough with want. “Show me how much of a good girl you are.”

There’s something about the way he’s looking at you that makes your throat work of its own accord, swallowing down the mixture with a grimace.

“That’s it,” Naoya praises, his voice dropping to that register that always makes your stomach flip. “Good girl. My good girl.”

“You’re fucking disgusting,” Sukuna says, but there’s no heat in it—if anything, he sounds impressed. “Both of you.”

“Brave, though,” Toji cuts in, his voice thick with pride. “Not everyone would do that. Would you, Shiu?”

Shiu just shakes his head, lighting another cigarette with slightly shaking hands. “I’ll pass on the cum swapping, thanks.”

Toji laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Your loss.” He glances down at you, still sprawled across his lap, then at Naoya, still kneeling between your spread legs. “Switch,” he says, already moving to stand. “My turn to watch.”

There’s a moment of confusion as Toji stands, carefully transferring you to Naoya’s lap without dislodging you from either of them. Naoya’s hands come up to grip your hips, steadying you as you straddle him, your back now to his chest. The position spreads you open obscenely, your pussy on full display for everyone to see. The glistening evidence of your arousal, the stretched ring of your entrance still occasionally pulsing with aftershocks of pleasure.

“That’s it,” Toji praises, moving to stand behind you. His hands find your ass, spreading your cheeks to better display your puckered hole. “Hold her still for me.”

Naoya’s hands move to your waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh with enough force to leave bruises. His mouth finds the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder, teeth scraping over your pulse point before his tongue soothes the sting. “You’re so fucking wet,” he murmurs against your skin. “Taking all of them and still so fucking wet for me.”

You are wet. Obscenely so.

Your inner walls still clenching around nothing, a fresh trickle of arousal leaking out to join the mess on your thighs.

Your breasts heave with each ragged breath, nipples hardened to aching points from the cool air and Naoya’s occasional attention.

But then Toji’s hand is on the back of your head, guiding your face to his. “Look at me,” he says, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Watch what I do to you.”

You do as you’re told, eyes meeting his as he spits directly onto your puckered hole, the warm fluid trailing down to join the mess between your legs. His cock nudges against your entrance, the head already slick with pre-cum, and then he’s pushing in, the thick head stretching you obscenely around his girth.

“That’s it,” Toji praises, his hands moving to grip your hips. “Take it all. Show Naoya how good you can be.”

Your hands move without your permission, reaching for the waistband of Naoya’s pants. You want to take him inside you alongside Toji, want to be filled completely. But Naoya thrashes, his hands coming up to grab your wrists, stopping your exploration.

“Wait,” he says, his voice cracking on the word. “Not yet—“

“What’s he hiding?” Sukuna asks, already moving closer for a better look. “Come on, Naoya. Let her see.”

“Yeah,” Shiu agrees, adjusting his position on the loveseat. “What’s under there that’s so special?”

Naoya shakes his head, his cheeks flushing with what might be embarrassment. “Nothing. It’s just—“

But it’s too late, your hand has already found its way past his defenses, fingers working at his belt with surprising dexterity. His zipper slides down, and then his cock is springing free, hitting you square in the stomach.

And suddenly you understand his reluctance. His dick is pierced, not once but multiple times, a row of metal bars running along the underside from base to tip. The head is already leaking pre-cum, the fluid collecting in the divot created by the final piercing just below the crown.

“Jesus Christ, Naoya.”

Naoya’s cheeks burn hotter, but there’s pride in his voice when he speaks. “They’re called Prince Alberts,” he says, one hand coming up to adjust himself. “They—they feel good. For both of us.”

You don’t need to be told twice. Your hand wraps around his length, feeling the cool metal against your palm, the ridges created by each piercing. Without thinking, you’re rising up on your knees, positioning yourself above him.

“Wait,” Naoya starts, but then you’re sinking down, taking him inside you in one smooth motion. The piercings drag against your inner walls, each ridge creating a new point of friction, a new source of pleasure. You gasp, your inner walls clenching around him as your body struggles to accommodate the new sensation.

“Fuck,” Naoya breathes, his hands coming up to grip your hips.

The piercings create ridges that hit every sensitive spot inside you, the cool metal a shocking contrast to the heat of your arousal. You move in short, desperate rolls of your hips, each one pulling a ragged breath from your throat.

“That’s it,” Toji praises, his hands moving to grip your waist. “Take us both. Show us how good you can be.”

You start to move, rising up slightly before sinking back down.

And then Naoya’s mouth is on your breast, his tongue flat against your nipple before his teeth scrape over the sensitive peak. Your back arches, pushing your chest further into Naoya’s mouth, your hips moving faster to meet each thrust.

“I’m close,” Naoya gasps, his rhythm already faltering. “Fuck, I’m gonna—“

“That’s it,” Toji praises, his hands moving to grip your waist. “Together. On three.”

You count with him and then you’re cumming, your back arching, your inner walls clamping down around both cocks as pleasure crashes through you. But then there’s something else.

Naoya’s sharp intake of breath, the way Toji goes suddenly still behind you, the warm splash of fluid hitting Naoya’s stomach, his chest, running in rivulets down to pool in the crease of his hip where it meets the recliner beneath you.

“Holy shit,” Naoya gasps, his rhythm becoming erratic as your pussy pulses around him. “Fucking hell. Yeah, squirt all over me, ya’ nasty bitch,“

And then he’s cumming too—with a broken moan that sounds almost like pain, his hips jerking forward as he spills inside you, his cock pulsing against your inner walls. The sensation of his release triggers Toji’s own orgasm, his hands tightening on your waist as he bottoms out, filling your ass with his seed.

Your body moves without asking—back arching off Toji’s chest, thighs seizing, moans escaping your throat. Another gush of clear fluid erupts from you, then another, each one accompanied by a broken moan that seems torn from the depths of your chest. Your vision blurs, black spots dancing at the edges as pleasure crashes through you with enough force to make your head spin.

“That’s it,” Toji murmurs, his voice surprisingly gentle given the brutal pace he just set. “Give us everything. Let us see it all.”

By the time it’s over, you’re slumped against Naoya’s chest, boneless and shaking, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Both men are still buried inside you, their cocks still occasionally pulsing with aftershocks of pleasure.

“She passed out,” Sukuna says, his voice somewhere between concern and amusement. “You actually fucked her unconscious.”

“She’s not passed out,” Toji corrects, already carefully extracting himself from your ass. “Just resting. Right, princess?”

You manage a weak nod, beyond words as Naoya follows Toji’s example, his pierced cock sliding free with a wet sound that makes your cheeks burn. The sudden emptiness hits you like a loss, your pussy clenching desperately around nothing, cum already dripping out of you and soaking into the recliner beneath.

“I think,” Shiu says, lighting another cigarette with slightly shaking hands, “that we might have broken her.”

But you’re not broken, just exhausted. Your body still occasionally pulsing with aftershocks of pleasure as the three men exchange glances above you. Your vision blurs, the edges going dark as your head lolls against Naoya’s chest.

“Shit,” Toji says, his voice suddenly sharp with concern. “I think she’s actually—“

But you don’t hear the rest, already slipping into unconsciousness as the pleasure and exertion finally catch up with you.

You wake to the smell of coffee and bacon, your body strangely weightless and warm.

For a moment, you can’t remember where you are or what happened. And then it all comes rushing back, the events of last night hitting you with the force of a physical blow. You blink awake into unfamiliar light, heat crawling up your neck and into your face.

You’re no longer in the living room.

No longer sprawled across the recliner with your legs spread. No longer covered in the evidence of your pleasure and the men’s releases.

Instead, you’re in a bed. Toji’s bed, you realize with a start, recognizing the dark blue sheets, the massive headboard, the smell of his cologne lingering on the pillows.

You’re clean, your skin free of the sticky mess that had covered you last night, your hair still damp at the roots as if someone’s recently washed it.

More surprising still, you’re dressed… Sort of.

You’re wearing what looks like Shiu’s dress shirt, the white fabric hanging loose around your frame, the sleeves rolled up to accommodate your smaller arms.

Your legs are covered by a pair of black pants that are definitely not yours. They’re too long, the waistband rolled several times to keep them from falling down, the material thin and slightly stretched at the knees. Naoya’s, you realize with another flush of embarrassment.

They’ve dressed you in their clothes, like you’re some kind of doll they’re playing with.

And then there’s the weight across your waist. An arm, heavy with muscle, draped possessively over your midsection.

You turn slightly, and there’s Sukuna, sprawled across the bed beside you, his massive frame taking up more than his fair share of the mattress.

He’s shirtless, his tattoos on full display, intricate patterns of black ink that swirl across his chest, down his arms, disappearing beneath the waistband of his loose-fitting sweats. His eyes are closed, his breathing deep and even, one hand splayed across your stomach as if to keep you in place even in sleep.

From somewhere beyond the bedroom door comes the sound of voices. Low, masculine murmurs punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter. Toji, Shiu, and Naoya, you realize with another flush of embarrassment.

They’re in the kitchen, making breakfast if the smells are anything to go by.

Your body aches in places you didn’t know could ache, a pleasant soreness that reminds you of exactly what you did, exactly what they did to you. There’s something about the weight of Sukuna beside you. The gentle rise and fall of his chest makes it hard to move, hard to think beyond the warm, satisfied buzz still lingering in your limbs.

So instead of getting up, instead of facing what happened, you cuddle deeper into Sukuna’s side.

Your head finds the space between his arm and his chest, your hand coming to rest on the flat plane of his stomach. He’s warm, almost feverishly so, his skin radiating heat like a furnace beneath your palm. Even in sleep, his body responds to your touch, a soft sound escaping his throat as his arm tightens around your waist.

It’s a bad idea. You know it is the moment you feel him stir beside you, his massive frame shifting to accommodate your smaller one.

But it’s too late. Your movement has already woken him, his red eyes blinking open to fix on your face with startling intensity.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep. “You’re awake.”

You nod, suddenly unable to form words as his hand moves from your waist to your hair, fingers gently working through the tangles.

“How do you feel?” he asks, his thumb brushing along your jawline. “We were starting to get worried. You’ve been out for almost twelve hours.”

Twelve hours.

“I’m fine,” you manage, your voice embarrassingly small. “Just... tired.”

Sukuna laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest and into yours. “I bet,” he says, his hand sliding from your hair to cup your cheek. “You took quite the beating last night. All of us, one after another. And you still kept cumming.”

Your inner walls clench at the memory, your breath catching in your throat as Sukuna’s thumb brushes over your lower lip.

“You’re thinking about it,” he says, not a question but a statement. “I can tell. Your pupils just got huge.”

You nod helplessly in agreement.

“That’s my girl,” Sukuna praises, his hand sliding from your cheek to the back of your neck. “Always so honest. Always so fucking eager.”

And then he’s kissing you. He’s almost desperate, his tongue pushing past your lips to tangle with yours. His hand moves from your neck to your waist, then lower, pushing beneath the borrowed shirt to cup your breast. His thumb finds your nipple immediately, circling the already hardened peak with enough pressure to make you gasp into his mouth.

“You’re already getting hard again,” you murmur against his lips, feeling the evidence of his arousal pressing against your thigh. “After last night? Really?”

Sukuna laughs, the sound warm against your mouth. “What can I say? You’re addictive.” His hand moves from your breast to your hip, then lower, pushing beneath the waistband of Naoya’s borrowed pants. “And you’re already wet for me. Fuck, you’re dripping.”

He’s not wrong. You’re drenched, your inner walls already clenching at the thought of having him inside you again. Your hips move of their own accord, seeking that feeling of fullness that only his massive cock can provide.

“I want you,” you hear yourself say, the words barely more than a whisper. “Again. Now.”

“Toji’s gonna be pissed,” he says, but he’s already moving, already shifting to position himself above you. “He specifically said to let you rest.”

“I don’t care,” you say, your voice stronger now. “I want you. Now.”

Sukuna hesitates for just a moment. Then he’s reaching for the waistband of Naoya’s borrowed pants, tugging them down your legs with surprising gentleness. “When Toji finds out I fucked you without him—“

“Ahem.”

Yea, you’re fucked.

Request more omg the way i couldn't stop writing...

[nottellingofname]

For My Caleb ⋆⭒˚｡⋆✈︎

Brother finger, brother finger, where are you?

You wake to wet heat between your thighs, Caleb’s tongue working methodically against your folds. His hands grip your legs, keeping them spread wide as he devours your still half-asleep pussy.

“Mmm, good morning,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep as your hips instinctively rock against his mouth.

Caleb responds with a groan, the vibration traveling through your sensitive flesh. His eyes flick up to meet yours, pupils already blown wide with hunger. Even after days of this, he still looks at your cunt like it’s the first time he’s tasted you.

It’s been like this since that day on the couch—Caleb’s apparent addiction to the taste of you only growing stronger with each passing day. Sometimes you wake to his face between your thighs. Other mornings, he’s barely stirring when you straddle his face, lowering yourself onto his waiting mouth without a word.

He never complains. Not even once.

Your fingers tangle in his sleep-mussed hair, tugging him closer as his tongue circles your clit with precision.

He knows your body now—knows exactly how much pressure makes your thighs quiver, knows the rhythm that usually pushes you over the edge. His hands slide beneath your ass, lifting you slightly to give his tongue better access to your entrance.

“Fuck, ge ge,” you sigh, closing your eyes as pleasure builds in familiar waves. “Your fucking mouth.”

He hums in approval at your language, sucking your clit between his lips in that way that normally sends you spiraling into ecstasy within minutes.

But today—like yesterday, and the day before—the release seems just out of reach, hovering at the edge of your consciousness but refusing to crash over you.

You grind harder against his face, chasing the sensation. Caleb’s enthusiasm never wanes—if anything, he works with more determination as he senses your struggle, his tongue flicking faster, his grip on your ass tightening to the point of bruising.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of building tension, your orgasm washes over you.

It’s good—of course it’s good, Caleb never leaves you unsatisfied—but it lacks the mind-shattering intensity of those first few times. It’s like drinking watered-down liquor when you’ve tasted the pure stuff.

Caleb laps at you through the aftershocks, cleaning every drop of your release with reverent attention. When he finally pulls away, his chin gleams with your slickness, his lips swollen from use.

“You taste even better in the morning,” he says, voice rough as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Could eat this pussy all day.”

Three days of Caleb’s tongue—sometimes twice or three times a day—and your body seems to be building a tolerance. The orgasms still come, but they’re taking longer to achieve and feel less intense when they finally arrive.

“What’s wrong?” Caleb asks, instantly alert to the shift in your mood. He crawls up your body, hovering over you with concerned eyes. “Didn’t you like it?”

“No, it was good,” you assure him quickly. “It’s always good.”

His eyebrow arches skeptically. “But?”

You bite your lip, embarrassed to voice your concerns. How do you tell the man who worships between your thighs daily that his efforts are becoming less effective?

“I think something’s wrong with me,” you finally admit, unable to meet his gaze.

Caleb’s hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip. “What do you mean, Pips?”

The tenderness in his voice gives you courage. “It’s taking longer for me to cum. And when I do, it’s not as... intense.”

“You’re not getting bored of me, are you?” There’s a teasing note in his voice, but you catch the flash of genuine concern in his eyes.

“No! God, no.” You rush to reassure him. “Your tongue is fucking magic, ge ge. I just... I don’t know, maybe I’m broken or something?”

Caleb laughs, the sound low and warm against your skin as he presses a kiss to your neck. “You’re not broken, Y/N. Your body’s just getting used to one type of stimulation. It’s completely normal.”

Relief floods through you. “Really?”

“Really,” he confirms, trailing kisses up to your ear. “Think about it. If you eat the same meal every day, even if it’s your favorite, eventually you start craving something different.”

You nod slowly, understanding dawning. “So my pussy’s just bored of your tongue?”

“Not bored,” he corrects, pulling back to look you in the eyes. “Just ready for more.”

“More what?”

A slow smile spreads across his face, hungry and promising. “More everything. Your body’s telling you it wants to be stretched, filled.”

His hand slides between your bodies, fingers tracing your still-sensitive folds. “This greedy little cunt wants more than just my tongue now.”

“But I’ve never... I don’t know how to—“

“You don’t need to know anything,” Caleb interrupts, voice dropping to that commanding register that makes your stomach flip. “I’ll teach you. Just like I taught you how good my mouth can feel.”

“You’d do that?” You search his face, finding only sincerity and hunger in his expression.

Caleb laughs again, but this time there’s an edge to it—something darker, more primal. “Pips, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to make you feel good. Nothing I wouldn’t teach you.”

His finger traces your entrance, not pushing in, just teasing the possibility. “Do you trust me to show you what comes next?”

“Yes,” you whisper, spreading your legs wider in invitation. “Show me everything, ge ge.”

Satisfaction transforms his features, his smile sharpening into something almost predatory. “Such a good girl,” he praises, leaning down to press his lips against yours.

The taste of your own arousal lingers on his tongue as it pushes into your mouth.

When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with purpose. “I’ll make you feel things you’ve never imagined, Y/N.” His thumb brushes your clit, making you shiver. “By the time I’m done with you, you won’t remember what it felt like to be unsatisfied.”

The conviction in his voice settles something in your chest. Whatever’s happening to your body, Caleb understands it.

Caleb will fix it.

He’s never failed to take care of you before.

“Now,” he says, sitting back on his heels, “let’s explore your options.”

Caleb has you spread-eagle on the bed, your knees bent and legs pushed wide apart by his broad shoulders.

Your head rests on the pillows, giving you the perfect view of his dark hair between your thighs as he devours your pussy with the same enthusiasm he’s shown for days.

But twenty minutes in, and your orgasm still feels like a mirage in the distance—visible but frustratingly out of reach.

“Fuck,” you whine, arching your back as his tongue makes another slow pass from your entrance to your clit. The sensation is good—it’s always good—but it’s not enough anymore. “Caleb, come on.”

He responds by humming against your sensitive flesh, the vibration sending ripples of pleasure through your core. His hands grip your inner thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh as he holds you open for his feast.

The wet sounds of his mouth working against your slick folds fill the room, obscenely loud in the quiet afternoon.

You try to focus on the building pleasure, to concentrate on the skilled movement of his tongue as it circles your clit with practiced precision.

Closing your eyes, you chase the sensation, rocking your hips against his face in a desperate bid to increase the pressure.

But your mind keeps wandering, the familiar rhythm failing to hold your attention like it once did. Your body craves something more—something deeper, more filling than just the shallow dips of his tongue into your entrance.

“Ge ge,” you plead, your voice taking on a desperate edge. “I need more. Please.”

Caleb pulls back slightly, his chin glistening with your arousal as he glances up at you. “Patience, Pips. I’m getting you ready.”

“Ready for what?” you demand, frustration sharpening your tone. “I’ve been ready. I’m fucking soaked.”

To prove your point, you reach down, dipping your fingers between your folds and holding them up to show him the clear evidence of your arousal. Your fingertips glisten in the afternoon light, connected by strings of your wetness.

Instead of being chastened, Caleb just grins. “I can see that,” he says, before diving back down to continue his ministrations.

Your frustration mounts as he returns to the same techniques that have become predictable over the past weeks.

The lick-suck-circle pattern that once sent you spiraling into ecstasy now feels like a tease, a prelude to something your body desperately wants but isn’t getting.

“God damn it, Xia Yi Zhou,” you growl, your hands flying to his hair. You tangle your fingers in the dark strands, yanking harder than you intended in your frustration. “Fucking do something different or I swear I’ll—“

Your threat cuts off in a gasp as he sucks your clit hard between his lips, the sudden intensity momentarily silencing your complaints. But even this more aggressive move isn’t enough to push you toward release. Your body feels wound tight, tension coiled in your core with no outlet.

“I’m getting tired,” you whine, tugging at his hair again, trying to pull his face deeper between your legs as if you could force him to give you what you need. “Make me cum already!”

Caleb allows you to guide his head, his tongue still working diligently against your clit. But you can feel him smiling against your flesh, clearly amused by your bratty demands rather than bothered by them.

“You’re being such a little bitch today,” he murmurs against your pussy, the crude words vibrating through your sensitive flesh. But there’s no real heat in his voice—just amusement and something like satisfaction, as if your frustration is exactly what he wanted.

“I don’t care,” you snap, lifting your hips to grind against his face more forcefully. “Just fucking make it better.”

Your behavior would probably offend anyone else, but Caleb just chuckles, the sound rumbling through your core.

He finally pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he looks up at you from between your thighs.

“You know what your problem is, Pips?” he asks, his purple eyes dark with a mixture of hunger and amusement. “You’re ready for more than just my tongue.”

“Then give me more,” you demand, spreading your legs wider in blatant invitation.

Caleb sits back on his heels, his hands still resting possessively on your thighs. “I’m trying to, you impatient brat. I’m warming you up so you can take my fingers without any pain.”

The explanation makes logical sense, but you‘re too far gone in your frustrated horniness to care about his careful preparation.

All you know is that your pussy is aching, empty, and his mouth isn’t solving the problem anymore.

“I don’t need warming up,” you insist, reaching down to spread your lips apart with your fingers, exposing yourself completely to his gaze. “Look how wet I am. Just fucking finger me already.”

Caleb’s eyes darken at your display, but he shakes his head. “It‘s not just about wetness, Y/N. You’ve never had anything inside you before. I need to make sure you’re relaxed and ready.”

“Blah blah blah,” you mock, rolling your eyes dramatically. “Always so fucking careful. Maybe I don’t want careful. Maybe I want it to hurt a little.”

His expression shifts at that, something dangerous flashing across his features. “You don‘t know what you’re asking for.”

“Then show me,” you challenge, your frustration making you bold. “Or I swear to god, I’ll give you the silent treatment for a week.”

The childish threat draws another laugh from Caleb, this one deeper, darker. “The silent treatment? Really, Pips? That’s the best you’ve got?”

“Try me,” you warn, crossing your arms over your chest like a petulant child. “See how you like it when I stop talking to you. Stop letting you eat my pussy. Stop—“

“Alright, alright,” he interrupts, holding his hands up in mock surrender. But the glint in his eyes tells you he’s not really giving in—he’s just shifting strategies. “You want more? You think you’re ready?”

“Yes,” you hiss, uncrossing your arms to grab his wrist, trying to guide his hand between your legs. “I’ve been ready for fucking ages.”

Caleb resists your pull, his strength easily overpowering yours. “You know,” he says conversationally, as if you’re discussing the weather rather than begging him to finger you, “I love it when you get all bratty like this.”

“I’m not being bratty,” you protest, even as you pout and tug harder at his arm. “I’m being honest.”

“Mmhmm.” His tone is indulgent, patronizing. “And what happens to bratty girls who make demands instead of asking nicely?”

There’s a warning in his voice that sends a fresh wave of heat through your core. “I don’t care. Just do something about this sopping fucking pussy before I lose my mind.”

His eyes flash with approval at your vulgarity, even as his expression hardens with determination.

“Fine,” he says, his voice dropping to that commanding register that makes your stomach flip. “But don’t say I didn’t try to go slow for you.”

Before you can respond, he’s leaning down again, his tongue making one more broad stroke up your slit.

“Last chance to be patient,” he warns, his breath hot against your sensitive flesh.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” you spit at Caleb, your frustration boiling over. “All that talk about giving me more, and you’re still just—“

The rest of your sentence dies in your throat as Caleb’s purple eyes darken with something dangerous. His hand, which had been resting on your inner thigh, suddenly moves.

“You were saying?” Caleb’s voice drops to that low, commanding register that makes your stomach flip even as you try to maintain your defiant glare.

“I said you’re a fucking tease,” you repeat, doubling down despite the warning in his expression. “All talk and no—oh!”

Your bratty tirade cuts off abruptly as Caleb’s index finger pushes inside you without warning.

The sudden intrusion—the first time anything larger than the tip of his tongue has entered you—makes your back arch off the bed, your eyes widening in shock.

“There,” Caleb says, his voice deceptively casual despite the intensity in his gaze. “Is that what you wanted, Pips? Something inside this greedy little cunt?”

You can’t answer. The sensation of his finger—thick and warm and so different from his tongue—has robbed you of words.

It doesn’t hurt exactly, but the stretch is unfamiliar, foreign. Your body seems frozen between the impulse to push him out and pull him deeper.

“Breathe,” he instructs, his free hand coming to rest on your lower belly, steadying you. “Relax around me.”

You hadn‘t realized you were holding your breath until he mentions it. The exhale comes out as a shaky moan, your inner walls fluttering around the intrusion as your muscles slowly unclench.

“That’s it,” Caleb encourages, his finger remaining still inside you, allowing your body to adjust. “Just like that.”

When he’s sure you’ve relaxed, he begins to move—pulling his finger back until just the tip remains inside, then pushing slowly forward again.

The friction is unlike anything you’ve felt before, sending sparks up your spine that make your thighs quiver.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his eyes fixed on where his finger disappears into your body. “Taking my finger so well. Where’s all that bratty attitude now, huh?”

Your hands fist in the sheets, head thrashing against the pillow as he establishes a slow, deliberate rhythm. Each push inward seems to reach deeper, touching parts of you that have never been touched before.

“Shut up,” you gasp, but there’s no heat in the words—just desperation as your hips begin to move of their own accord, rising to meet each thrust of his finger.

Caleb’s laugh is dark, knowing. “So fucking mouthy,” he says, but his voice holds admiration beneath the mock scolding. “Always ready with a comeback until I get my hands on this wet little pussy. Then you’re all whimpers and moans.”

He’s right, and you hate how right he is.

Every sharp retort you might have made dissolves into incoherent sounds of pleasure as his finger curls slightly, exploring your inner walls with meticulous attention.

“You like being filled, don’t you?” he continues, his thumb brushing teasingly against your clit with each inward push. “Like having part of me inside you.”

“Yes,” you admit, past the point of pride as pleasure builds in your core. “Feels—feels good.”

“Better than just my tongue?”

Your eyes roll back as he presses against a spot inside you that sends electricity shooting up your spine. “Yes! Fuck—right there!”

“Knew it would be,” Caleb says, satisfaction evident in his tone. “Knew your body was ready for more. You just needed to be put in your place first.”

Just as you’re getting used to the sensation, adjusting to the rhythm of his thrusts, Caleb withdraws his finger entirely. The sudden emptiness makes you whimper, your hips chasing his retreating hand.

“No, don’t stop,” you plead, previous attitude entirely forgotten in your desperation. “Please, ge ge.”

Caleb‘s eyes glitter with triumph at your begging. “Don’t worry, Pips. I’m not stopping. Just switching things up a bit.”

Before you can ask what he means, his hand is between your legs again. But this time, it‘s his middle finger that presses against your entrance—noticeably thicker than his index finger, and longer too.

“Wait,” you gasp, suddenly nervous as you feel the blunt pressure. “Is that—“

“My middle finger,” Caleb confirms, his voice steady even as his eyes burn with hunger. “It’ll reach deeper. Hit spots my index finger couldn’t.”

He doesn’t wait for your permission—perhaps knowing you’d only delay out of nervousness rather than genuine reluctance.

With slow but insistent pressure, his middle finger pushes past your entrance, sinking deeper than his index finger ever did.

The stretch is more pronounced this time, drawing a strangled sound from your throat that’s half pain, half pleasure. Your body instinctively arches, legs spreading wider as if to accommodate the intrusion.

“Holy fuck,” you breathe, eyes wide as you stare at the ceiling, overwhelmed by the sensation of being filled.

“Too much?” Caleb asks, pausing with his finger halfway inside you. Despite the dominance he‘s been displaying, there’s genuine concern in his voice now.

You shake your head frantically. “No, no—don’t stop.” Your hips shift, pushing down against his hand, taking him deeper. “It’s good. So good.”

Relief and renewed hunger flash across his features as he resumes his careful penetration, pushing until his finger is buried to the knuckle inside you.

“Look at that,” Caleb murmurs, his gaze fixed on where your body swallows his finger. “Taking me so deep. Such a good girl.”

The praise sends warmth blooming through your chest even as pleasure radiates from your core. You find yourself nodding mindlessly, agreeing with whatever he says as long as he keeps moving, keeps touching you like this.

When he crooks his finger, pressing forward against your front wall, stars burst behind your eyelids. Your back arches sharply off the bed, a sound you‘ve never made before tearing from your throat.

“There it is,” Caleb says, triumph lacing his voice. “Your sweet spot.”

He repeats the motion, rubbing firmly against that spot that makes your entire body jerk with pleasure. All thoughts of brattiness and demands have vanished, replaced by pure sensation and the desperate need for more.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you chant, no longer caring how wanton you sound, how completely you’ve surrendered to his touch. “Right there, please, don’t stop.”

“Not so bossy now, are you?” Caleb teases, but his voice has lost its edge, softened by the obvious pleasure he takes in your reactions. “Just taking what I give you. Letting ge ge make you feel good.”

You nod frantically, beyond words as his finger works magic inside you. Your entire world has narrowed to the point where your bodies connect, to the sensation of him filling you, touching parts of you that have never been touched before.

“That’s it,” he encourages as your hips begin to rock against his hand, seeking more pressure, more friction. “Show me how much you like it. Show me how much you need me inside you.”

And you do, shamelessly rolling your hips, fucking yourself on his finger as pleasure builds to levels you didn’t know were possible.

Whatever complaints you had about his tongue not being enough anymore have evaporated, replaced by the dawning realization that this is just the beginning of what Caleb can make you feel.

Caleb’s finger continues its relentless assault on that spot deep inside you, making your legs tremble as pressure builds at the base of your spine.

Just when you think you might explode from the sensation, he slowly withdraws, leaving you empty and aching. Your pussy clenches around nothing, hungry for the fullness it just lost.

“No,” you whimper, reaching for his wrist. “Please don’t stop.”

“Patience,” Caleb murmurs, his voice thick with arousal as he brings his slick finger to your clit. The pad of his middle finger, now coated with your arousal, slides easily over the sensitive bundle of nerves, making lazy circles that send electric pulses through your lower body.

“Need to make sure you’re wet enough for what comes next.”

You let out a breathless laugh, gesturing to the obvious evidence of your arousal gleaming on his fingers and undoubtedly soaking into the sheets beneath you. “I think we’re well past that point, don’t you?”

Instead of answering, Caleb increases the pressure on your clit, rubbing up and down with firm, deliberate strokes that make your hips jerk involuntarily.

Each pass of his finger sends pleasure radiating outward, but it’s a shallow kind of pleasure—not enough to satisfy the new emptiness you feel inside.

“I’m sorry,” you find yourself saying, the words tumbling out as his finger continues its maddening path across your most sensitive spot. “For being a brat. For pulling your hair and being impatient.”

Caleb’s eyes soften, though the hungry edge never fully disappears. “Are you really sorry? Or are you just saying that so I’ll give you what you want?”

“Both,” you admit, honesty winning out over pride. Your hands reach for him again, fingers curling around his strong wrist. “I’m sorry and I want more. Please, ge ge.”

A slow smile spreads across his face—part triumph, part genuine affection. “That’s my good girl,” he praises, his finger never stopping its rhythmic circles on your clit. “Using your words instead of demands. Asking nicely.”

You nod eagerly, beyond caring how desperate you look. “Please. I need to feel you inside me again.”

“Since you asked so nicely...” Caleb’s finger leaves your clit, trailing down to gather more of your wetness at your entrance. For a moment, you think he’s going to tease you with just his middle finger again, but his hand shifts slightly, and you feel a different pressure—wider, more insistent.

Your eyes widen as you realize what’s coming. “Wait, is that—“

Before you can finish the question, Caleb pushes forward, and both his middle and ring fingers slide into you in one smooth motion.

The stretch is immediate and intense, drawing a startled cry from your lips as your inner walls struggle to accommodate the increased girth.

“Fuck!” The word explodes from you, your back arching off the bed as dual sensations of stretch and fullness overwhelm your senses.

It doesn’t hurt exactly—you’re too wet, too aroused for pain—but the pressure is so much more than before, making you acutely aware of every millimeter of space his fingers occupy inside you.

“Too much?” Caleb asks, his fingers remaining still, giving you time to adjust. His other hand strokes soothingly along your thigh, a contrast to the intensity of the penetration.

You shake your head frantically, unable to form words as your body processes this new sensation. It feels right somehow—like a puzzle piece clicking into place.

The initial shock fades quickly, replaced by a deep, throbbing pleasure that radiates outward from your core.

“No, it’s... it’s perfect,” you finally manage, your voice barely above a whisper. “So full.”

Pride flashes across Caleb‘s features, his purple eyes darkening as he watches your face.

Slowly, carefully, he begins to move his fingers, pulling them back a fraction before pushing deep again. The friction sends sparks up your spine, your inner walls fluttering around the intrusion.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his gaze traveling down to where his thick fingers disappear into your body. “Taking two fingers so easily. Like your pussy was made for me to fill.”

The dirty words send another wave of heat through you. You find yourself nodding in agreement, too consumed by pleasure to be embarrassed by his explicit praise.

Each thrust of his fingers reaches deeper than his tongue or single finger ever could, touching parts of you that feel like they’ve been waiting forever to be awakened.

Caleb establishes a steady rhythm, his fingers pumping in and out with increasing confidence as your body yields to his intrusion.

The wet sounds of your arousal fill the room, obscene and thrilling. Your hips begin to move of their own accord, rising to meet each thrust, silently asking for more, faster, deeper.

But just as you’re getting lost in the rhythm, Caleb slows his pace, his movements becoming more deliberate, more measured.

The change is maddening—you were so close to finding the perfect friction, the perfect angle.

Acting on pure instinct, your hand shoots out, gripping his wrist tightly. Caleb’s eyebrows rise in surprise, but he doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he watches with fascination as you take control, using your grip on his wrist to guide his fingers back into the faster, deeper pace your body craves.

“Show me,” he encourages, voice rough with arousal. “Show me how you want it.”

Still holding his wrist, you begin to fuck yourself on his fingers, using his hand as a tool for your pleasure.

You angle his fingers to hit that spot inside you that makes your vision blur, controlling the depth and speed with surprising precision.

“Like this,” you pant, driving his fingers into you at a pace that makes the bed creak beneath your writhing body. “Right here—fuck—right there.”

Caleb lets you take control completely, his muscles relaxing under your grip, allowing you to use his hand however you need.

His eyes never leave your face, drinking in every expression of pleasure, every gasp and moan your movements produce.

“That’s it,” he praises, his free hand coming up to stroke your cheek with surprising tenderness. “Take what you need. Use me.”

You're working his fingers like a toy while he's touching your cheek like you're made of glass—the mixed signals make your insides do a hot little dance.

Your movements become more frantic, less coordinated as pleasure builds to a fever pitch at the base of your spine.

“Gonna cum,” you warn, voice breaking as your grip on his wrist tightens to the point of bruising. “Fuck, Caleb, I’m so close.”

“I’ve got you,” he assures, making no move to take back control. Instead, he shifts his position slightly, giving you better leverage as you chase your release. “That’s my good girl. So perfect, learning to take what you want.”

There’s pride in his voice—genuine admiration as he watches you pleasure yourself with his fingers. With one last thrust of his fingers, angled perfectly against that spot deep inside, the tension breaks.

Your orgasm crashes over you with an intensity that steals your breath, your inner walls clamping down on his fingers as waves of pleasure pulse outward from your core.

Your legs shake uncontrollably, your grip on his wrist tightening and then relaxing as the peak washes through you.

Caleb watches it all with hungry fascination, his eyes tracking every tremor, every gasp, every flutter of your eyelids as you come apart around his fingers.

And through the haze of your pleasure, you see something like awe in his expression—as if witnessing your pleasure is the greatest privilege he could imagine.

“Beautiful,” he whispers as your spasms begin to subside, his fingers still buried deep inside you. “So fucking beautiful when you cum for me.”

You collapse back against the pillows, chest heaving, limbs suddenly heavy with satisfaction.

The emptiness you felt earlier, the frustration that drove you to take control, has been thoroughly banished. In its place is a warm, pulsing contentment that makes your lips curve into a smile.

But even as your breathing begins to slow, you notice something in Caleb’s expression—a hunger not yet sated, a determination that tells you he’s far from finished with you yet.

“Such a good girl,” Caleb murmurs as your breathing slowly returns to normal. His fingers remain buried inside you, feeling the aftershocks of your orgasm as your inner walls continue to pulse around him.

“Look how wet you got,” he observes, slowly withdrawing his middle and ring fingers. They emerge glistening, coated in a thick layer of your arousal that strings between his fingers like honey when he spreads them apart. “All this cream just for me.”

Your cheeks flush at his observation, but you can’t deny the evidence.

Your thighs are slick with your own wetness, and you can feel more of it pooling beneath you on the sheets. The orgasm was intense—more powerful than any you’ve experienced from his tongue alone—leaving you feeling boneless and satisfied.

But his purple eyes remain dark with hunger, fixed on your exposed pussy with an intensity that makes your core clench despite your recent release.

“You deserve a reward for that,” he says, bringing his wet fingers to his mouth. He sucks them clean with obscene thoroughness, eyes closing briefly as he savors your taste. “For taking control. For showing me exactly what you needed.”

“A reward?” you ask, voice still slightly breathless. “I thought that orgasm was my reward.”

Caleb’s laugh is low and dark with promise. “Oh, Pips. We‘re just getting started.”

Before you can ask what he means, his hand returns between your legs. You expect him to resume the now-familiar intrusion of two fingers, but instead feel a different pressure—wider, more insistent.

Looking down your body, you see Caleb positioning three fingers at your entrance. Middle, ring, and index.

“Wait,” you gasp, suddenly nervous at the sight. “All three? Will they fit?”

“They’ll fit,” Caleb assures you, his confidence unwavering. “You’re so wet from cumming, and your body’s learning to open for me.” His eyes meet yours, searching. “Do you trust me?”

Despite your apprehension, you find yourself nodding. “Yes.”

“Good girl,” he praises, and begins to press forward.

The initial stretch is uncomfortable bordering on painful—your body resisting the unfamiliar width despite your arousal.

Caleb moves with slowness, watching your face for any sign of distress as his three fingers work their way inside you millimeter by millimeter.

“Breathe,” he reminds you when you realize you’re holding your breath. “Relax around me.”

You follow his instructions, focusing on relaxing your muscles as he continues his careful penetration. The burn of the stretch gradually subsides, giving way to a fullness that feels both foreign and oddly right.

“That’s it,” Caleb encourages as his fingers sink deeper. “Taking me so well.”

Despite the initial discomfort, you find yourself growing aroused again at the mere thought of what’s happening—at Caleb being inside you, filling you more completely than before.

Your hips shift restlessly, trying to adjust to the intrusion while simultaneously seeking more.

“So full,” you whisper, eyes wide as you look down at where his hand disappears between your legs.

“And taking it like a champion,” Caleb praises, his free hand stroking your inner thigh soothingly. “But I think we can make this even better for you.”

Acting on some instinct you don’t fully understand, you reach down and grab behind your knees, pulling them up toward your chest.

The position feels vulnerable, exposing—but it also relieves some of the pressure, allowing your body to open more fully around Caleb’s fingers.

“Fuck,” Caleb breathes, his eyes darkening at your display. “Look at you, spreading yourself wide for me. Such an eager little slut.”

That filthy insult would've made you cringe, but right now—with his fingers knuckle-deep and your legs spread like you're begging for it—it just makes you wetter, hungrier, desperate for whatever comes next.

“Is that better?” he asks, experimentally moving his fingers now that you’ve given him more room to work.

“Yes,” you gasp as he begins to thrust shallowly, the three fingers moving together. “Different, but... good.”

Caleb’s expression turns focused as he watches your reactions. “Let’s try something,” he murmurs, and then his fingers are moving in a new way—no longer just in and out, but spreading apart inside you, stretching your inner walls in different directions.

“Oh!” The sensation is startling, making your back arch and your toes curl. It’s not quite pleasure, not quite pain, but something in between that makes your nerve endings sing.

“Too much?” Caleb asks, stilling his movements.

You shake your head frantically. “No, don‘t stop. It’s just... a lot.”

Encouraged, he resumes his exploration, his fingers moving inside you with growing confidence. Sometimes he thrusts them together, other times he scissor them apart or twists his wrist to change the angle of penetration.

Each movement seems calculated to expose a different part of you to his touch, to prepare your body for even more.

“Look how you’re opening up for me,” Caleb says, his voice thick with wonder as he spreads his fingers again, stretching your entrance wider. “Your pretty little cunt is learning exactly what it was made for.”

His praise sends another wave of heat through your core. You can feel yourself getting wetter, your body producing more slick to ease the considerable intrusion of his three thick fingers.

“Caleb,” you moan as he finds that spot deep inside you again, the one that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. “Right there, please.”

He obliges, focusing his attention on that sweet spot, pressing and rubbing with deliberate precision.

Your previous orgasm has left you more sensitive, more responsive to his touch, and you can feel another climax building with surprising speed.

“Gonna cum again,” you warn, your voice high and breathy as tension coils tight in your core.

“That’s it,” Caleb encourages, increasing the pressure inside you. “Give me another one. Show me how much you love having my fingers stuffed inside this greedy pussy.”

His words push you closer to the edge, your inner walls clenching around his intrusive fingers as pleasure builds to an almost unbearable pitch.

When his thumb finds your clit, pressing and circling with ease, it’s enough to send you hurtling over the precipice.

Your second orgasm hits harder than the first, drawing a strangled cry from your throat as your body convulses around his fingers.

Waves of pleasure pulse outward from your core, making your legs shake and your vision blur. More of your arousal gushes out around his fingers, adding to the mess already coating your thighs and the sheets beneath you.

“That’s it,” Caleb croons, his thumb continuing its relentless circles on your clit as he extends your pleasure. “Cream all over my hand, Pips. Let me feel how good I‘m making you feel.”

The wet squelching sounds of your arousal fill the room as Caleb continues to move his fingers inside you, pushing through the tight grip of your spasming walls.

“Listen to how fucking wet you are,” Caleb says, his voice rough with his own arousal. “The sounds your pussy makes when I’m inside it. So fucking perfect.”

As your orgasm begins to subside, you expect him to withdraw, to give your oversensitive body a reprieve. Instead, his eyes lock with yours, determination hardening his features.

“We’re not done yet,” he informs you, his fingers still buried deep inside you. “I know you can give me more. And I expect you to take it like a good girl.”

Despite your exhaustion, despite the lingering sensitivity from two powerful orgasms, you feel a fresh surge of arousal at his words.

Caleb believes your body is capable of more pleasure than you ever imagined, and you find yourself desperately wanting to prove him right.

“Yes, ge ge,” you whisper, spreading your legs wider in renewed invitation. “Whatever you want.”

“Let me help you with that position,” Caleb murmurs, noticing how your arms are starting to shake from the effort of holding your knees to your chest.

His eyes narrow in concentration, and you feel the familiar weightless sensation as his gravity evol activates. The invisible force takes hold of your legs, pulling them back and up until you’re completely exposed, folded nearly in half in what you vaguely recognize as a mating press.

“Caleb!” you gasp, surprised by the sudden use of his ability. Your legs hover in the air, held firmly by his power, leaving your hands free to grip the sheets instead.

“Perfect,” he says, satisfaction evident in his tone as he admires his handiwork. “Now I can really see everything.”

His three fingers remain inside you, stretching you open in a way that’s become almost comfortable after your second orgasm. But when he slowly begins to withdraw them, you feel a pang of emptiness, a protest forming on your lips.

“Don’t worry,” Caleb soothes, noticing your expression. “I’m not stopping. Just... adjusting.”

Before you can ask what he means, he’s repositioning his hand. Your eyes widen as you watch him press his three fingers together, and then—to your shock—add his pinky to the formation.

“Wait,” you breathe, sudden anxiety fluttering in your chest. “Four? Isn’t that too many?”

Caleb’s eyes meet yours, his expression serious despite the hunger darkening his gaze. “Do you want me to stop?”

You consider the question, genuinely weighing your answer. Your body feels stretched already from three fingers, sensitive from two powerful orgasms.

And yet... there’s a part of you that craves more, that wants to know just how much pleasure—how much of Caleb—you can take.

“No,” you finally answer, your voice small but determined. “Don’t stop. Just... go slow.”

Pride flashes across his features, followed by a tenderness that makes your heart ache. “Always so brave for me,” he murmurs, then returns his attention to the task at hand.

The pressure is immediate and intense as he begins to push all four fingers against your entrance. Despite your abundant wetness, despite your body’s previous accommodation of three fingers, this new intrusion feels impossible at first.

The stretch burns, drawing a hiss from between your clenched teeth as your body fights the invasion.

“Breathe,” Caleb reminds you, his free hand stroking your inner thigh soothingly. “Relax and let me in.”

You try to follow his instructions, forcing your muscles to unclench, focusing on your breathing as he maintains steady, gentle pressure.

Tears spring to your eyes—not from pain exactly, but from the overwhelming sensation of being stretched beyond what you thought possible.

“That’s it,” Caleb encourages as your body slowly yields, allowing the tip of his four fingers to slip past your entrance. “Opening up for me. Taking everything I give you.”

A tear escapes, rolling down your temple as you stare up at the ceiling, overwhelmed by the fullness. Caleb notices immediately, concern flashing across his features.

“Too much?” he asks, stilling his hand. “We can stop—“

“No,” you gasp, shaking your head frantically. “Don’t you dare stop. It’s just a lot.”

He holds his position, not pushing deeper but not withdrawing either, giving your body time to adjust to the considerable stretch.

Just as you’re about to tell him to continue, to push deeper, Caleb does something unexpected.

Leaning forward, he gathers saliva in his mouth, then deliberately spits directly onto your exposed pussy where it’s stretched around his fingers.

The action is so lewd that it momentarily startles you out of your discomfort. You watch, transfixed, as the glistening glob of his saliva lands on your swollen flesh, immediately mixing with your own arousal.

“What—“ you begin, but your question dies in your throat as Caleb uses his thumb to spread his spit around your stretched entrance, lubricating the tight ring of muscle.

“Need you wetter for this,” he explains, voice rough with arousal. “Want to make sure I don’t hurt you.”

It‘s filthy, degrading even—your brother spitting on your most intimate parts. But you find yourself hypnotized by the path of his saliva as it trickles down to where his fingers are stretching you open, mixing with your own juices before disappearing inside you.

“Your spit,” you whisper, the realization hitting you with unexpected force. “It’s inside me.”

Caleb’s eyes darken at your observation. “That’s right,” he confirms, slowly pushing his fingers deeper now that the extra lubrication has eased the way. “Part of me, inside you. Mixing with your wetness.”

It’s not just his fingers invading you now—it’s his DNA, his essence, mingling with yours in the most intimate way possible.

“Your spit, inside my pussy,” you repeat, the crude words feeling right on your tongue. “Your DNA... mixing with mine.”

Something flashes in Caleb‘s eyes. Understanding, hunger, approval. “You like that idea, don’t you?” he says, pushing his fingers deeper still. “Like having me inside you, becoming part of you.”

You nod, unable to deny the truth of his words. Each thrust of his fingers feels like he’s claiming you from the inside, marking territory that no one else has ever touched, ever will touch.

“Say it,” Caleb commands, his thumb finding your clit as his four fingers work deeper. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I love having you inside me,” you gasp, abandoning all pretense of shame. “Love how you’re stretching me open, filling me with your fingers, your spit. Making me yours.”

Your words spur him on, his movements becoming more confident as your body continues to yield to his invasion. The squelching sounds coming from between your legs grow louder, more obscene with each thrust of his fingers.

“Listen to how fucking wet you are,” Caleb groans, his eyes fixed on where his hand disappears inside you. “Your greedy cunt sucking my fingers in, making those slutty noises.”

Your inner walls clench around his invading fingers, your clit throbbing beneath his thumb as tension builds to an unbearable level.

“Gonna cum,” you warn, voice high and desperate. “Caleb, I’m—I’m—“

“Do it,” he commands, increasing the pressure on your clit. “Cum all over my fingers, Pips. Show me how much you love being stuffed full of me.”

The orgasm that tears through you is different from the previous ones—more intense, more wet. Your back arches sharply despite the restraint of Caleb’s gravity evol, a guttural sound tearing from your throat as pleasure explodes outward from your core.

And then something new happens—fluid gushes from you in a hot rush, spraying around Caleb’s fingers to soak his hand, his wrist, the sheets beneath you.

“Fuck!” Caleb’s eyes widen in delighted shock. “You’re squirting for me. That’s it, baby, let it all out.”

You’ve heard of squirting before but never experienced it—never imagined your body capable of such a response.

Wave after wave of pleasure crashes through you as more fluid pulses from your core, your inner muscles contracting violently around Caleb’s fingers.

“So fucking pretty,” Caleb murmurs, watching in fascination as your body releases in a way it never has before. “Look at you, making a mess all over me. All because of my fingers inside your tight little pussy.”

The intensity of the orgasm leaves you gasping, trembling, tears streaming freely down your temples now.

Caleb’s gravity evol holds you firmly in position even as your body shakes, ensuring you remain spread wide open for his hungry gaze as you ride out the most powerful climax of your life.

The force of your orgasm is so powerful that it actually expels Caleb’s fingers, your pussy contracting with such strength that his four digits slip free in a rush of fluid.

You both look down in shock at the sight—his hand glistening with your release, your pussy clenching around sudden emptiness, more of your arousal trickling from your entrance to pool beneath you on the already soaked sheets.

“Well,” Caleb says after a moment, his surprise giving way to a slow, predatory smile. “That’s a first.”

You blush, embarrassed by your body’s violent reaction. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—“

“Don’t you dare apologize,” he interrupts, his eyes gleaming with determination rather than disappointment. “That was fucking gorgeous. But I take it as a personal challenge now.”

Before you can ask what he means, Caleb lowers his face toward your exposed center, so close that you can feel his hot breath against your sensitive flesh. To your surprise, he begins speaking—not to you, but to your pussy directly.

“Looks like she wants to talk to me,” he murmurs, his lips nearly brushing against your swollen folds. “Pushing me out like that. But we‘re not done yet, are we? You want more of me inside you, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you whimper, arching your hips toward his face, seeking contact. “Please, more.”

Caleb’s eyes flick up to meet yours, satisfaction evident in his expression. “See? She agrees with me.” His gaze returns to your center, still held open by his gravity evol. “So greedy for me. Can’t get enough.”

His hand moves between your legs again, four fingers pressing together as he aligns them with your entrance. Despite your body’s attempt to expel him moments ago, you find yourself eagerly anticipating his return, your hips pushing forward to meet his touch.

“That’s it,” Caleb encourages as the tips of his fingers breach you again. “Welcome me back inside.”

The reentry is easier this time, your body still loose from before, slick with the combination of your arousal and his saliva.

His four fingers slide in gradually, your inner walls yielding to his invasion with less resistance than before.

When his fingers are fully seated inside you again, Caleb pauses, giving you a moment to adjust to the fullness. His other hand comes up to stroke your lower belly, feeling the slight bulge where his fingers fill you from the inside.

“Can you feel me?” he asks, pressing down gently on your abdomen.

You nod, gasping at the sensation of his fingers shifting inside you from the external pressure. “Yes. So deep.”

A look of intense concentration crosses his features. “Good. Because I’m about to go deeper.”

His hand shifts slightly, and you feel his thumb, which had been resting against your outer lips, begin to move. Instead of circling your clit as it has before, it now presses against your entrance alongside his four fingers.

Your eyes widen as you realize his intention. “Caleb, wait—it's not gonna fit.”

“It will,” he says with absolute certainty. “Your body was made to stretch, to take me. We just need to go slow.” His eyes meet yours, searching. “Don’t you trust me?”

Despite your trepidation, you find yourself nodding. “I do.”

“My perfect little mei mei.” The approval in his voice sends warmth blooming through your chest. “Now, breathe with me. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

You follow his instructions, focusing on your breathing as Caleb begins to work his thumb in alongside his fingers.

The stretch is immediate and intense, your entrance burning as it struggles to accommodate the widest part of his hand.

“Breathe,” he reminds you when you instinctively tense. “Relax everything. Let me in.”

You force yourself to exhale slowly, consciously relaxing your muscles as Caleb maintains steady, gentle pressure.

It seems impossible—his hand is so much wider than four fingers—but gradually, incrementally, your body yields.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice thick with concentration. “Almost there. You’re doing so well, Pips.”

The moment the widest part of his hand slips past your entrance, the pressure changes. There’s a strange popping sensation, and suddenly his entire fist is inside you, your entrance closing around his wrist like a tight bracelet.

“Holy fuck,” you gasp, eyes wide with disbelief at what your body has just accomplished.

Caleb looks equally amazed, his eyes fixed on the point where your body swallows his hand. “Fuck, Y/N,” he breathes, awe evident in his voice. “You took my whole fist. My perfect little sister.”

He remains perfectly still, allowing you to adjust to the unprecedented invasion. You can feel your inner walls pulsing around his fist, adjusting to his shape from the inside.

“How does it feel?” Caleb asks, his voice gentle despite the extreme act you’re engaged in.

“Full,” you whisper, struggling to find words adequate to describe the sensation. “Like... like you’re part of me now. Inside me completely.”

Your answer draws a groan from him, his eyes darkening further. “That’s exactly what I want,” he confesses. “To be inside you. Part of you.”

The admission sends another pulse of arousal through your core, your inner walls clenching involuntarily around his fist.

“Don’t want you to ever leave,” you admit, the words tumbling out without conscious thought. “Want you inside me forever.”

Slowly, cautiously, he begins to move his hand, not pulling out but rotating his wrist inside you, exploring your depths from a new angle.

“Fuck!” The sensation steals your breath—his knuckles brushing against spots inside you that have never been touched before, the pressure shifting and changing as his fist turns within you. “Caleb, that’s—oh god—“

“Good?” he asks, though the answer is written plainly across your flushed face.

“So good,” you confirm, your hips beginning to move of their own accord, grinding against his wrist as his fist continues its careful exploration of your inner walls. “Please don’t stop.”

As Caleb’s fist works its magic inside you, a new need arises—your clit, neglected since he stopped using his thumb to rub it, throbs with desperate hunger.

Acting on instinct, you reach down, grabbing Caleb’s head and pulling it toward your exposed bud.

He understands immediately, a smile curving his lips as he allows you to guide his mouth to your clit

“Greedy girl,” he murmurs approvingly. “Wants my fist inside her and my mouth on her clit. Taking everything I can give.”

Without further prompting, Caleb seals his lips around your swollen clit, sucking gently as his fist continues its careful rotation inside you.

“Yes!” you cry out, one hand fisting in his hair to hold him in place while the other grips the sheets beneath you. “Right there, don’t stop!”

Caleb responds by increasing the suction on your clit, his tongue flicking rapidly against the sensitive bud while his fist maintains its steady rotation.

His free hand grips your thigh, holding you open as his gravity evol continues to keep your legs suspended in the mating press position.

The combination is overwhelming—too much sensation, too much pleasure for your overworked nervous system to process. A pressure builds low in your abdomen.

“Something’s happening,” you gasp, panic edging into your voice as the pressure increases to almost unbearable levels. “Caleb, I feel—I think I’m going to—“

He lifts his mouth from your clit just long enough to say, “Let go, Pips. Give it to me. All of it.”

His lips return to your clit with renewed hunger, sucking harder while his fist makes a quarter turn inside you, pressing against your front wall.

The shift in pressure is the final push you need—the dam breaks, pleasure exploding outward from your core as fluid gushes from around his wrist in a powerful spray.

Unlike your previous squirting orgasm, this one goes directly into Caleb’s waiting mouth. His eyes widen momentarily in surprise, but he doesn’t pull away—instead, he seals his lips more firmly around your clit, swallowing your release as it pulses from you in rhythmic waves.

Watching him slurp up your juices like a man dying of thirst while his whole damn fist is still buried deep in your guts has you cumming so hard you think you might actually pass out.

“Caleb, Caleb, Caleb,” you chant, his name the only coherent thought your overwhelmed brain can produce as your body continues to convulse around his fist.

Tears stream freely down your temples now—not from pain but from the sheer intensity of the pleasure consuming you.

When the final pulses of your orgasm begin to fade, Caleb gently releases your clit from between his lips.

His chin glistens with your release, his eyes almost black with hunger and satisfaction as he looks up at you from between your trembling thighs.

“Fucking perfect,” he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to your oversensitive clit before resting his cheek against your inner thigh. “Taking my whole fist and squirting in my mouth. Such a good girl for me.”

His praise washes over you like a warm blanket, soothing the raw vulnerability of what you‘ve just experienced.

You lie there, trembling and spent, his fist still buried inside you, his gravity evol still holding your legs open, feeling more completely possessed—and more completely satisfied—than you’ve ever been in your life.

“I need to take my hand out now,” Caleb says gently, his fist still buried deep inside you. “Try to stay relaxed for me.”

His wrist moves, rotating slightly as he begins the careful process of withdrawal. The sensation is strange—your body both reluctant to release him and grateful for the relief from the intense fullness.

As the widest part of his hand reaches your entrance, you feel a momentary resistance before your body yields once more, his fist slipping free with a wet, obscene sound that echoes in the quiet room.

You gasp at the sudden emptiness, your pussy clenching around nothing as it adjusts to his absence.

Caleb’s eyes remain fixed between your legs, his expression a mixture of pride and fascination as he observes what he’s done to you.

“Need to see,” he murmurs, bringing both hands to your center. His thumbs hook at the edges of your entrance, gently pulling you open to examine the aftermath of his invasion. “Fuck, you’re so pretty here. All pink and swollen for me.”

The cool air hits your exposed inner walls, making you shiver as Caleb spreads you wider, tilting his head for a better view.

“So fucking perfect,” he whispers, leaning closer. “My beautiful baby sister.”

Before you can respond, he’s burying his face between your legs again, his tongue delving into your sensitive opening.

Despite your exhaustion, despite the oversensitivity from multiple orgasms, your body responds to his ministrations with a weak pulse of renewed arousal.

Caleb doesn’t try to build you toward another climax—he simply laps at your folds with broad, gentle strokes, cleaning the evidence of your pleasure from your skin.

His eyes close in apparent bliss as he tastes you, drowning himself in your juices one final time.

“Mmm,” he hums against you, the vibration sending tiny aftershocks through your oversensitive flesh. “Could eat this pussy forever.”

Your body twitches under his attention, caught between pleasure and discomfort as he continues his gentle feast. You reach down, fingers tangling in his hair in a gesture that’s half encouragement, half plea for mercy.

Understanding your wordless communication, Caleb gives your pussy one final, reverent kiss before pulling away.

His face is a mess—chin and cheeks slick with your release, lips swollen from sucking your clit. He looks debauched, wild, yet somehow more satisfied than you’ve ever seen him despite having received no direct pleasure himself.

With a final glance at your well-used center, Caleb sits back on his heels. He examines his right hand—the one that was just buried inside you—with something like wonder, turning it in the light to observe how it glistens with your arousal.

“Look what you did to me,” he says, but there’s no accusation in his tone—only pride and satisfaction. He makes no move to clean his hand immediately, seemingly content to wear your essence on his skin like a badge of honor.

Finally, he wipes his hand on his t-shirt, leaving dark wet streaks across the fabric.

“You did so fucking well,” Caleb praises, his voice thick with genuine admiration as he releases his gravity evol, carefully lowering your legs from their suspended position. “Taking my whole fist like that. Squirting all over my face. Such a good, perfect girl for me.”

The release of his evol sends blood rushing back to your legs, pins and needles prickling along your thighs as circulation returns.

Caleb notices your discomfort immediately, his hands moving to massage your calves and thighs with firm, confident strokes that ease the sensation.

“Sorry about that,” he murmurs, working the stiffness from your muscles with practiced ease. “Kept you folded up for too long.”

“It’s okay,” you assure him, your voice raspy from crying out during your orgasms. “Felt good being held open like that. For you.”

He leans forward, covering your body with his larger frame. His mouth finds yours in a kiss that tastes of salt and musk—your own essence transferred from his lips to yours.

The kiss is surprisingly tender given the filthy acts you’ve just performed, his hands cradling your face as if you’re something infinitely precious.

When he pulls back from your lips, his mouth doesn‘t leave your skin. Instead, he begins trailing kisses down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—each press of his lips gentle but insistent, marking a path across your body.

“Mine,” he whispers against your throat before sucking hard enough to leave a mark—a visible reminder of his claim on you. “All mine.”

His mouth continues its journey, leaving a constellation of small hickeys across your skin—some in places easily hidden, others deliberately placed where they’ll be visible to anyone who looks at you.

“Everyone should know,” he murmurs against the tender spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “That you belong to someone.”

You wrap your arms around him, holding him close as he continues marking you with his mouth. Your body thrums with satisfied exhaustion, every muscle loose and heavy in the aftermath of such intense pleasure.

“How do you feel?” Caleb asks eventually, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at your face. His expression is soft now, concern replacing the hunger that drove him minutes before.

You consider the question, taking stock of your body—the pleasant soreness between your legs, the sensitivity of your well-used flesh, the lingering tremors of satisfaction still pulsing through your core.

But most of all, you notice the absence of the frustration that plagued you this morning, the dissatisfaction that led you to challenge Caleb in the first place.

“Complete,” you answer finally, the word encompassing everything you’re feeling. “Like you filled a space inside me I didn’t know was empty.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his palm.

Caleb smiles—that rare, genuine smile that transforms his entire face, the one reserved only for you.

“No, Pips,” he corrects gently. “Thank you for trusting me. For letting me be the one to show you everything your body is capable of feeling.”

Comment to be tagged!

@littlewhitefairy7777 @celaenaglynn @mothmans-left-nipple @lotusapple-xia @gflscer @swiggitty-swoogity @aoomiines @puchu-puchuu @fulldoves @goobermi6 @typicalme23 @teira-osairis @vy-olet @calebsbabyapple @xyzyogurt @earthtohoney @skyekudasai @kalydos @navvzy @tempeststhings @young-adult-summer @remnantsofgildedcages @applebite01 @vatarvaliantchaosvalkyrie @applarchve @hangingwiththestars @thisaintviolet69 @asilaydead @snowapples-stuff @calebsmeimeii @cherrysherryblossom @mindelicious1 @nansfyy @ccoeurhee @tomriddleslovergirl @beelpita @cchiiwinkle @feelingfaye @makiishiima @lil-cinn

[nottellingofname]

I swear it was meant to go up to three fingers but I kinda got carried away...

[nottellingofname]

For My Caleb ⋆⭒˚｡⋆✈︎

Brother finger, brother finger, where are you?

You wake to wet heat between your thighs, Caleb’s tongue working methodically against your folds. His hands grip your legs, keeping them spread wide as he devours your still half-asleep pussy.

“Mmm, good morning,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep as your hips instinctively rock against his mouth.

Caleb responds with a groan, the vibration traveling through your sensitive flesh. His eyes flick up to meet yours, pupils already blown wide with hunger. Even after days of this, he still looks at your cunt like it’s the first time he’s tasted you.

It’s been like this since that day on the couch—Caleb’s apparent addiction to the taste of you only growing stronger with each passing day. Sometimes you wake to his face between your thighs. Other mornings, he’s barely stirring when you straddle his face, lowering yourself onto his waiting mouth without a word.

He never complains. Not even once.

Your fingers tangle in his sleep-mussed hair, tugging him closer as his tongue circles your clit with precision.

He knows your body now—knows exactly how much pressure makes your thighs quiver, knows the rhythm that usually pushes you over the edge. His hands slide beneath your ass, lifting you slightly to give his tongue better access to your entrance.

“Fuck, ge ge,” you sigh, closing your eyes as pleasure builds in familiar waves. “Your fucking mouth.”

He hums in approval at your language, sucking your clit between his lips in that way that normally sends you spiraling into ecstasy within minutes.

But today—like yesterday, and the day before—the release seems just out of reach, hovering at the edge of your consciousness but refusing to crash over you.

You grind harder against his face, chasing the sensation. Caleb’s enthusiasm never wanes—if anything, he works with more determination as he senses your struggle, his tongue flicking faster, his grip on your ass tightening to the point of bruising.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of building tension, your orgasm washes over you.

It’s good—of course it’s good, Caleb never leaves you unsatisfied—but it lacks the mind-shattering intensity of those first few times. It’s like drinking watered-down liquor when you’ve tasted the pure stuff.

Caleb laps at you through the aftershocks, cleaning every drop of your release with reverent attention. When he finally pulls away, his chin gleams with your slickness, his lips swollen from use.

“You taste even better in the morning,” he says, voice rough as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Could eat this pussy all day.”

Three days of Caleb’s tongue—sometimes twice or three times a day—and your body seems to be building a tolerance. The orgasms still come, but they’re taking longer to achieve and feel less intense when they finally arrive.

“What’s wrong?” Caleb asks, instantly alert to the shift in your mood. He crawls up your body, hovering over you with concerned eyes. “Didn’t you like it?”

“No, it was good,” you assure him quickly. “It’s always good.”

His eyebrow arches skeptically. “But?”

You bite your lip, embarrassed to voice your concerns. How do you tell the man who worships between your thighs daily that his efforts are becoming less effective?

“I think something’s wrong with me,” you finally admit, unable to meet his gaze.

Caleb’s hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip. “What do you mean, Pips?”

The tenderness in his voice gives you courage. “It’s taking longer for me to cum. And when I do, it’s not as... intense.”

“You’re not getting bored of me, are you?” There’s a teasing note in his voice, but you catch the flash of genuine concern in his eyes.

“No! God, no.” You rush to reassure him. “Your tongue is fucking magic, ge ge. I just... I don’t know, maybe I’m broken or something?”

Caleb laughs, the sound low and warm against your skin as he presses a kiss to your neck. “You’re not broken, Y/N. Your body’s just getting used to one type of stimulation. It’s completely normal.”

Relief floods through you. “Really?”

“Really,” he confirms, trailing kisses up to your ear. “Think about it. If you eat the same meal every day, even if it’s your favorite, eventually you start craving something different.”

You nod slowly, understanding dawning. “So my pussy’s just bored of your tongue?”

“Not bored,” he corrects, pulling back to look you in the eyes. “Just ready for more.”

“More what?”

A slow smile spreads across his face, hungry and promising. “More everything. Your body’s telling you it wants to be stretched, filled.”

His hand slides between your bodies, fingers tracing your still-sensitive folds. “This greedy little cunt wants more than just my tongue now.”

“But I’ve never... I don’t know how to—“

“You don’t need to know anything,” Caleb interrupts, voice dropping to that commanding register that makes your stomach flip. “I’ll teach you. Just like I taught you how good my mouth can feel.”

“You’d do that?” You search his face, finding only sincerity and hunger in his expression.

Caleb laughs again, but this time there’s an edge to it—something darker, more primal. “Pips, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to make you feel good. Nothing I wouldn’t teach you.”

His finger traces your entrance, not pushing in, just teasing the possibility. “Do you trust me to show you what comes next?”

“Yes,” you whisper, spreading your legs wider in invitation. “Show me everything, ge ge.”

Satisfaction transforms his features, his smile sharpening into something almost predatory. “Such a good girl,” he praises, leaning down to press his lips against yours.

The taste of your own arousal lingers on his tongue as it pushes into your mouth.

When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with purpose. “I’ll make you feel things you’ve never imagined, Y/N.” His thumb brushes your clit, making you shiver. “By the time I’m done with you, you won’t remember what it felt like to be unsatisfied.”

The conviction in his voice settles something in your chest. Whatever’s happening to your body, Caleb understands it.

Caleb will fix it.

He’s never failed to take care of you before.

“Now,” he says, sitting back on his heels, “let’s explore your options.”

Caleb has you spread-eagle on the bed, your knees bent and legs pushed wide apart by his broad shoulders.

Your head rests on the pillows, giving you the perfect view of his dark hair between your thighs as he devours your pussy with the same enthusiasm he’s shown for days.

But twenty minutes in, and your orgasm still feels like a mirage in the distance—visible but frustratingly out of reach.

“Fuck,” you whine, arching your back as his tongue makes another slow pass from your entrance to your clit. The sensation is good—it’s always good—but it’s not enough anymore. “Caleb, come on.”

He responds by humming against your sensitive flesh, the vibration sending ripples of pleasure through your core. His hands grip your inner thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh as he holds you open for his feast.

The wet sounds of his mouth working against your slick folds fill the room, obscenely loud in the quiet afternoon.

You try to focus on the building pleasure, to concentrate on the skilled movement of his tongue as it circles your clit with practiced precision.

Closing your eyes, you chase the sensation, rocking your hips against his face in a desperate bid to increase the pressure.

But your mind keeps wandering, the familiar rhythm failing to hold your attention like it once did. Your body craves something more—something deeper, more filling than just the shallow dips of his tongue into your entrance.

“Ge ge,” you plead, your voice taking on a desperate edge. “I need more. Please.”

Caleb pulls back slightly, his chin glistening with your arousal as he glances up at you. “Patience, Pips. I’m getting you ready.”

“Ready for what?” you demand, frustration sharpening your tone. “I’ve been ready. I’m fucking soaked.”

To prove your point, you reach down, dipping your fingers between your folds and holding them up to show him the clear evidence of your arousal. Your fingertips glisten in the afternoon light, connected by strings of your wetness.

Instead of being chastened, Caleb just grins. “I can see that,” he says, before diving back down to continue his ministrations.

Your frustration mounts as he returns to the same techniques that have become predictable over the past weeks.

The lick-suck-circle pattern that once sent you spiraling into ecstasy now feels like a tease, a prelude to something your body desperately wants but isn’t getting.

“God damn it, Xia Yi Zhou,” you growl, your hands flying to his hair. You tangle your fingers in the dark strands, yanking harder than you intended in your frustration. “Fucking do something different or I swear I’ll—“

Your threat cuts off in a gasp as he sucks your clit hard between his lips, the sudden intensity momentarily silencing your complaints. But even this more aggressive move isn’t enough to push you toward release. Your body feels wound tight, tension coiled in your core with no outlet.

“I’m getting tired,” you whine, tugging at his hair again, trying to pull his face deeper between your legs as if you could force him to give you what you need. “Make me cum already!”

Caleb allows you to guide his head, his tongue still working diligently against your clit. But you can feel him smiling against your flesh, clearly amused by your bratty demands rather than bothered by them.

“You’re being such a little bitch today,” he murmurs against your pussy, the crude words vibrating through your sensitive flesh. But there’s no real heat in his voice—just amusement and something like satisfaction, as if your frustration is exactly what he wanted.

“I don’t care,” you snap, lifting your hips to grind against his face more forcefully. “Just fucking make it better.”

Your behavior would probably offend anyone else, but Caleb just chuckles, the sound rumbling through your core.

He finally pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he looks up at you from between your thighs.

“You know what your problem is, Pips?” he asks, his purple eyes dark with a mixture of hunger and amusement. “You’re ready for more than just my tongue.”

“Then give me more,” you demand, spreading your legs wider in blatant invitation.

Caleb sits back on his heels, his hands still resting possessively on your thighs. “I’m trying to, you impatient brat. I’m warming you up so you can take my fingers without any pain.”

The explanation makes logical sense, but you‘re too far gone in your frustrated horniness to care about his careful preparation.

All you know is that your pussy is aching, empty, and his mouth isn’t solving the problem anymore.

“I don’t need warming up,” you insist, reaching down to spread your lips apart with your fingers, exposing yourself completely to his gaze. “Look how wet I am. Just fucking finger me already.”

Caleb’s eyes darken at your display, but he shakes his head. “It‘s not just about wetness, Y/N. You’ve never had anything inside you before. I need to make sure you’re relaxed and ready.”

“Blah blah blah,” you mock, rolling your eyes dramatically. “Always so fucking careful. Maybe I don’t want careful. Maybe I want it to hurt a little.”

His expression shifts at that, something dangerous flashing across his features. “You don‘t know what you’re asking for.”

“Then show me,” you challenge, your frustration making you bold. “Or I swear to god, I’ll give you the silent treatment for a week.”

The childish threat draws another laugh from Caleb, this one deeper, darker. “The silent treatment? Really, Pips? That’s the best you’ve got?”

“Try me,” you warn, crossing your arms over your chest like a petulant child. “See how you like it when I stop talking to you. Stop letting you eat my pussy. Stop—“

“Alright, alright,” he interrupts, holding his hands up in mock surrender. But the glint in his eyes tells you he’s not really giving in—he’s just shifting strategies. “You want more? You think you’re ready?”

“Yes,” you hiss, uncrossing your arms to grab his wrist, trying to guide his hand between your legs. “I’ve been ready for fucking ages.”

Caleb resists your pull, his strength easily overpowering yours. “You know,” he says conversationally, as if you’re discussing the weather rather than begging him to finger you, “I love it when you get all bratty like this.”

“I’m not being bratty,” you protest, even as you pout and tug harder at his arm. “I’m being honest.”

“Mmhmm.” His tone is indulgent, patronizing. “And what happens to bratty girls who make demands instead of asking nicely?”

There’s a warning in his voice that sends a fresh wave of heat through your core. “I don’t care. Just do something about this sopping fucking pussy before I lose my mind.”

His eyes flash with approval at your vulgarity, even as his expression hardens with determination.

“Fine,” he says, his voice dropping to that commanding register that makes your stomach flip. “But don’t say I didn’t try to go slow for you.”

Before you can respond, he’s leaning down again, his tongue making one more broad stroke up your slit.

“Last chance to be patient,” he warns, his breath hot against your sensitive flesh.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” you spit at Caleb, your frustration boiling over. “All that talk about giving me more, and you’re still just—“

The rest of your sentence dies in your throat as Caleb’s purple eyes darken with something dangerous. His hand, which had been resting on your inner thigh, suddenly moves.

“You were saying?” Caleb’s voice drops to that low, commanding register that makes your stomach flip even as you try to maintain your defiant glare.

“I said you’re a fucking tease,” you repeat, doubling down despite the warning in his expression. “All talk and no—oh!”

Your bratty tirade cuts off abruptly as Caleb’s index finger pushes inside you without warning.

The sudden intrusion—the first time anything larger than the tip of his tongue has entered you—makes your back arch off the bed, your eyes widening in shock.

“There,” Caleb says, his voice deceptively casual despite the intensity in his gaze. “Is that what you wanted, Pips? Something inside this greedy little cunt?”

You can’t answer. The sensation of his finger—thick and warm and so different from his tongue—has robbed you of words.

It doesn’t hurt exactly, but the stretch is unfamiliar, foreign. Your body seems frozen between the impulse to push him out and pull him deeper.

“Breathe,” he instructs, his free hand coming to rest on your lower belly, steadying you. “Relax around me.”

You hadn‘t realized you were holding your breath until he mentions it. The exhale comes out as a shaky moan, your inner walls fluttering around the intrusion as your muscles slowly unclench.

“That’s it,” Caleb encourages, his finger remaining still inside you, allowing your body to adjust. “Just like that.”

When he’s sure you’ve relaxed, he begins to move—pulling his finger back until just the tip remains inside, then pushing slowly forward again.

The friction is unlike anything you’ve felt before, sending sparks up your spine that make your thighs quiver.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his eyes fixed on where his finger disappears into your body. “Taking my finger so well. Where’s all that bratty attitude now, huh?”

Your hands fist in the sheets, head thrashing against the pillow as he establishes a slow, deliberate rhythm. Each push inward seems to reach deeper, touching parts of you that have never been touched before.

“Shut up,” you gasp, but there’s no heat in the words—just desperation as your hips begin to move of their own accord, rising to meet each thrust of his finger.

Caleb’s laugh is dark, knowing. “So fucking mouthy,” he says, but his voice holds admiration beneath the mock scolding. “Always ready with a comeback until I get my hands on this wet little pussy. Then you’re all whimpers and moans.”

He’s right, and you hate how right he is.

Every sharp retort you might have made dissolves into incoherent sounds of pleasure as his finger curls slightly, exploring your inner walls with meticulous attention.

“You like being filled, don’t you?” he continues, his thumb brushing teasingly against your clit with each inward push. “Like having part of me inside you.”

“Yes,” you admit, past the point of pride as pleasure builds in your core. “Feels—feels good.”

“Better than just my tongue?”

Your eyes roll back as he presses against a spot inside you that sends electricity shooting up your spine. “Yes! Fuck—right there!”

“Knew it would be,” Caleb says, satisfaction evident in his tone. “Knew your body was ready for more. You just needed to be put in your place first.”

Just as you’re getting used to the sensation, adjusting to the rhythm of his thrusts, Caleb withdraws his finger entirely. The sudden emptiness makes you whimper, your hips chasing his retreating hand.

“No, don’t stop,” you plead, previous attitude entirely forgotten in your desperation. “Please, ge ge.”

Caleb‘s eyes glitter with triumph at your begging. “Don’t worry, Pips. I’m not stopping. Just switching things up a bit.”

Before you can ask what he means, his hand is between your legs again. But this time, it‘s his middle finger that presses against your entrance—noticeably thicker than his index finger, and longer too.

“Wait,” you gasp, suddenly nervous as you feel the blunt pressure. “Is that—“

“My middle finger,” Caleb confirms, his voice steady even as his eyes burn with hunger. “It’ll reach deeper. Hit spots my index finger couldn’t.”

He doesn’t wait for your permission—perhaps knowing you’d only delay out of nervousness rather than genuine reluctance.

With slow but insistent pressure, his middle finger pushes past your entrance, sinking deeper than his index finger ever did.

The stretch is more pronounced this time, drawing a strangled sound from your throat that’s half pain, half pleasure. Your body instinctively arches, legs spreading wider as if to accommodate the intrusion.

“Holy fuck,” you breathe, eyes wide as you stare at the ceiling, overwhelmed by the sensation of being filled.

“Too much?” Caleb asks, pausing with his finger halfway inside you. Despite the dominance he‘s been displaying, there’s genuine concern in his voice now.

You shake your head frantically. “No, no—don’t stop.” Your hips shift, pushing down against his hand, taking him deeper. “It’s good. So good.”

Relief and renewed hunger flash across his features as he resumes his careful penetration, pushing until his finger is buried to the knuckle inside you.

“Look at that,” Caleb murmurs, his gaze fixed on where your body swallows his finger. “Taking me so deep. Such a good girl.”

The praise sends warmth blooming through your chest even as pleasure radiates from your core. You find yourself nodding mindlessly, agreeing with whatever he says as long as he keeps moving, keeps touching you like this.

When he crooks his finger, pressing forward against your front wall, stars burst behind your eyelids. Your back arches sharply off the bed, a sound you‘ve never made before tearing from your throat.

“There it is,” Caleb says, triumph lacing his voice. “Your sweet spot.”

He repeats the motion, rubbing firmly against that spot that makes your entire body jerk with pleasure. All thoughts of brattiness and demands have vanished, replaced by pure sensation and the desperate need for more.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you chant, no longer caring how wanton you sound, how completely you’ve surrendered to his touch. “Right there, please, don’t stop.”

“Not so bossy now, are you?” Caleb teases, but his voice has lost its edge, softened by the obvious pleasure he takes in your reactions. “Just taking what I give you. Letting ge ge make you feel good.”

You nod frantically, beyond words as his finger works magic inside you. Your entire world has narrowed to the point where your bodies connect, to the sensation of him filling you, touching parts of you that have never been touched before.

“That’s it,” he encourages as your hips begin to rock against his hand, seeking more pressure, more friction. “Show me how much you like it. Show me how much you need me inside you.”

And you do, shamelessly rolling your hips, fucking yourself on his finger as pleasure builds to levels you didn’t know were possible.

Whatever complaints you had about his tongue not being enough anymore have evaporated, replaced by the dawning realization that this is just the beginning of what Caleb can make you feel.

Caleb’s finger continues its relentless assault on that spot deep inside you, making your legs tremble as pressure builds at the base of your spine.

Just when you think you might explode from the sensation, he slowly withdraws, leaving you empty and aching. Your pussy clenches around nothing, hungry for the fullness it just lost.

“No,” you whimper, reaching for his wrist. “Please don’t stop.”

“Patience,” Caleb murmurs, his voice thick with arousal as he brings his slick finger to your clit. The pad of his middle finger, now coated with your arousal, slides easily over the sensitive bundle of nerves, making lazy circles that send electric pulses through your lower body.

“Need to make sure you’re wet enough for what comes next.”

You let out a breathless laugh, gesturing to the obvious evidence of your arousal gleaming on his fingers and undoubtedly soaking into the sheets beneath you. “I think we’re well past that point, don’t you?”

Instead of answering, Caleb increases the pressure on your clit, rubbing up and down with firm, deliberate strokes that make your hips jerk involuntarily.

Each pass of his finger sends pleasure radiating outward, but it’s a shallow kind of pleasure—not enough to satisfy the new emptiness you feel inside.

“I’m sorry,” you find yourself saying, the words tumbling out as his finger continues its maddening path across your most sensitive spot. “For being a brat. For pulling your hair and being impatient.”

Caleb’s eyes soften, though the hungry edge never fully disappears. “Are you really sorry? Or are you just saying that so I’ll give you what you want?”

“Both,” you admit, honesty winning out over pride. Your hands reach for him again, fingers curling around his strong wrist. “I’m sorry and I want more. Please, ge ge.”

A slow smile spreads across his face—part triumph, part genuine affection. “That’s my good girl,” he praises, his finger never stopping its rhythmic circles on your clit. “Using your words instead of demands. Asking nicely.”

You nod eagerly, beyond caring how desperate you look. “Please. I need to feel you inside me again.”

“Since you asked so nicely...” Caleb’s finger leaves your clit, trailing down to gather more of your wetness at your entrance. For a moment, you think he’s going to tease you with just his middle finger again, but his hand shifts slightly, and you feel a different pressure—wider, more insistent.

Your eyes widen as you realize what’s coming. “Wait, is that—“

Before you can finish the question, Caleb pushes forward, and both his middle and ring fingers slide into you in one smooth motion.

The stretch is immediate and intense, drawing a startled cry from your lips as your inner walls struggle to accommodate the increased girth.

“Fuck!” The word explodes from you, your back arching off the bed as dual sensations of stretch and fullness overwhelm your senses.

It doesn’t hurt exactly—you’re too wet, too aroused for pain—but the pressure is so much more than before, making you acutely aware of every millimeter of space his fingers occupy inside you.

“Too much?” Caleb asks, his fingers remaining still, giving you time to adjust. His other hand strokes soothingly along your thigh, a contrast to the intensity of the penetration.

You shake your head frantically, unable to form words as your body processes this new sensation. It feels right somehow—like a puzzle piece clicking into place.

The initial shock fades quickly, replaced by a deep, throbbing pleasure that radiates outward from your core.

“No, it’s... it’s perfect,” you finally manage, your voice barely above a whisper. “So full.”

Pride flashes across Caleb‘s features, his purple eyes darkening as he watches your face.

Slowly, carefully, he begins to move his fingers, pulling them back a fraction before pushing deep again. The friction sends sparks up your spine, your inner walls fluttering around the intrusion.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his gaze traveling down to where his thick fingers disappear into your body. “Taking two fingers so easily. Like your pussy was made for me to fill.”

The dirty words send another wave of heat through you. You find yourself nodding in agreement, too consumed by pleasure to be embarrassed by his explicit praise.

Each thrust of his fingers reaches deeper than his tongue or single finger ever could, touching parts of you that feel like they’ve been waiting forever to be awakened.

Caleb establishes a steady rhythm, his fingers pumping in and out with increasing confidence as your body yields to his intrusion.

The wet sounds of your arousal fill the room, obscene and thrilling. Your hips begin to move of their own accord, rising to meet each thrust, silently asking for more, faster, deeper.

But just as you’re getting lost in the rhythm, Caleb slows his pace, his movements becoming more deliberate, more measured.

The change is maddening—you were so close to finding the perfect friction, the perfect angle.

Acting on pure instinct, your hand shoots out, gripping his wrist tightly. Caleb’s eyebrows rise in surprise, but he doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he watches with fascination as you take control, using your grip on his wrist to guide his fingers back into the faster, deeper pace your body craves.

“Show me,” he encourages, voice rough with arousal. “Show me how you want it.”

Still holding his wrist, you begin to fuck yourself on his fingers, using his hand as a tool for your pleasure.

You angle his fingers to hit that spot inside you that makes your vision blur, controlling the depth and speed with surprising precision.

“Like this,” you pant, driving his fingers into you at a pace that makes the bed creak beneath your writhing body. “Right here—fuck—right there.”

Caleb lets you take control completely, his muscles relaxing under your grip, allowing you to use his hand however you need.

His eyes never leave your face, drinking in every expression of pleasure, every gasp and moan your movements produce.

“That’s it,” he praises, his free hand coming up to stroke your cheek with surprising tenderness. “Take what you need. Use me.”

You're working his fingers like a toy while he's touching your cheek like you're made of glass—the mixed signals make your insides do a hot little dance.

Your movements become more frantic, less coordinated as pleasure builds to a fever pitch at the base of your spine.

“Gonna cum,” you warn, voice breaking as your grip on his wrist tightens to the point of bruising. “Fuck, Caleb, I’m so close.”

“I’ve got you,” he assures, making no move to take back control. Instead, he shifts his position slightly, giving you better leverage as you chase your release. “That’s my good girl. So perfect, learning to take what you want.”

There’s pride in his voice—genuine admiration as he watches you pleasure yourself with his fingers. With one last thrust of his fingers, angled perfectly against that spot deep inside, the tension breaks.

Your orgasm crashes over you with an intensity that steals your breath, your inner walls clamping down on his fingers as waves of pleasure pulse outward from your core.

Your legs shake uncontrollably, your grip on his wrist tightening and then relaxing as the peak washes through you.

Caleb watches it all with hungry fascination, his eyes tracking every tremor, every gasp, every flutter of your eyelids as you come apart around his fingers.

And through the haze of your pleasure, you see something like awe in his expression—as if witnessing your pleasure is the greatest privilege he could imagine.

“Beautiful,” he whispers as your spasms begin to subside, his fingers still buried deep inside you. “So fucking beautiful when you cum for me.”

You collapse back against the pillows, chest heaving, limbs suddenly heavy with satisfaction.

The emptiness you felt earlier, the frustration that drove you to take control, has been thoroughly banished. In its place is a warm, pulsing contentment that makes your lips curve into a smile.

But even as your breathing begins to slow, you notice something in Caleb’s expression—a hunger not yet sated, a determination that tells you he’s far from finished with you yet.

“Such a good girl,” Caleb murmurs as your breathing slowly returns to normal. His fingers remain buried inside you, feeling the aftershocks of your orgasm as your inner walls continue to pulse around him.

“Look how wet you got,” he observes, slowly withdrawing his middle and ring fingers. They emerge glistening, coated in a thick layer of your arousal that strings between his fingers like honey when he spreads them apart. “All this cream just for me.”

Your cheeks flush at his observation, but you can’t deny the evidence.

Your thighs are slick with your own wetness, and you can feel more of it pooling beneath you on the sheets. The orgasm was intense—more powerful than any you’ve experienced from his tongue alone—leaving you feeling boneless and satisfied.

But his purple eyes remain dark with hunger, fixed on your exposed pussy with an intensity that makes your core clench despite your recent release.

“You deserve a reward for that,” he says, bringing his wet fingers to his mouth. He sucks them clean with obscene thoroughness, eyes closing briefly as he savors your taste. “For taking control. For showing me exactly what you needed.”

“A reward?” you ask, voice still slightly breathless. “I thought that orgasm was my reward.”

Caleb’s laugh is low and dark with promise. “Oh, Pips. We‘re just getting started.”

Before you can ask what he means, his hand returns between your legs. You expect him to resume the now-familiar intrusion of two fingers, but instead feel a different pressure—wider, more insistent.

Looking down your body, you see Caleb positioning three fingers at your entrance. Middle, ring, and index.

“Wait,” you gasp, suddenly nervous at the sight. “All three? Will they fit?”

“They’ll fit,” Caleb assures you, his confidence unwavering. “You’re so wet from cumming, and your body’s learning to open for me.” His eyes meet yours, searching. “Do you trust me?”

Despite your apprehension, you find yourself nodding. “Yes.”

“Good girl,” he praises, and begins to press forward.

The initial stretch is uncomfortable bordering on painful—your body resisting the unfamiliar width despite your arousal.

Caleb moves with slowness, watching your face for any sign of distress as his three fingers work their way inside you millimeter by millimeter.

“Breathe,” he reminds you when you realize you’re holding your breath. “Relax around me.”

You follow his instructions, focusing on relaxing your muscles as he continues his careful penetration. The burn of the stretch gradually subsides, giving way to a fullness that feels both foreign and oddly right.

“That’s it,” Caleb encourages as his fingers sink deeper. “Taking me so well.”

Despite the initial discomfort, you find yourself growing aroused again at the mere thought of what’s happening—at Caleb being inside you, filling you more completely than before.

Your hips shift restlessly, trying to adjust to the intrusion while simultaneously seeking more.

“So full,” you whisper, eyes wide as you look down at where his hand disappears between your legs.

“And taking it like a champion,” Caleb praises, his free hand stroking your inner thigh soothingly. “But I think we can make this even better for you.”

Acting on some instinct you don’t fully understand, you reach down and grab behind your knees, pulling them up toward your chest.

The position feels vulnerable, exposing—but it also relieves some of the pressure, allowing your body to open more fully around Caleb’s fingers.

“Fuck,” Caleb breathes, his eyes darkening at your display. “Look at you, spreading yourself wide for me. Such an eager little slut.”

That filthy insult would've made you cringe, but right now—with his fingers knuckle-deep and your legs spread like you're begging for it—it just makes you wetter, hungrier, desperate for whatever comes next.

“Is that better?” he asks, experimentally moving his fingers now that you’ve given him more room to work.

“Yes,” you gasp as he begins to thrust shallowly, the three fingers moving together. “Different, but... good.”

Caleb’s expression turns focused as he watches your reactions. “Let’s try something,” he murmurs, and then his fingers are moving in a new way—no longer just in and out, but spreading apart inside you, stretching your inner walls in different directions.

“Oh!” The sensation is startling, making your back arch and your toes curl. It’s not quite pleasure, not quite pain, but something in between that makes your nerve endings sing.

“Too much?” Caleb asks, stilling his movements.

You shake your head frantically. “No, don‘t stop. It’s just... a lot.”

Encouraged, he resumes his exploration, his fingers moving inside you with growing confidence. Sometimes he thrusts them together, other times he scissor them apart or twists his wrist to change the angle of penetration.

Each movement seems calculated to expose a different part of you to his touch, to prepare your body for even more.

“Look how you’re opening up for me,” Caleb says, his voice thick with wonder as he spreads his fingers again, stretching your entrance wider. “Your pretty little cunt is learning exactly what it was made for.”

His praise sends another wave of heat through your core. You can feel yourself getting wetter, your body producing more slick to ease the considerable intrusion of his three thick fingers.

“Caleb,” you moan as he finds that spot deep inside you again, the one that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. “Right there, please.”

He obliges, focusing his attention on that sweet spot, pressing and rubbing with deliberate precision.

Your previous orgasm has left you more sensitive, more responsive to his touch, and you can feel another climax building with surprising speed.

“Gonna cum again,” you warn, your voice high and breathy as tension coils tight in your core.

“That’s it,” Caleb encourages, increasing the pressure inside you. “Give me another one. Show me how much you love having my fingers stuffed inside this greedy pussy.”

His words push you closer to the edge, your inner walls clenching around his intrusive fingers as pleasure builds to an almost unbearable pitch.

When his thumb finds your clit, pressing and circling with ease, it’s enough to send you hurtling over the precipice.

Your second orgasm hits harder than the first, drawing a strangled cry from your throat as your body convulses around his fingers.

Waves of pleasure pulse outward from your core, making your legs shake and your vision blur. More of your arousal gushes out around his fingers, adding to the mess already coating your thighs and the sheets beneath you.

“That’s it,” Caleb croons, his thumb continuing its relentless circles on your clit as he extends your pleasure. “Cream all over my hand, Pips. Let me feel how good I‘m making you feel.”

The wet squelching sounds of your arousal fill the room as Caleb continues to move his fingers inside you, pushing through the tight grip of your spasming walls.

“Listen to how fucking wet you are,” Caleb says, his voice rough with his own arousal. “The sounds your pussy makes when I’m inside it. So fucking perfect.”

As your orgasm begins to subside, you expect him to withdraw, to give your oversensitive body a reprieve. Instead, his eyes lock with yours, determination hardening his features.

“We’re not done yet,” he informs you, his fingers still buried deep inside you. “I know you can give me more. And I expect you to take it like a good girl.”

Despite your exhaustion, despite the lingering sensitivity from two powerful orgasms, you feel a fresh surge of arousal at his words.

Caleb believes your body is capable of more pleasure than you ever imagined, and you find yourself desperately wanting to prove him right.

“Yes, ge ge,” you whisper, spreading your legs wider in renewed invitation. “Whatever you want.”

“Let me help you with that position,” Caleb murmurs, noticing how your arms are starting to shake from the effort of holding your knees to your chest.

His eyes narrow in concentration, and you feel the familiar weightless sensation as his gravity evol activates. The invisible force takes hold of your legs, pulling them back and up until you’re completely exposed, folded nearly in half in what you vaguely recognize as a mating press.

“Caleb!” you gasp, surprised by the sudden use of his ability. Your legs hover in the air, held firmly by his power, leaving your hands free to grip the sheets instead.

“Perfect,” he says, satisfaction evident in his tone as he admires his handiwork. “Now I can really see everything.”

His three fingers remain inside you, stretching you open in a way that’s become almost comfortable after your second orgasm. But when he slowly begins to withdraw them, you feel a pang of emptiness, a protest forming on your lips.

“Don’t worry,” Caleb soothes, noticing your expression. “I’m not stopping. Just... adjusting.”

Before you can ask what he means, he’s repositioning his hand. Your eyes widen as you watch him press his three fingers together, and then—to your shock—add his pinky to the formation.

“Wait,” you breathe, sudden anxiety fluttering in your chest. “Four? Isn’t that too many?”

Caleb’s eyes meet yours, his expression serious despite the hunger darkening his gaze. “Do you want me to stop?”

You consider the question, genuinely weighing your answer. Your body feels stretched already from three fingers, sensitive from two powerful orgasms.

And yet... there’s a part of you that craves more, that wants to know just how much pleasure—how much of Caleb—you can take.

“No,” you finally answer, your voice small but determined. “Don’t stop. Just... go slow.”

Pride flashes across his features, followed by a tenderness that makes your heart ache. “Always so brave for me,” he murmurs, then returns his attention to the task at hand.

The pressure is immediate and intense as he begins to push all four fingers against your entrance. Despite your abundant wetness, despite your body’s previous accommodation of three fingers, this new intrusion feels impossible at first.

The stretch burns, drawing a hiss from between your clenched teeth as your body fights the invasion.

“Breathe,” Caleb reminds you, his free hand stroking your inner thigh soothingly. “Relax and let me in.”

You try to follow his instructions, forcing your muscles to unclench, focusing on your breathing as he maintains steady, gentle pressure.

Tears spring to your eyes—not from pain exactly, but from the overwhelming sensation of being stretched beyond what you thought possible.

“That’s it,” Caleb encourages as your body slowly yields, allowing the tip of his four fingers to slip past your entrance. “Opening up for me. Taking everything I give you.”

A tear escapes, rolling down your temple as you stare up at the ceiling, overwhelmed by the fullness. Caleb notices immediately, concern flashing across his features.

“Too much?” he asks, stilling his hand. “We can stop—“

“No,” you gasp, shaking your head frantically. “Don’t you dare stop. It’s just a lot.”

He holds his position, not pushing deeper but not withdrawing either, giving your body time to adjust to the considerable stretch.

Just as you’re about to tell him to continue, to push deeper, Caleb does something unexpected.

Leaning forward, he gathers saliva in his mouth, then deliberately spits directly onto your exposed pussy where it’s stretched around his fingers.

The action is so lewd that it momentarily startles you out of your discomfort. You watch, transfixed, as the glistening glob of his saliva lands on your swollen flesh, immediately mixing with your own arousal.

“What—“ you begin, but your question dies in your throat as Caleb uses his thumb to spread his spit around your stretched entrance, lubricating the tight ring of muscle.

“Need you wetter for this,” he explains, voice rough with arousal. “Want to make sure I don’t hurt you.”

It‘s filthy, degrading even—your brother spitting on your most intimate parts. But you find yourself hypnotized by the path of his saliva as it trickles down to where his fingers are stretching you open, mixing with your own juices before disappearing inside you.

“Your spit,” you whisper, the realization hitting you with unexpected force. “It’s inside me.”

Caleb’s eyes darken at your observation. “That’s right,” he confirms, slowly pushing his fingers deeper now that the extra lubrication has eased the way. “Part of me, inside you. Mixing with your wetness.”

It’s not just his fingers invading you now—it’s his DNA, his essence, mingling with yours in the most intimate way possible.

“Your spit, inside my pussy,” you repeat, the crude words feeling right on your tongue. “Your DNA... mixing with mine.”

Something flashes in Caleb‘s eyes. Understanding, hunger, approval. “You like that idea, don’t you?” he says, pushing his fingers deeper still. “Like having me inside you, becoming part of you.”

You nod, unable to deny the truth of his words. Each thrust of his fingers feels like he’s claiming you from the inside, marking territory that no one else has ever touched, ever will touch.

“Say it,” Caleb commands, his thumb finding your clit as his four fingers work deeper. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I love having you inside me,” you gasp, abandoning all pretense of shame. “Love how you’re stretching me open, filling me with your fingers, your spit. Making me yours.”

Your words spur him on, his movements becoming more confident as your body continues to yield to his invasion. The squelching sounds coming from between your legs grow louder, more obscene with each thrust of his fingers.

“Listen to how fucking wet you are,” Caleb groans, his eyes fixed on where his hand disappears inside you. “Your greedy cunt sucking my fingers in, making those slutty noises.”

Your inner walls clench around his invading fingers, your clit throbbing beneath his thumb as tension builds to an unbearable level.

“Gonna cum,” you warn, voice high and desperate. “Caleb, I’m—I’m—“

“Do it,” he commands, increasing the pressure on your clit. “Cum all over my fingers, Pips. Show me how much you love being stuffed full of me.”

The orgasm that tears through you is different from the previous ones—more intense, more wet. Your back arches sharply despite the restraint of Caleb’s gravity evol, a guttural sound tearing from your throat as pleasure explodes outward from your core.

And then something new happens—fluid gushes from you in a hot rush, spraying around Caleb’s fingers to soak his hand, his wrist, the sheets beneath you.

“Fuck!” Caleb’s eyes widen in delighted shock. “You’re squirting for me. That’s it, baby, let it all out.”

You’ve heard of squirting before but never experienced it—never imagined your body capable of such a response.

Wave after wave of pleasure crashes through you as more fluid pulses from your core, your inner muscles contracting violently around Caleb’s fingers.

“So fucking pretty,” Caleb murmurs, watching in fascination as your body releases in a way it never has before. “Look at you, making a mess all over me. All because of my fingers inside your tight little pussy.”

The intensity of the orgasm leaves you gasping, trembling, tears streaming freely down your temples now.

Caleb’s gravity evol holds you firmly in position even as your body shakes, ensuring you remain spread wide open for his hungry gaze as you ride out the most powerful climax of your life.

The force of your orgasm is so powerful that it actually expels Caleb’s fingers, your pussy contracting with such strength that his four digits slip free in a rush of fluid.

You both look down in shock at the sight—his hand glistening with your release, your pussy clenching around sudden emptiness, more of your arousal trickling from your entrance to pool beneath you on the already soaked sheets.

“Well,” Caleb says after a moment, his surprise giving way to a slow, predatory smile. “That’s a first.”

You blush, embarrassed by your body’s violent reaction. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—“

“Don’t you dare apologize,” he interrupts, his eyes gleaming with determination rather than disappointment. “That was fucking gorgeous. But I take it as a personal challenge now.”

Before you can ask what he means, Caleb lowers his face toward your exposed center, so close that you can feel his hot breath against your sensitive flesh. To your surprise, he begins speaking—not to you, but to your pussy directly.

“Looks like she wants to talk to me,” he murmurs, his lips nearly brushing against your swollen folds. “Pushing me out like that. But we‘re not done yet, are we? You want more of me inside you, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you whimper, arching your hips toward his face, seeking contact. “Please, more.”

Caleb’s eyes flick up to meet yours, satisfaction evident in his expression. “See? She agrees with me.” His gaze returns to your center, still held open by his gravity evol. “So greedy for me. Can’t get enough.”

His hand moves between your legs again, four fingers pressing together as he aligns them with your entrance. Despite your body’s attempt to expel him moments ago, you find yourself eagerly anticipating his return, your hips pushing forward to meet his touch.

“That’s it,” Caleb encourages as the tips of his fingers breach you again. “Welcome me back inside.”

The reentry is easier this time, your body still loose from before, slick with the combination of your arousal and his saliva.

His four fingers slide in gradually, your inner walls yielding to his invasion with less resistance than before.

When his fingers are fully seated inside you again, Caleb pauses, giving you a moment to adjust to the fullness. His other hand comes up to stroke your lower belly, feeling the slight bulge where his fingers fill you from the inside.

“Can you feel me?” he asks, pressing down gently on your abdomen.

You nod, gasping at the sensation of his fingers shifting inside you from the external pressure. “Yes. So deep.”

A look of intense concentration crosses his features. “Good. Because I’m about to go deeper.”

His hand shifts slightly, and you feel his thumb, which had been resting against your outer lips, begin to move. Instead of circling your clit as it has before, it now presses against your entrance alongside his four fingers.

Your eyes widen as you realize his intention. “Caleb, wait—it's not gonna fit.”

“It will,” he says with absolute certainty. “Your body was made to stretch, to take me. We just need to go slow.” His eyes meet yours, searching. “Don’t you trust me?”

Despite your trepidation, you find yourself nodding. “I do.”

“My perfect little mei mei.” The approval in his voice sends warmth blooming through your chest. “Now, breathe with me. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

You follow his instructions, focusing on your breathing as Caleb begins to work his thumb in alongside his fingers.

The stretch is immediate and intense, your entrance burning as it struggles to accommodate the widest part of his hand.

“Breathe,” he reminds you when you instinctively tense. “Relax everything. Let me in.”

You force yourself to exhale slowly, consciously relaxing your muscles as Caleb maintains steady, gentle pressure.

It seems impossible—his hand is so much wider than four fingers—but gradually, incrementally, your body yields.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice thick with concentration. “Almost there. You’re doing so well, Pips.”

The moment the widest part of his hand slips past your entrance, the pressure changes. There’s a strange popping sensation, and suddenly his entire fist is inside you, your entrance closing around his wrist like a tight bracelet.

“Holy fuck,” you gasp, eyes wide with disbelief at what your body has just accomplished.

Caleb looks equally amazed, his eyes fixed on the point where your body swallows his hand. “Fuck, Y/N,” he breathes, awe evident in his voice. “You took my whole fist. My perfect little sister.”

He remains perfectly still, allowing you to adjust to the unprecedented invasion. You can feel your inner walls pulsing around his fist, adjusting to his shape from the inside.

“How does it feel?” Caleb asks, his voice gentle despite the extreme act you’re engaged in.

“Full,” you whisper, struggling to find words adequate to describe the sensation. “Like... like you’re part of me now. Inside me completely.”

Your answer draws a groan from him, his eyes darkening further. “That’s exactly what I want,” he confesses. “To be inside you. Part of you.”

The admission sends another pulse of arousal through your core, your inner walls clenching involuntarily around his fist.

“Don’t want you to ever leave,” you admit, the words tumbling out without conscious thought. “Want you inside me forever.”

Slowly, cautiously, he begins to move his hand, not pulling out but rotating his wrist inside you, exploring your depths from a new angle.

“Fuck!” The sensation steals your breath—his knuckles brushing against spots inside you that have never been touched before, the pressure shifting and changing as his fist turns within you. “Caleb, that’s—oh god—“

“Good?” he asks, though the answer is written plainly across your flushed face.

“So good,” you confirm, your hips beginning to move of their own accord, grinding against his wrist as his fist continues its careful exploration of your inner walls. “Please don’t stop.”

As Caleb’s fist works its magic inside you, a new need arises—your clit, neglected since he stopped using his thumb to rub it, throbs with desperate hunger.

Acting on instinct, you reach down, grabbing Caleb’s head and pulling it toward your exposed bud.

He understands immediately, a smile curving his lips as he allows you to guide his mouth to your clit

“Greedy girl,” he murmurs approvingly. “Wants my fist inside her and my mouth on her clit. Taking everything I can give.”

Without further prompting, Caleb seals his lips around your swollen clit, sucking gently as his fist continues its careful rotation inside you.

“Yes!” you cry out, one hand fisting in his hair to hold him in place while the other grips the sheets beneath you. “Right there, don’t stop!”

Caleb responds by increasing the suction on your clit, his tongue flicking rapidly against the sensitive bud while his fist maintains its steady rotation.

His free hand grips your thigh, holding you open as his gravity evol continues to keep your legs suspended in the mating press position.

The combination is overwhelming—too much sensation, too much pleasure for your overworked nervous system to process. A pressure builds low in your abdomen.

“Something’s happening,” you gasp, panic edging into your voice as the pressure increases to almost unbearable levels. “Caleb, I feel—I think I’m going to—“

He lifts his mouth from your clit just long enough to say, “Let go, Pips. Give it to me. All of it.”

His lips return to your clit with renewed hunger, sucking harder while his fist makes a quarter turn inside you, pressing against your front wall.

The shift in pressure is the final push you need—the dam breaks, pleasure exploding outward from your core as fluid gushes from around his wrist in a powerful spray.

Unlike your previous squirting orgasm, this one goes directly into Caleb’s waiting mouth. His eyes widen momentarily in surprise, but he doesn’t pull away—instead, he seals his lips more firmly around your clit, swallowing your release as it pulses from you in rhythmic waves.

Watching him slurp up your juices like a man dying of thirst while his whole damn fist is still buried deep in your guts has you cumming so hard you think you might actually pass out.

“Caleb, Caleb, Caleb,” you chant, his name the only coherent thought your overwhelmed brain can produce as your body continues to convulse around his fist.

Tears stream freely down your temples now—not from pain but from the sheer intensity of the pleasure consuming you.

When the final pulses of your orgasm begin to fade, Caleb gently releases your clit from between his lips.

His chin glistens with your release, his eyes almost black with hunger and satisfaction as he looks up at you from between your trembling thighs.

“Fucking perfect,” he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to your oversensitive clit before resting his cheek against your inner thigh. “Taking my whole fist and squirting in my mouth. Such a good girl for me.”

His praise washes over you like a warm blanket, soothing the raw vulnerability of what you‘ve just experienced.

You lie there, trembling and spent, his fist still buried inside you, his gravity evol still holding your legs open, feeling more completely possessed—and more completely satisfied—than you’ve ever been in your life.

“I need to take my hand out now,” Caleb says gently, his fist still buried deep inside you. “Try to stay relaxed for me.”

His wrist moves, rotating slightly as he begins the careful process of withdrawal. The sensation is strange—your body both reluctant to release him and grateful for the relief from the intense fullness.

As the widest part of his hand reaches your entrance, you feel a momentary resistance before your body yields once more, his fist slipping free with a wet, obscene sound that echoes in the quiet room.

You gasp at the sudden emptiness, your pussy clenching around nothing as it adjusts to his absence.

Caleb’s eyes remain fixed between your legs, his expression a mixture of pride and fascination as he observes what he’s done to you.

“Need to see,” he murmurs, bringing both hands to your center. His thumbs hook at the edges of your entrance, gently pulling you open to examine the aftermath of his invasion. “Fuck, you’re so pretty here. All pink and swollen for me.”

The cool air hits your exposed inner walls, making you shiver as Caleb spreads you wider, tilting his head for a better view.

“So fucking perfect,” he whispers, leaning closer. “My beautiful baby sister.”

Before you can respond, he’s burying his face between your legs again, his tongue delving into your sensitive opening.

Despite your exhaustion, despite the oversensitivity from multiple orgasms, your body responds to his ministrations with a weak pulse of renewed arousal.

Caleb doesn’t try to build you toward another climax—he simply laps at your folds with broad, gentle strokes, cleaning the evidence of your pleasure from your skin.

His eyes close in apparent bliss as he tastes you, drowning himself in your juices one final time.

“Mmm,” he hums against you, the vibration sending tiny aftershocks through your oversensitive flesh. “Could eat this pussy forever.”

Your body twitches under his attention, caught between pleasure and discomfort as he continues his gentle feast. You reach down, fingers tangling in his hair in a gesture that’s half encouragement, half plea for mercy.

Understanding your wordless communication, Caleb gives your pussy one final, reverent kiss before pulling away.

His face is a mess—chin and cheeks slick with your release, lips swollen from sucking your clit. He looks debauched, wild, yet somehow more satisfied than you’ve ever seen him despite having received no direct pleasure himself.

With a final glance at your well-used center, Caleb sits back on his heels. He examines his right hand—the one that was just buried inside you—with something like wonder, turning it in the light to observe how it glistens with your arousal.

“Look what you did to me,” he says, but there’s no accusation in his tone—only pride and satisfaction. He makes no move to clean his hand immediately, seemingly content to wear your essence on his skin like a badge of honor.

Finally, he wipes his hand on his t-shirt, leaving dark wet streaks across the fabric.

“You did so fucking well,” Caleb praises, his voice thick with genuine admiration as he releases his gravity evol, carefully lowering your legs from their suspended position. “Taking my whole fist like that. Squirting all over my face. Such a good, perfect girl for me.”

The release of his evol sends blood rushing back to your legs, pins and needles prickling along your thighs as circulation returns.

Caleb notices your discomfort immediately, his hands moving to massage your calves and thighs with firm, confident strokes that ease the sensation.

“Sorry about that,” he murmurs, working the stiffness from your muscles with practiced ease. “Kept you folded up for too long.”

“It’s okay,” you assure him, your voice raspy from crying out during your orgasms. “Felt good being held open like that. For you.”

He leans forward, covering your body with his larger frame. His mouth finds yours in a kiss that tastes of salt and musk—your own essence transferred from his lips to yours.

The kiss is surprisingly tender given the filthy acts you’ve just performed, his hands cradling your face as if you’re something infinitely precious.

When he pulls back from your lips, his mouth doesn‘t leave your skin. Instead, he begins trailing kisses down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—each press of his lips gentle but insistent, marking a path across your body.

“Mine,” he whispers against your throat before sucking hard enough to leave a mark—a visible reminder of his claim on you. “All mine.”

His mouth continues its journey, leaving a constellation of small hickeys across your skin—some in places easily hidden, others deliberately placed where they’ll be visible to anyone who looks at you.

“Everyone should know,” he murmurs against the tender spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “That you belong to someone.”

You wrap your arms around him, holding him close as he continues marking you with his mouth. Your body thrums with satisfied exhaustion, every muscle loose and heavy in the aftermath of such intense pleasure.

“How do you feel?” Caleb asks eventually, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at your face. His expression is soft now, concern replacing the hunger that drove him minutes before.

You consider the question, taking stock of your body—the pleasant soreness between your legs, the sensitivity of your well-used flesh, the lingering tremors of satisfaction still pulsing through your core.

But most of all, you notice the absence of the frustration that plagued you this morning, the dissatisfaction that led you to challenge Caleb in the first place.

“Complete,” you answer finally, the word encompassing everything you’re feeling. “Like you filled a space inside me I didn’t know was empty.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his palm.

Caleb smiles—that rare, genuine smile that transforms his entire face, the one reserved only for you.

“No, Pips,” he corrects gently. “Thank you for trusting me. For letting me be the one to show you everything your body is capable of feeling.”

Refer to Party RSVP

Comment to be tagged!

@littlewhitefairy7777 @celaenaglynn @mothmans-left-nipple @lotusapple-xia @gflscer @swiggitty-swoogity @aoomiines @puchu-puchuu @fulldoves @goobermi6 @typicalme23 @teira-osairis @vy-olet @calebsbabyapple @xyzyogurt @earthtohoney @skyekudasai @kalydos @navvzy @tempeststhings @young-adult-summer @remnantsofgildedcages @applebite01 @vatarvaliantchaosvalkyrie @applarchve @hangingwiththestars @thisaintviolet69 @asilaydead @snowapples-stuff @calebsmeimeii @cherrysherryblossom @mindelicious1 @nansfyy @ccoeurhee @tomriddleslovergirl @beelpita @cchiiwinkle @feelingfaye @makiishiima @lil-cinn

[nottellingofname]

For My Caleb ⋆⭒˚｡⋆✈

Ge ge could eat mei mei for lunch!

You’re curled up on the couch with Caleb, his warmth seeping into your side as you both watch a mukbang show on TV.

Your legs are draped across his lap, his strong fingers working mindlessly at your calf muscles while his eyes remain fixed on the screen.

It feels normal, domestic—as if the past week never happened, as if he hadn’t reduced you to a trembling, wet mess just hours ago.

“This one’s good,” Caleb murmurs, his thumb pressing into a knot in your muscle that makes you bite your lip. “See how she arranges everything before starting? That’s dedication.”

You nod, watching the woman on screen meticulously organize her feast—steaming bowls of ramen, platters of dumplings, side dishes in perfect formation. Her long nails tap against the ceramic as she explains each item in detail.

Caleb’s hands slide higher, working up to your knee, then your thigh.

The movement seems unconscious on his part, his attention fully captured by the show. His fingers knead and press with just the right pressure, finding tension you didn’t know you were carrying.

It‘s been like this all day—casual touches, lingering glances, as if he’s constantly checking that you’re still there, still his.

The mukbanger on screen lifts a tangle of noodles high above her bowl, the broth dripping in golden rivulets back into the ceramic.

She slurps them with theatrical enthusiasm, her eyes closing in exaggerated bliss as the soup splashes against her chin.

“God, that looks good,” Caleb says, his voice roughening slightly. “Should we order something like that for dinner?”

But you barely hear him. The sight of her lips wrapped around those noodles, the slurping sound amplified by the microphone, has triggered something in your memory.

Suddenly, you’re not seeing the woman on screen anymore—you’re seeing Caleb’s face between your thighs.

Heat floods your cheeks as the memory crystallizes. Caleb tasting you. All of you. Even your...

The thought makes you squirm slightly in your seat.

He’d said you tasted sweet, but you hadn’t believed him. How could you, when part of what he’d tasted was your piss?

Caleb’s thumb presses into a tender spot on your inner thigh, jolting you from your thoughts. His eyes remain on the screen, but his touch feels more deliberate now, his fingers working higher.

The mukbanger slurps another mouthful, making exaggerated sounds of enjoyment. “Mmm, so good, so delicious,” she moans, and the sound is so close to sexual it makes your skin prickle.

What did I taste like? The question bubbles up from nowhere, insistent and demanding. You try to push it down, embarrassed by your own curiosity, but it won’t go away.

Caleb’s fingers travel higher still, massaging the sensitive flesh where thigh meets hip.

His touch is innocent enough—he’s been massaging you like this for years, a habit born from your complaints about sore muscles after classes when you were younger.

The mukbanger lifts her bowl to her lips, drinking the broth directly. “The flavor is so rich,” she says, licking her lips. “Like nothing else in the world.”

Your mouth goes dry. That’s what Caleb had said about you—that you tasted sweet, perfect. But he must have been caught up in the moment. No one could possibly enjoy the taste of... that.

The question sits heavy on your tongue, demanding to be asked. You glance sideways at Caleb, studying his profile.

His jaw is relaxed, his eyes half-lidded as he watches the screen with absent interest, hands still working your muscles on autopilot.

He looks so normal, so everyday Caleb, that it’s hard to reconcile this image with the hungry, desperate man who’d licked his fingers clean after touching you this morning.

Before you can lose your nerve, you nudge him with your knee.

Caleb jumps slightly, his head whipping toward you with startled eyes. For a split second, tension radiates from him—the instinctive reaction of a soldier to unexpected contact—before recognition softens his features.

“What’s up, Pips?” he asks, his hands stilling on your leg.

You open your mouth, then close it again, suddenly shy. The question feels too intimate, too weird, even after everything you’ve done together.

Caleb’s eyes dart to the TV, then back to you, misunderstanding your hesitation. “You want something like that?” he asks, nodding toward the screen where the woman is now slurping another mouthful of noodles. “I could order from that new ramen place on Eighth.”

You shake your head quickly. “No, it’s not that. I’m not hungry.” At least, not for food.

His eyebrow arches, curiosity piqued by your obvious discomfort. “Then what is it?” When you don’t immediately answer, he shifts on the couch, turning to face you more fully.

His hand slides from your thigh to your knee, squeezing gently. “Hey, you know you can ask me anything, right? What’s bothering you?”

“It’s stupid,” you mutter, dropping your gaze to your lap.

“Nothing you want to know is stupid,” he counters, his voice softening into that tone he uses only with you—patient, encouraging, like he has all the time in the world for your questions. “Come on, Pips. What is it?”

You bite your lip, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. Caleb waits, his thumb rubbing small circles against your knee, a gesture meant to soothe that only heightens your awareness of his touch.

“You promised,” you finally say, still not meeting his eyes. “You said there was nothing you wouldn’t tell me or teach me.”

His expression shifts, something dark and hungry flashing behind his eyes before he masters it. “I did promise that,” he agrees, voice dropping lower. “And I meant it.”

The mukbanger on screen laughs, the sound jarring in the sudden tension between you. Caleb reaches for the remote without looking, silencing the TV with a click that feels final, momentous.

“Tell me what you want to know,” he says, and it’s not quite a request.

You take a deep breath, gathering your courage. It’s just a question. A weird, embarrassing question, but still just words. And this is Caleb. Your ge ge. The man who’s seen all of you—literally—and still looks at you like you’re precious.

“Okay,” you whisper, heart hammering against your ribs. "Caleb... what did I taste like?”

The question hangs in the air between you, your voice barely above a whisper. You can’t believe you actually asked it, that the words escaped your lips.

Heat blooms across your cheeks, spreading down your neck as you force yourself to meet his gaze.

For a moment, Caleb just stares at you, purple eyes widening slightly, mouth parting in surprise. It’s rare to catch him off guard like this.

His grip on your leg tightens fractionally. A muscle jumps in his jaw as he swallows, processing your question.

“What did you taste like,” he repeats slowly, not quite a question.

His voice has dropped half an octave, taking on that rough quality that makes your stomach flutter.

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak again. Now that the question is out there, you feel ridiculous, childish.

But you need to know.

Caleb’s eyes narrow, studying you with such intensity that you want to look away.

“Why do you want to know?” he asks finally, head tilting with genuine curiosity.

The words tumble out before you can stop them. “I know you said I tasted sweet, but I don‘t believe you. You weren’t thinking clearly.” Your fingers twist in the fabric of your shirt. “I mean, I peed on your bed, Caleb. That can’t have tasted... good.”

His expression turns serious, almost academic, like he’s considering how to explain a complex topic to a student.

“You think I lied to you?” There’s no accusation in his tone, just quiet inquiry.

“Not lied exactly,” you hedge, squirming under his steady gaze. “Maybe... exaggerated? In the moment?”

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You think I was too caught up to notice what you actually tasted like?”

“Something like that,” you mumble, wishing you’d never brought it up.

Caleb shifts on the couch, turning more fully toward you. His hand slides up your thigh to rest on your hip, the touch casual but possessive in a way that makes your breath catch.

“You really want to know?” he asks, and now there’s a hint of something playful in his expression, a teasing light in his eyes. “The full, unfiltered truth?”

“Yes,” you say, lifting your chin slightly in defiance. “I want to know exactly what it was like.”

He hums thoughtfully, his thumb tracing small circles against your hip bone. “It‘s an interesting question, actually. Not many people stop to analyze the experience in such detail.”

The approach surprises you. You’d expected him to brush it off or make a joke, but he seems genuinely engaged with your query, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to discuss how your bodily fluids tasted on his tongue.

“Let me think about this properly,” he continues, gaze drifting upward as if searching his memory. I want to give you an accurate answer.”

His deliberate pause stretches on, and you realize he’s dragging this out intentionally, enjoying your discomfort, your anticipation.

“Caleb,” you prompt, nudging him with your knee.

His eyes snap back to yours, a smile playing at his lips. “Getting impatient?”

You roll your eyes, trying to play it cool despite the heat burning your cheeks. “If you don’t want to answer—“

“I do,” he interrupts, his hand tightening on your hip. “I’m just trying to find the right words. It’s not something easy to describe.”

His expression grows thoughtful again. “It’s like explaining color to someone who’s never seen it, or music to someone who’s never heard it. The experience is... multi-sensory.”

The way he’s treating this—with such consideration, such seriousness—makes your embarrassment begin to fade, replaced by genuine curiosity.

“But if I had to put it into words,” he continues, voice dropping lower, “I’d say you were mostly tangy. Sharp, but not unpleasant. There was a hint of bitterness from the pee—“ He says this without flinching, as matter-of-fact as if discussing the weather. “—but it wasn’t strong. Your body was well-hydrated, so it was diluted.”

Your face burns hotter than ever, but you can’t look away from his eyes, which have darkened as he speaks, pupils dilating slightly.

“And your cum,” he says, the word rolling off his tongue like something precious, “that was sweet. Not sugary-sweet like candy, but... potent. Rich. Like honey but more complex.”

His hand slides from your hip to your stomach, resting just below your navel. The touch is gentle but possessive, his palm hot through the thin fabric of your shirt.

“There was salt too,” he adds, his gaze never leaving yours. “From your sweat, from your skin.”

His thumb brushes back and forth across your stomach, the movement hypnotic. “It’s like... have you ever tasted something that felt like it was doing you good? Not just delicious but nourishing? Healing?”

You narrow your eyes, ready to call bullshit on Caleb’s flowery description.

Medicine that could cure anything in the world? That’s laying it on a bit thick, even for him.

Your lips part, skepticism ready to spill out—when Caleb’s face suddenly contorts.

Without warning, he coughs loudly, directly in your face, the sound startlingly sharp in the quiet room. You feel the tiny spray of saliva hit your cheeks, and for a moment, you’re too shocked to react.

“What the hell, Caleb!” you sputter, shoving at his chest with both hands. The intimate tension of moments ago shatters, replaced by indignant disgust. “That’s disgusting!”

Caleb rocks back with your push, but instead of apologizing, his face twists into an even more exaggerated grimace. He coughs again, louder this time, one hand flying to his throat in a theatrical gesture.

“Sorry,” he wheezes, not sounding sorry at all. His lips twitch, betraying the laugh he’s fighting to contain. “I think I’m—“ Another hacking cough cuts off his words. “—coming down with something.”

You can’t help but laugh at his ridiculous display, even as you wipe your cheek with the back of your hand. “You’re such a child. Cover your mouth!”

Instead of heeding your advice, Caleb launches into a full-blown coughing fit, each hack more dramatic than the last. He pounds his chest with his fist, eyes watering with the force of his performance.

“I think—“ He pauses to release another theatrical cough. “—I might be dying.”

“Stop it!” You‘re laughing now, unable to maintain your outrage in the face of his absurdity. “You‘re not dying, you’re just disgusting.”

Caleb slumps against the couch, the back of his hand pressed to his forehead like a Victorian lady with the vapors. “No, this is it. The end for me. Tell Gran I loved her chicken soup. Tell the squadron my last thoughts were of proper formation flying.”

You roll your eyes, shoving at his shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

“Impossible to resist, you mean,” he corrects, breaking character for a second to flash you that cocky grin before doubling over in another fit of exaggerated coughing.

Each fake hack grows weaker, more pitiful, until he’s just making soft wheezing sounds. Slowly, deliberately, he begins to lean toward you, his substantial weight pressing against your side.

“What are you doing?” you ask, trying to maintain your stern expression despite the laughter bubbling in your throat.

“Too weak,” he gasps, slumping further until his head rests on your shoulder. “Can’t... sit up... on my own.”

His weight increases gradually as he lets more and more of his body collapse against yours. Despite his lean build, Caleb is solid muscle, and soon you’re struggling to hold him upright, pinned between his body and the arm of the couch.

“Caleb!” you protest, pushing ineffectually at his chest. “You’re crushing me!”

His only response is another pathetic cough, his face sliding from your shoulder to the crook of your neck. His breath is warm against your skin, raising goosebumps along your collarbone.

“Need... medicine,” he mumbles, voice muffled against your neck. “Dying man’s... last request.”

The theatrical coughing gradually subsides, replaced by something else—a deliberate inhale, his nose pressed against the sensitive skin below your ear. He’s sniffing you, you realize with a start, drawing in your scent with slow, deep breaths.

“Are you... smelling me?” you ask, torn between laughing and recoiling.

“Mmhmm,” he hums, the sound vibrating against your throat. He inhales again, more deeply this time. “You smell so good. Like sunshine. And happiness.”

His nose traces a path from just below your ear down to your collarbone, each breath tickling your skin.

“That tickles,” you protest weakly, squirming under his weight.

Caleb responds by nuzzling closer, his stubble scraping lightly against the sensitive skin of your neck.

Another fake cough, this one soft and directly against your pulse point, followed by an exaggerated sniffle.

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles up from your chest, your hands coming up to push at his shoulders. When he doesn’t budge, your fingers find his hair instead, tugging gently in reprimand.

“You’re the worst patient ever,” you tell him, still pulling at his dark strands.

The moment your fingers tighten in his hair, something changes. Caleb goes very still against you, his breathing shifting from exaggerated wheezes to something deeper, more controlled.

When he speaks again, the playful wheeze is gone, replaced by a low rumble that you feel more than hear.

“I think I might need more of that medicine.”

His words vibrate against your skin, and you freeze, fingers still tangled in his hair.

“Medicine?” you repeat, your voice embarrassingly high.

Caleb pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his own dark with renewed hunger. The fake illness is gone, replaced by something far more genuine—a need that burns in his purple irises, turning them nearly black.

“Your taste,” he clarifies, one hand coming up to trace your jawline with feather-light fingers. “The cure for anything that ails me, remember?”

Your mouth goes dry at his directness, at the naked want in his expression.

“You’re not really sick,” you point out, trying to regain some equilibrium.

Caleb’s smile is slow and deliberate, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a way that makes your stomach flip.

“No,” he agrees, his thumb brushing across your bottom lip. “But I want the medicine anyway.”

His gaze drops to your mouth, then lower, making his meaning unmistakable. The hand not occupied with your face slides down to rest on your hip, warm and heavy with promise.

“What do you say, Pips?” he murmurs, leaning in until his lips hover just above yours. “You want to be my healer right? Make me feel alright?”

Caleb’s voice is low and persuasive, his breath warm against your lips. His hand slides from your hip to your thigh, squeezing gently.

“Come on, Pips. You’re curious too, aren’t you? Want to see if it tastes different now?”

There’s something hypnotic in his tone, in the steady pressure of his fingers against your flesh. His purple eyes hold yours, refusing to let you look away as he makes his case. “Just a taste. For medical purposes.”

A laugh bubbles up from your chest, breaking some of the tension. “Medical purposes? Is that what we’re calling it now?”

His answering smile is wolfish, predatory. “I’m a sick man, Y/N.” His thumb traces small circles on your inner thigh, each pass bringing him closer to the junction of your legs. “Only one cure in the world for what ails me.”

If you’re being honest with yourself, you’re curious too. Curious if it will feel as good as last time, curious what his mouth will feel like on your bare cunt.

“Okay,” you whisper, the word barely audible.

Caleb’s eyes widen slightly, as if he hadn‘t expected you to agree so easily. “Yeah?”

Instead of answering, you reach for the waistband of your pajama pants. Your hands tremble slightly with a combination of nerves and anticipation, but you don’t stop. In one fluid movement, you lift your hips and push the soft fabric down your legs.

Caleb’s breath catches audibly. “Pips—“

You kick the pants away, leaving you in just your t-shirt and a pair of simple cotton panties—pale orange with a small bow at the front. Nothing fancy or seductive, just everyday underwear that suddenly feels incredibly revealing under his heated gaze.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you shift on the couch, leaning back against the armrest and spreading your legs in invitation.

“Is this what you wanted?” you ask, your voice steadier than you expected.

Caleb doesn’t answer. He seems frozen in place, his eyes fixed between your spread thighs where your panties do little to conceal the shape of you.

A muscle jumps in his jaw as he swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion.

You’ve never seen him like this—speechless, almost dazed. Caleb, who always has a quip ready, who’s never at a loss for words, stares at you like a man hypnotized.

A thin line of saliva connects his parted lips, and you realize with a jolt of something like pride that he’s literally drooling at the sight of you.

“Ge ge?” you prompt, suddenly uncertain in the face of his silence.

The familiar endearment seems to break his trance. His gaze drags up from between your legs to meet your eyes, and the raw hunger you find there makes your breath catch.

“You,” he says, voice rough as gravel, “are going to be the death of me.”

Before you can respond, he’s moving, crawling up the couch toward you with predatory grace. His large hands wrap around your ankles, sliding up your calves in a slow caress that leaves goosebumps in their wake.

He positions himself between your spread legs, his broad shoulders forcing them wider to accommodate him.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs, his hands continuing their journey up your legs to your thighs. “So perfect for me.”

You watch, breath quickening, as Caleb lowers himself onto his stomach, his face level with your knees. His eyes never leave yours as he presses a kiss to one kneecap, then the other, the touch feather-light and achingly tender.

“Been thinking about this all day,” he confesses, kissing his way up your inner thigh. “About how you taste, how you feel on my tongue.”

Each press of his lips sends a tiny shiver through you, building anticipation as he works his way higher.

His palms slide under your thighs, lifting them slightly to give him better access, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh in a way that’s sure to leave marks.

When his mouth reaches the crease where thigh meets hip, you can’t help the small sound that escapes you—part anticipation, part plea.

Caleb smiles against your skin, a flash of teeth that’s almost feral before he continues his journey, now kissing down the center of your body.

His lips brush over your lower belly, just above the waistband of your panties. He takes his time, mapping the terrain of your body with his mouth as if committing it to memory.

Finally, his mouth hovers over the front of your panties. You can feel his breath, hot and damp through the thin cotton, raising goosebumps across your skin. He pauses there, looking up the length of your body to meet your eyes once more.

“I want to remember this,” he says, his voice rough with desire. “The way you look right now, spread out for me. So brave. So perfect.”

Before you can respond, he lowers his head, pressing his nose against the center of your panties and inhaling deeply.

The sound he makes—a groan that seems torn from somewhere deep inside him—sends heat rushing through your veins.

“Even better than this morning,” he murmurs, nuzzling against you through the fabric. His tongue darts out, tracing a line up the center seam of your panties. “Already wet for me.”

You hadn’t realized until he mentioned it, but he’s right—there’s a dampness gathering between your legs, your body responding to his attention with eager anticipation.

“Taste me,” you whisper, surprising yourself with the demand.

Caleb’s eyes flash with approval. His hands tighten on your thighs, and then his mouth is on you, open and hot through the thin barrier of your panties.

His tongue presses against the fabric, seeking the shape of you beneath, licking a broad stroke from your entrance to the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex.

You twitch beneath him, caught off guard by the pleasure that spirals outward from his touch. Your thighs tense, instinctively trying to close against the overwhelming feeling, but Caleb holds them firmly open, his strength easily overpowering yours.

“That’s it,” he encourages between licks. “Let me make you feel good. Let me have my medicine.”

You don’t know where this sudden bravery came from—this willingness to spread yourself before him, to demand his touch.

Maybe you’re ovulating, hormones making you bolder, hungrier.

Or maybe it’s just Caleb, the way he looks at you like you’re the answer to every question he’s ever had, the way he touches you like you’re something precious.

Caleb’s arms snake around your thighs like vines, pulling you closer to his mouth with unexpected strength.

His hands slide beneath your ass, lifting you slightly off the couch to give himself better access. His eyes close as he presses his open mouth against your center, no longer just tasting but devouring, making out with your covered pussy like it’s the last meal he’ll ever have.

“Oh,” you gasp, the sound high and breathy as his tongue works against you through the thin cotton.

The wet heat of his mouth seeps through the fabric, creating a strange contrast of sensations—the softness of his tongue, the slight roughness of the cotton, the building pressure of his insistent mouth.

Caleb growls against you, the vibration sending shivers up your spine. His lips move against your covered folds, sucking and licking with increasing hunger.

The cotton of your panties, already damp with your arousal, grows saturated under his attention. You can hear the wet sounds of his mouth working against the fabric, obscene and thrilling in the quiet room.

His saliva mingles with your own moisture, creating a soaked patch that clings to your flesh, revealing the shape of your folds through the now-translucent material.

“Fuck,” Caleb mumbles against you, the curse muffled by your flesh and fabric. “So good, Pips. So fucking good.”

His hands tighten on your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pulls you even closer, grinding your center against his face.

The pressure makes you cry out, your back arching involuntarily as pleasure spirals outward from where his tongue presses against your clit through the soaked barrier.

Time seems to slow as Caleb loses himself in the act, his world narrowed to the taste and feel of you against his mouth.

He alternates between broad strokes of his tongue that cover your entire center and focused attention on your clit, sucking it through the fabric with pressure that makes your toes curl.

Something changes in his rhythm, his movements becoming more deliberate. He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at your panties, now dark with moisture and clinging to every contour of your intimate flesh.

“You taste different,” he says, voice rough with desire. He leans in again, this time pressing his nose directly against your center and inhaling deeply. “Sweeter. Stronger.”

You blink down at him, confused by the observation. “What do you mean?”

Instead of answering, Caleb dives back in, his tongue tracing the outline of your labia through the wet fabric.

He moans against you, the sound vibrating through your core, his eyes closing in apparent ecstasy.

“It‘s like...” he pulls back again, licking his lips as if savoring a fine wine. “Like everything about you just got turned up. More intense. More you.”

His eyes open, fixing you with a stare so hungry it makes your breath catch. “And so fucking sweet. Like honey but... sharper. More potent.”

You don‘t understand what he’s talking about, but the way he’s looking at you—like you’re some rare delicacy he’s discovered—makes heat bloom in your cheeks and between your legs.

Caleb inhales again, his nostrils flaring as he takes in your scent. Something shifts in his expression, a dawning realization that transforms his features into something almost predatory.

“You’re ovulating,” he says, and it’s not a question but a revelation. His pupils dilate further, nearly swallowing the purple of his irises. “That‘s why you taste different. Why you smell so good.”

Caleb’s breathing grows more ragged, his hands tightening on your flesh as if he’s fighting to maintain control.

“Your body’s getting ready,” he continues, voice dropping to a register you’ve never heard from him before—something primal and raw. “Ready to be bred. To be filled.”

The words sent a pulse of heat directly to your core, your inner walls clenching around nothing as your body responds to his voice, his words.

Caleb seems equally affected by the realization.

Something wild flashes in his eyes, a feral hunger that transforms his familiar features into something almost animalistic.

Without warning, he grips the sides of your panties, and instead of sliding them down your legs, he bares his teeth and tugs.

The fabric stretches, then gives, tearing slightly at the seam as he pulls it away from your body with his teeth.

He works the panties down your legs with a combination of hands and teeth, his movements urgent and clumsy with need.

When he finally gets them off, he doesn’t toss them aside. Instead, he holds them up, examining the soaked crotch with naked fascination.

You watch, transfixed, as he brings the wet fabric to his face, pressing it against his nose and inhaling deeply. His eyes close in apparent bliss, a low groan rumbling from his chest.

“Fuck, Pips,” he murmurs, opening his eyes to look at you through the tangle of your ruined underwear. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

Before you can respond, he opens his mouth and sucks the saturated crotch of your panties between his lips.

His eyes roll back slightly, his expression one of such intense pleasure it’s almost painful to witness. He sucks at the fabric, drawing out your taste with obscene slurping sounds.

Without the barrier of your panties, the air feels cool against your wet flesh, raising goosebumps across your skin.

“I’m getting cold,” you complain softly, though the heat building inside you contradicts your words.

Caleb’s eyes snap open, focusing on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

For a moment, he looks torn, clearly reluctant to part with the soaked garment in his mouth. Then, with visible effort, he pulls the panties free, giving them one last, lingering look before folding them carefully and tucking them into the pocket of his sweatpants.

“Saving those for later,” he explains, his voice a low growl that sends another shiver through you—this one having nothing to do with the temperature.

Before you can process the implications of that statement, Caleb is moving again, returning to his position between your legs.

But this time, there’s no barrier between his mouth and your flesh, nothing to mute the sensation of his hot breath against your exposed center.

His large hands slide beneath your thighs, pushing them wider as he settles on his stomach, your pussy splayed out before him like a feast he intends to devour completely.

“Keep yourself open for me,” Caleb commands, his voice rough with desire. His hands slide from your thighs to your knees, pushing them wider. “Show me all of you.”

When you hesitate, unsure of what he means, his gaze darkens. “Your pussy, Pips. Spread your folds for me. I want to see everything.”

With trembling fingers, you reach down, placing your hands on either side of your center. The position feels obscenely vulnerable—holding yourself open for his inspection like some kind of offering.

You’ve never touched yourself like this before, never examined your own body with such deliberate attention. The unfamiliarity makes your movements clumsy, uncertain.

“Like this?” you ask, voice small as you part your outer lips slightly.

Caleb’s breath catches, his eyes fixed on your fingers. “More,” he instructs, the single word tight with restraint. “Show me everything, baby. Don’t be shy.”

Swallowing your embarrassment, you press your fingers deeper, spreading yourself fully beneath his hungry gaze.

The cool air hits your exposed flesh, making you shiver. You can feel how wet you are, your arousal gathering in slick droplets at your entrance, threatening to spill onto the couch beneath you.

In the harsh afternoon light filtering through the curtains, you can see everything—and so can Caleb.

Your pussy is swollen with arousal, the delicate pink flesh shiny with your wetness. Your opening pulses visibly under his stare, clenching around nothing as if seeking his touch.

Your clit peeks from beneath its hood, engorged and sensitive even to the slight breeze of Caleb’s exhales.

“Perfect,” he breathes, the word reverent. “So fucking perfect.”

Your fingers quiver with the strain of holding yourself open, with the overwhelming vulnerability of being displayed so completely.

No one has ever seen you like this—spread wide, exposed to the light, every secret part of you revealed for inspection.

Caleb seems transfixed by the sight, his eyes darting from your entrance to your clit, mapping every fold and crease with his gaze. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, a unconscious gesture that makes your core clench again.

“Caleb,” you whisper, his name half plea, half question.

Something breaks in his expression—the last threads of his control snapping visibly as hunger overtakes him. Without another word, he dives forward, no longer able to resist the temptation you present.

The first touch of his mouth against your bare flesh draws a cry from your throat—sharp and surprised despite your anticipation.

Without the barrier of fabric, the sensation is overwhelming, his tongue hot and slick against your sensitive folds.

Caleb wastes no time with gentle exploration. He attacks your pussy with the desperation of a starving man, his nose nudging against your clit as his tongue circles your entrance.

His hands wrap around your thighs again, gripping hard enough to leave marks as he holds you open for his feast.

“So sweet,” he mumbles against you, the words vibrating through your core. “Fucking delicious.”

His tongue flattens, dragging up the length of your slit in a broad stroke that collects your arousal. You watch, transfixed, as he pulls back just far enough to visibly savor your taste, his eyes closing briefly in apparent ecstasy before diving back for more.

The sight of his dark head between your pale thighs, his mouth working eagerly against your most intimate flesh, is almost as arousing as the physical sensation.

His technique shifts, becomes more focused as he learns your body’s responses. When a particular flick of his tongue against your clit makes you gasp, he repeats the motion, cataloging your reactions.

Just as you’re growing accustomed to the rhythm of his mouth against your folds, you feel a new sensation—pressure at your entrance, firm and insistent.

Caleb’s tongue, you realize with a jolt of surprise, is pushing inside you. The intrusion is foreign but not unwelcome, your body yielding easily to his probing muscle.

You’ve never felt anything like it—the strange, slick pressure of his tongue wiggling deeper, tasting you from the inside.

“Oh god,” you breathe, unable to tear your eyes away from where his face is pressed so firmly against you that you wonder how he can breathe. “Caleb, that’s—“

He doesn’t respond verbally, just pushes his tongue deeper, curling it upward in a way that makes your thighs tremble.

The muscle is strong, more dexterous than you would have imagined, massaging your inner walls with determined strokes.

Each thrust of his tongue sends new waves of pleasure through you, building a pressure at the base of your spine that feels both familiar and more intense than what you experienced this morning.

His nose continues to bump against your clit with each movement, adding another layer of stimulation that makes coherent thought increasingly difficult.

The sensation is too much, too good. You release your grip on your cunt, your hands flying to Caleb’s hair instead. Your fingers tangle in the dark strands, tugging perhaps harder than you intend as pleasure overwhelms your coordination.

Caleb groans at the pull, the vibration traveling through his tongue and into your core. Far from discouraging him, your grip on his hair seems to spur him on. His tongue withdraws only to plunge deeper, fucking into you with increasing urgency.

Unable to close your thighs against the overwhelming sensation, you find yourself moving in a different way—lifting your hips to meet his thrusting tongue, grinding your clit against the bridge of his nose. The movement is instinctive, your body seeking more of the pleasure he offers.

“Don’t stop,” you plead, the words barely recognizable through your gasping breaths. “Please, please don’t stop.”

Your hips move with increasing urgency, rubbing yourself against his face with abandoned need.

Some distant part of you wonders if you‘re being too rough, if you’re making it hard for him to breathe, but Caleb shows no signs of discomfort or desire to pull away.

If anything, his grip on your thighs tightens further, encouraging your movements as his tongue continues its relentless exploration of your depths.

You ride his face without shame now, chasing the building pressure that promises relief. His tongue feels impossibly deep inside you, touching places you didn’t know could be reached, while his nose provides steady pressure against your throbbing clit.

Caleb’s rhythm suddenly falters, his eager movements growing erratic. He pulls back with a gasp, chest heaving as he desperately sucks in air.

His chin and lips glisten with your arousal, his eyes still dark with hunger despite his obvious need for oxygen. You whimper at the loss of contact, your body strung tight on the edge of release.

“Don’t stop,” you plead, trying to guide his head back between your thighs with your grip on his hair. “Please, I’m so close.”

“Just need a second,” Caleb rasps, voice rough from exertion. He rolls his shoulders, tilting his head from side to side. The motion produces an audible crack that makes you wince in sympathy. “This angle is killing my neck.”

You hadn’t considered the mechanics of what he was doing, how uncomfortable it must be to lay on his stomach, neck craned upward for so long. Guilt mingles with your frustration, cooling the edge of your desire.

“We can stop if you—“ you begin, but Caleb cuts you off with a sharp look.

“I didn’t say I wanted to stop.” His tongue darts out, licking his lips as if savoring the taste of you that lingers there. “I just need a better position.”

Before you can suggest alternatives, Caleb moves with sudden, decisive strength. His hands grip your hips, and in one fluid motion, he falls back onto the couch, dragging you with him.

You barely have time to register what’s happening—the room tilting, your body moving through space—before you find yourself straddling his chest, facing his feet.

“Caleb!” you gasp, disoriented by the sudden change. “What are you—“

He doesn’t answer with words. Instead, his hands slide to your waist, lifting you as if you weigh nothing at all.

For a surreal moment, you‘re suspended in air, knees no longer touching the couch, entirely supported by Caleb’s strong grip.

Then he’s pulling you backward, positioning you directly above his face.

“Wait,” you stammer, understanding dawning as he guides your knees to either side of his head. “Are you sure this is—“

Again, he doesn’t let you finish. With firm pressure, he pulls you down until your core makes contact with his eager mouth.

The new angle sends a jolt of pleasure through you, sharper and more intense than before. From this position, your weight presses you more firmly against his tongue, deepening the contact in ways that make your breath catch.

“Oh,” you breathe, the single syllable inadequate to express the sensation. Your hands fly out to brace against his thighs, steadying yourself as he resumes his feast with renewed enthusiasm.

His hands slide from your thighs to your ass, palms cupping each cheek firmly. You feel his fingers dig into the soft flesh, kneading and squeezing as his tongue works against your entrance.

Then, without warning, he spreads you wider, thumbs pulling your cheeks apart to expose you completely.

The cool air hits places that have never been exposed before, making you gasp with embarrassment and unexpected arousal.

“Caleb,” you whimper, torn between pulling away and pressing closer.

His response is a muffled groan against your flesh, the vibration traveling through your core. His tongue plunges deeper from this angle, aided by gravity and the leverage his position provides.

The sensation is overwhelming—his tongue somehow reaching parts of you that felt untouchable before, massaging your inner walls with firm, deliberate strokes.

Most shocking of all is the feeling of his nose, now pressed against the sensitive pucker of your asshole.

The unexpected contact makes you jolt forward, a startled sound escaping your throat. Caleb‘s hands immediately tighten, holding you firmly in place as his tongue continues its relentless exploration.

Far from being put off by this most intimate contact, Caleb seems to delight in it. His nose nuzzles against you deliberately now, adding pressure that sends confusing but not unpleasant sensations spiraling through your lower body.

Your fingers dig into his thighs, seeking stability in this maelstrom of new sensations. His sweatpants provide little cushioning—beneath the thin fabric, you can feel the hard muscle of his legs tensing with each movement of his mouth against you.

With your other hand, you grip the back of the couch, trying to anchor yourself as pleasure threatens to sweep you away.

Your thighs begin to shake with the effort of maintaining your position, muscles burning as pleasure coils tighter and tighter.

Instinctively, you shift your hips, seeking more direct contact where you need it most. The movement drags your clit against Caleb’s chin, the light stubble creating a friction that sends sparks shooting up your spine.

“Yes,” you gasp, repeating the motion with more purpose. “Right there.”

Caleb seems to understand immediately. His hands guide your movements, encouraging you to grind against his face at the angle that brings you the most pleasure.

His tongue withdraws slightly, focusing instead on flicking against your entrance in counterpoint to the rocking of your hips.

You find a rhythm that works—sliding forward to drag your clit against his chin, then back to feel his tongue press inside you. The combination is devastatingly effective, each circuit bringing you closer to the edge.

Sensing your building pleasure, Caleb adjusts his approach yet again. He flattens his tongue, extending it outward from his mouth like an offering.

The invitation is clear, and you take it without hesitation, positioning yourself so that your clit makes direct contact with the hot, wet muscle.

The sensation is electric—more intense than his chin, more precise than his nose had been. You rock against his outstretched tongue, using it as a platform to pleasure yourself.

His hands never leave your ass, continuing to spread you open, but he allows you to set the pace, to find exactly what you need.

You ride his tongue with growing confidence, the initial awkwardness of the position forgotten as pleasure builds to a crescendo.

Your movements grow more urgent, less coordinated as your focus narrows to the point where his tongue meets your clit.

“I’m close,” you warn, voice breaking as tension coils at the base of your spine. “Caleb, I’m so close.”

Caleb’s moment of surrender is brief. Just as you teeter on the edge of climax, his arm wraps around your waist from below, the muscles in his forearm flexing with sudden strength.

The grip is iron-tight, controlling, a reminder of the physical power he usually keeps carefully leashed. With this leverage, he takes back control, forcefully guiding your movements against his face.

Your autonomy vanishes in an instant—you’re no longer riding his tongue by choice but because he’s holding you there, dictating the pressure and pace with unwavering authority.

“Caleb!” you gasp, startled by the sudden shift. Your hands scramble for purchase, one gripping his thigh while the other clutches the back of the couch.

He doesn’t respond except to tighten his hold, using his considerable strength to lift you slightly before pulling you back down onto his waiting mouth.

The firm pressure against this most responsive part of you draws a strangled cry from your throat, pleasure so intense it borders on pain shooting through your system.

“Oh god,” you whimper, thighs trembling as Caleb repeats the motion, lifting and pulling you down again. “That’s too much, I can’t—“

But Caleb isn’t listening. His arm locks around your waist, holding you firmly in place as his free hand spreads you wider, exposing every intimate part to his hungry mouth. You feel his lips shift, moving higher, and then—

The wet heat of his mouth closes around your clit entirely, sucking the sensitive bud between his lips with gentle but insistent pressure.

The sensation is so overwhelming, so unexpected, that your mind goes blank, your vocabulary reduced to a single, keening cry that doesn‘t even sound like your voice.

Caleb suckles at your clit like it’s a pacifier, applying rhythmic pressure that sends shock waves of pleasure radiating outward.

It’s a different sensation from the licking and rubbing before—more concentrated, more intense, building pressure that feels like it might shatter you from the inside out.

His lips form a seal, creating a gentle vacuum that makes your hips jerk involuntarily against his face. The arm around your waist tightens further, holding you steady for his ministrations, refusing to let you escape the overwhelming pleasure he’s inflicting.

Just when you think you can’t bear any more, his technique changes again. His lips release your clit only to latch onto your outer labia instead.

The feeling of him sucking your folds into his mouth, applying pressure to flesh that’s never received such attention, draws another startled gasp from you.

He alternates between sides, sucking first one fold then the other between his lips. The tugging sensation is foreign but undeniably arousing, blood rushing to the delicate tissues as he manipulates them with his mouth.

Then, to your shock, you feel the gentle scrape of teeth—not biting, just holding, pulling the sensitive flesh with the barest hint of pressure that walks the line between pleasure and pain.

“Caleb,” you moan, no longer sure if you’re begging him to stop or pleading for more. Your thighs quiver uncontrollably, muscles burning with the strain of holding this position and the onslaught of sensation.

His response is to suck harder, his mouth working your flesh with increasing urgency. There’s a desperation to his movements now, a frenzy that wasn’t there before.

Through the haze of your pleasure, you remember his earlier observation—that you’re ovulating, that your taste is different. The thought that your body’s natural cycle is driving him to this state of abandon only heightens your arousal.

You can feel him inhaling deeply between sucks, drawing your scent into his lungs as if he could absorb you that way too.

His grip on your waist shifts, becomes somehow more possessive, more primal. The arm holding you grinds you down harder against his face, as if he’s trying to crawl inside you through sheer force of will.

The pressure builds rapidly, a tight coil of heat at your center that winds tighter with each pull of his lips, each press of his nose against your clit.

Your breathing becomes shallow, your vision narrowing until all you’re aware of is the point where his mouth connects with your pussy and the tension threatening to snap inside you.

“I’m going to—“ The warning dissolves into a wordless cry as the tension finally breaks. Your orgasm crashes through you with unexpected force, your inner walls clenching rhythmically around nothing as waves of pleasure radiate outward from your core.

Your body convulses, hips jerking against Caleb’s face without any conscious control on your part. His arm around your waist tightens further, holding you firmly against his mouth as he works you through the peak.

But unlike before, Caleb doesn’t slow or stop when your climax begins. If anything, his movements become more insistent, his suction increasing as if determined to draw every last drop of pleasure from your trembling body.

What started as ecstasy quickly tips toward overstimulation, your sensitive cunt protesting the continued attention.

“Too much,” you gasp, pushing weakly at his thigh. “Caleb, stop, it’s too much!”

He either doesn’t hear or chooses to ignore your plea, continuing his relentless feast as if unaware that your climax has come and gone.

His lips and tongue work against your oversensitive flesh, drawing out aftershocks that border on painful in their intensity.

Desperation lends you strength. You plant your hands on his thighs and push yourself up and away from his devouring mouth, breaking his grip around your waist.

The sudden absence of contact leaves you shaking, every nerve ending still firing with residual pleasure.

For a moment, you stay there, hovering above him on trembling limbs, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. Caleb’s eyes open, meeting yours with a gaze so dark and hungry it makes your heart stutter despite your recent release.

His face is a mess—chin and cheeks slick with your arousal, lips swollen from his enthusiastic attentions.

With careful movements, you shift away from him, settling back on the couch beside his form. Your legs feel like jelly, muscles weak from exertion and release.

Caleb sits up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he eyes you with a satisfaction that borders on smug.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough and low.

You nod, not trusting your voice just yet. Your body feels simultaneously boneless and hypersensitive, every brush of air against your still-exposed lower half sending tiny shivers across your skin.

Caleb reaches into his pocket, pulling out the panties he stashed there earlier. With deliberate movements, he uses the fabric to wipe his face, cleaning away the evidence of your pleasure from his skin.

You watch as he examines the now-doubly-soaked garment, turning it in his hands with apparent fascination. Then, to your shock, he opens his mouth and stuffs the entire bundle of fabric inside, cheeks bulging slightly as he sucks on your panties like they’re a piece of candy.

His eyes meet yours as he does this, challenging, unapologetic. After a moment, he removes the panties, now darker and wetter than before, and carefully folds them before returning them to his pocket.

Before you can formulate a response to this bizarre but strangely erotic behavior, Caleb reaches for the remote, increasing the TV volume as if nothing unusual has happened.

The mukbang show resumes, the woman now enthusiastically devouring a platter of dumplings.

Caleb shifts on the couch, positioning himself beside you. His hand finds your bare thigh, traveling upward until his thumb rests against your still-sensitive pussy.

The touch isn’t demanding or insistent—just present, his thumb making small, idle circles against your flesh as his attention returns to the screen.

“This is a good episode,” he comments, as casual as if he hadn’t just devoured you with animal hunger minutes before. “She’s trying that new place on Fifth Street. We should go there sometime.”

You stare at him, bewildered by his ability to switch from feral to normal so quickly. Yet his hand remains between your legs, thumb still tracing lazy patterns against your core, maintaining that connection even as he acts as if you’re just watching TV together like any other day.

Exhaustion suddenly washes over you, the intensity of your orgasm combined with the emotional whiplash of the afternoon leaving you drained.

His arm comes around you, pulling you closer to him. His thumb continues its gentle exploration between your legs, more soothing than arousing now, like he’s playing with a fidget toy—something to keep his hands busy while his mind focuses elsewhere.

“Rest, Pips,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ve got you.”

As you drift toward sleep, his thumb still idly circling your center, you can’t help but wonder what other things Caleb might want to teach you during his month home. And why, despite the strangeness of it all, you find yourself eager to learn.

Comment to be tagged!

@littlewhitefairy7777 @celaenaglynn @mothmans-left-nipple @lotusapple-xia @gflscer @swiggitty-swoogity @aoomiines @puchu-puchuu @fulldoves @goobermi6 @typicalme23 @teira-osairis @vy-olet @calebsbabyapple @xyzyogurt @earthtohoney @skyekudasai @kalydos @navvzy @tempeststhings @young-adult-summer @remnantsofgildedcages @applebite01 @vatarvaliantchaosvalkyrie @applarchve @hangingwiththestars @thisaintviolet69 @asilaydead @snowapples-stuff @calebsmeimeii @cherrysherryblossom @mindelicious1 @nansfyy @ccoeurhee @tomriddleslovergirl @beelpita @cchiiwinkle @feelingfaye

[nottellingofname]

i think i was ovulating when i wrote this so i kinda projected that onto our beloved y/n HAHAHA

[nottellingofname]

For My Caleb ⋆⭒˚｡⋆✈

Ge ge could eat mei mei for lunch!

You’re curled up on the couch with Caleb, his warmth seeping into your side as you both watch a mukbang show on TV.

Your legs are draped across his lap, his strong fingers working mindlessly at your calf muscles while his eyes remain fixed on the screen.

It feels normal, domestic—as if the past week never happened, as if he hadn’t reduced you to a trembling, wet mess just hours ago.

“This one’s good,” Caleb murmurs, his thumb pressing into a knot in your muscle that makes you bite your lip. “See how she arranges everything before starting? That’s dedication.”

You nod, watching the woman on screen meticulously organize her feast—steaming bowls of ramen, platters of dumplings, side dishes in perfect formation. Her long nails tap against the ceramic as she explains each item in detail.

Caleb’s hands slide higher, working up to your knee, then your thigh.

The movement seems unconscious on his part, his attention fully captured by the show. His fingers knead and press with just the right pressure, finding tension you didn’t know you were carrying.

It‘s been like this all day—casual touches, lingering glances, as if he’s constantly checking that you’re still there, still his.

The mukbanger on screen lifts a tangle of noodles high above her bowl, the broth dripping in golden rivulets back into the ceramic.

She slurps them with theatrical enthusiasm, her eyes closing in exaggerated bliss as the soup splashes against her chin.

“God, that looks good,” Caleb says, his voice roughening slightly. “Should we order something like that for dinner?”

But you barely hear him. The sight of her lips wrapped around those noodles, the slurping sound amplified by the microphone, has triggered something in your memory.

Suddenly, you’re not seeing the woman on screen anymore—you’re seeing Caleb’s face between your thighs.

Heat floods your cheeks as the memory crystallizes. Caleb tasting you. All of you. Even your...

The thought makes you squirm slightly in your seat.

He’d said you tasted sweet, but you hadn’t believed him. How could you, when part of what he’d tasted was your piss?

Caleb’s thumb presses into a tender spot on your inner thigh, jolting you from your thoughts. His eyes remain on the screen, but his touch feels more deliberate now, his fingers working higher.

The mukbanger slurps another mouthful, making exaggerated sounds of enjoyment. “Mmm, so good, so delicious,” she moans, and the sound is so close to sexual it makes your skin prickle.

What did I taste like? The question bubbles up from nowhere, insistent and demanding. You try to push it down, embarrassed by your own curiosity, but it won’t go away.

Caleb’s fingers travel higher still, massaging the sensitive flesh where thigh meets hip.

His touch is innocent enough—he’s been massaging you like this for years, a habit born from your complaints about sore muscles after classes when you were younger.

The mukbanger lifts her bowl to her lips, drinking the broth directly. “The flavor is so rich,” she says, licking her lips. “Like nothing else in the world.”

Your mouth goes dry. That’s what Caleb had said about you—that you tasted sweet, perfect. But he must have been caught up in the moment. No one could possibly enjoy the taste of... that.

The question sits heavy on your tongue, demanding to be asked. You glance sideways at Caleb, studying his profile.

His jaw is relaxed, his eyes half-lidded as he watches the screen with absent interest, hands still working your muscles on autopilot.

He looks so normal, so everyday Caleb, that it’s hard to reconcile this image with the hungry, desperate man who’d licked his fingers clean after touching you this morning.

Before you can lose your nerve, you nudge him with your knee.

Caleb jumps slightly, his head whipping toward you with startled eyes. For a split second, tension radiates from him—the instinctive reaction of a soldier to unexpected contact—before recognition softens his features.

“What’s up, Pips?” he asks, his hands stilling on your leg.

You open your mouth, then close it again, suddenly shy. The question feels too intimate, too weird, even after everything you’ve done together.

Caleb’s eyes dart to the TV, then back to you, misunderstanding your hesitation. “You want something like that?” he asks, nodding toward the screen where the woman is now slurping another mouthful of noodles. “I could order from that new ramen place on Eighth.”

You shake your head quickly. “No, it’s not that. I’m not hungry.” At least, not for food.

His eyebrow arches, curiosity piqued by your obvious discomfort. “Then what is it?” When you don’t immediately answer, he shifts on the couch, turning to face you more fully.

His hand slides from your thigh to your knee, squeezing gently. “Hey, you know you can ask me anything, right? What’s bothering you?”

“It’s stupid,” you mutter, dropping your gaze to your lap.

“Nothing you want to know is stupid,” he counters, his voice softening into that tone he uses only with you—patient, encouraging, like he has all the time in the world for your questions. “Come on, Pips. What is it?”

You bite your lip, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. Caleb waits, his thumb rubbing small circles against your knee, a gesture meant to soothe that only heightens your awareness of his touch.

“You promised,” you finally say, still not meeting his eyes. “You said there was nothing you wouldn’t tell me or teach me.”

His expression shifts, something dark and hungry flashing behind his eyes before he masters it. “I did promise that,” he agrees, voice dropping lower. “And I meant it.”

The mukbanger on screen laughs, the sound jarring in the sudden tension between you. Caleb reaches for the remote without looking, silencing the TV with a click that feels final, momentous.

“Tell me what you want to know,” he says, and it’s not quite a request.

You take a deep breath, gathering your courage. It’s just a question. A weird, embarrassing question, but still just words. And this is Caleb. Your ge ge. The man who’s seen all of you—literally—and still looks at you like you’re precious.

“Okay,” you whisper, heart hammering against your ribs. "Caleb... what did I taste like?”

The question hangs in the air between you, your voice barely above a whisper. You can’t believe you actually asked it, that the words escaped your lips.

Heat blooms across your cheeks, spreading down your neck as you force yourself to meet his gaze.

For a moment, Caleb just stares at you, purple eyes widening slightly, mouth parting in surprise. It’s rare to catch him off guard like this.

His grip on your leg tightens fractionally. A muscle jumps in his jaw as he swallows, processing your question.

“What did you taste like,” he repeats slowly, not quite a question.

His voice has dropped half an octave, taking on that rough quality that makes your stomach flutter.

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak again. Now that the question is out there, you feel ridiculous, childish.

But you need to know.

Caleb’s eyes narrow, studying you with such intensity that you want to look away.

“Why do you want to know?” he asks finally, head tilting with genuine curiosity.

The words tumble out before you can stop them. “I know you said I tasted sweet, but I don‘t believe you. You weren’t thinking clearly.” Your fingers twist in the fabric of your shirt. “I mean, I peed on your bed, Caleb. That can’t have tasted... good.”

His expression turns serious, almost academic, like he’s considering how to explain a complex topic to a student.

“You think I lied to you?” There’s no accusation in his tone, just quiet inquiry.

“Not lied exactly,” you hedge, squirming under his steady gaze. “Maybe... exaggerated? In the moment?”

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You think I was too caught up to notice what you actually tasted like?”

“Something like that,” you mumble, wishing you’d never brought it up.

Caleb shifts on the couch, turning more fully toward you. His hand slides up your thigh to rest on your hip, the touch casual but possessive in a way that makes your breath catch.

“You really want to know?” he asks, and now there’s a hint of something playful in his expression, a teasing light in his eyes. “The full, unfiltered truth?”

“Yes,” you say, lifting your chin slightly in defiance. “I want to know exactly what it was like.”

He hums thoughtfully, his thumb tracing small circles against your hip bone. “It‘s an interesting question, actually. Not many people stop to analyze the experience in such detail.”

The approach surprises you. You’d expected him to brush it off or make a joke, but he seems genuinely engaged with your query, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to discuss how your bodily fluids tasted on his tongue.

“Let me think about this properly,” he continues, gaze drifting upward as if searching his memory. I want to give you an accurate answer.”

His deliberate pause stretches on, and you realize he’s dragging this out intentionally, enjoying your discomfort, your anticipation.

“Caleb,” you prompt, nudging him with your knee.

His eyes snap back to yours, a smile playing at his lips. “Getting impatient?”

You roll your eyes, trying to play it cool despite the heat burning your cheeks. “If you don’t want to answer—“

“I do,” he interrupts, his hand tightening on your hip. “I’m just trying to find the right words. It’s not something easy to describe.”

His expression grows thoughtful again. “It’s like explaining color to someone who’s never seen it, or music to someone who’s never heard it. The experience is... multi-sensory.”

The way he’s treating this—with such consideration, such seriousness—makes your embarrassment begin to fade, replaced by genuine curiosity.

“But if I had to put it into words,” he continues, voice dropping lower, “I’d say you were mostly tangy. Sharp, but not unpleasant. There was a hint of bitterness from the pee—“ He says this without flinching, as matter-of-fact as if discussing the weather. “—but it wasn’t strong. Your body was well-hydrated, so it was diluted.”

Your face burns hotter than ever, but you can’t look away from his eyes, which have darkened as he speaks, pupils dilating slightly.

“And your cum,” he says, the word rolling off his tongue like something precious, “that was sweet. Not sugary-sweet like candy, but... potent. Rich. Like honey but more complex.”

His hand slides from your hip to your stomach, resting just below your navel. The touch is gentle but possessive, his palm hot through the thin fabric of your shirt.

“There was salt too,” he adds, his gaze never leaving yours. “From your sweat, from your skin.”

His thumb brushes back and forth across your stomach, the movement hypnotic. “It’s like... have you ever tasted something that felt like it was doing you good? Not just delicious but nourishing? Healing?”

You narrow your eyes, ready to call bullshit on Caleb’s flowery description.

Medicine that could cure anything in the world? That’s laying it on a bit thick, even for him.

Your lips part, skepticism ready to spill out—when Caleb’s face suddenly contorts.

Without warning, he coughs loudly, directly in your face, the sound startlingly sharp in the quiet room. You feel the tiny spray of saliva hit your cheeks, and for a moment, you’re too shocked to react.

“What the hell, Caleb!” you sputter, shoving at his chest with both hands. The intimate tension of moments ago shatters, replaced by indignant disgust. “That’s disgusting!”

Caleb rocks back with your push, but instead of apologizing, his face twists into an even more exaggerated grimace. He coughs again, louder this time, one hand flying to his throat in a theatrical gesture.

“Sorry,” he wheezes, not sounding sorry at all. His lips twitch, betraying the laugh he’s fighting to contain. “I think I’m—“ Another hacking cough cuts off his words. “—coming down with something.”

You can’t help but laugh at his ridiculous display, even as you wipe your cheek with the back of your hand. “You’re such a child. Cover your mouth!”

Instead of heeding your advice, Caleb launches into a full-blown coughing fit, each hack more dramatic than the last. He pounds his chest with his fist, eyes watering with the force of his performance.

“I think—“ He pauses to release another theatrical cough. “—I might be dying.”

“Stop it!” You‘re laughing now, unable to maintain your outrage in the face of his absurdity. “You‘re not dying, you’re just disgusting.”

Caleb slumps against the couch, the back of his hand pressed to his forehead like a Victorian lady with the vapors. “No, this is it. The end for me. Tell Gran I loved her chicken soup. Tell the squadron my last thoughts were of proper formation flying.”

You roll your eyes, shoving at his shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

“Impossible to resist, you mean,” he corrects, breaking character for a second to flash you that cocky grin before doubling over in another fit of exaggerated coughing.

Each fake hack grows weaker, more pitiful, until he’s just making soft wheezing sounds. Slowly, deliberately, he begins to lean toward you, his substantial weight pressing against your side.

“What are you doing?” you ask, trying to maintain your stern expression despite the laughter bubbling in your throat.

“Too weak,” he gasps, slumping further until his head rests on your shoulder. “Can’t... sit up... on my own.”

His weight increases gradually as he lets more and more of his body collapse against yours. Despite his lean build, Caleb is solid muscle, and soon you’re struggling to hold him upright, pinned between his body and the arm of the couch.

“Caleb!” you protest, pushing ineffectually at his chest. “You’re crushing me!”

His only response is another pathetic cough, his face sliding from your shoulder to the crook of your neck. His breath is warm against your skin, raising goosebumps along your collarbone.

“Need... medicine,” he mumbles, voice muffled against your neck. “Dying man’s... last request.”

The theatrical coughing gradually subsides, replaced by something else—a deliberate inhale, his nose pressed against the sensitive skin below your ear. He’s sniffing you, you realize with a start, drawing in your scent with slow, deep breaths.

“Are you... smelling me?” you ask, torn between laughing and recoiling.

“Mmhmm,” he hums, the sound vibrating against your throat. He inhales again, more deeply this time. “You smell so good. Like sunshine. And happiness.”

His nose traces a path from just below your ear down to your collarbone, each breath tickling your skin.

“That tickles,” you protest weakly, squirming under his weight.

Caleb responds by nuzzling closer, his stubble scraping lightly against the sensitive skin of your neck.

Another fake cough, this one soft and directly against your pulse point, followed by an exaggerated sniffle.

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles up from your chest, your hands coming up to push at his shoulders. When he doesn’t budge, your fingers find his hair instead, tugging gently in reprimand.

“You’re the worst patient ever,” you tell him, still pulling at his dark strands.

The moment your fingers tighten in his hair, something changes. Caleb goes very still against you, his breathing shifting from exaggerated wheezes to something deeper, more controlled.

When he speaks again, the playful wheeze is gone, replaced by a low rumble that you feel more than hear.

“I think I might need more of that medicine.”

His words vibrate against your skin, and you freeze, fingers still tangled in his hair.

“Medicine?” you repeat, your voice embarrassingly high.

Caleb pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his own dark with renewed hunger. The fake illness is gone, replaced by something far more genuine—a need that burns in his purple irises, turning them nearly black.

“Your taste,” he clarifies, one hand coming up to trace your jawline with feather-light fingers. “The cure for anything that ails me, remember?”

Your mouth goes dry at his directness, at the naked want in his expression.

“You’re not really sick,” you point out, trying to regain some equilibrium.

Caleb’s smile is slow and deliberate, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a way that makes your stomach flip.

“No,” he agrees, his thumb brushing across your bottom lip. “But I want the medicine anyway.”

His gaze drops to your mouth, then lower, making his meaning unmistakable. The hand not occupied with your face slides down to rest on your hip, warm and heavy with promise.

“What do you say, Pips?” he murmurs, leaning in until his lips hover just above yours. “You want to be my healer right? Make me feel alright?”

Caleb’s voice is low and persuasive, his breath warm against your lips. His hand slides from your hip to your thigh, squeezing gently.

“Come on, Pips. You’re curious too, aren’t you? Want to see if it tastes different now?”

There’s something hypnotic in his tone, in the steady pressure of his fingers against your flesh. His purple eyes hold yours, refusing to let you look away as he makes his case. “Just a taste. For medical purposes.”

A laugh bubbles up from your chest, breaking some of the tension. “Medical purposes? Is that what we’re calling it now?”

His answering smile is wolfish, predatory. “I’m a sick man, Y/N.” His thumb traces small circles on your inner thigh, each pass bringing him closer to the junction of your legs. “Only one cure in the world for what ails me.”

If you’re being honest with yourself, you’re curious too. Curious if it will feel as good as last time, curious what his mouth will feel like on your bare cunt.

“Okay,” you whisper, the word barely audible.

Caleb’s eyes widen slightly, as if he hadn‘t expected you to agree so easily. “Yeah?”

Instead of answering, you reach for the waistband of your pajama pants. Your hands tremble slightly with a combination of nerves and anticipation, but you don’t stop. In one fluid movement, you lift your hips and push the soft fabric down your legs.

Caleb’s breath catches audibly. “Pips—“

You kick the pants away, leaving you in just your t-shirt and a pair of simple cotton panties—pale orange with a small bow at the front. Nothing fancy or seductive, just everyday underwear that suddenly feels incredibly revealing under his heated gaze.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you shift on the couch, leaning back against the armrest and spreading your legs in invitation.

“Is this what you wanted?” you ask, your voice steadier than you expected.

Caleb doesn’t answer. He seems frozen in place, his eyes fixed between your spread thighs where your panties do little to conceal the shape of you.

A muscle jumps in his jaw as he swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion.

You’ve never seen him like this—speechless, almost dazed. Caleb, who always has a quip ready, who’s never at a loss for words, stares at you like a man hypnotized.

A thin line of saliva connects his parted lips, and you realize with a jolt of something like pride that he’s literally drooling at the sight of you.

“Ge ge?” you prompt, suddenly uncertain in the face of his silence.

The familiar endearment seems to break his trance. His gaze drags up from between your legs to meet your eyes, and the raw hunger you find there makes your breath catch.

“You,” he says, voice rough as gravel, “are going to be the death of me.”

Before you can respond, he’s moving, crawling up the couch toward you with predatory grace. His large hands wrap around your ankles, sliding up your calves in a slow caress that leaves goosebumps in their wake.

He positions himself between your spread legs, his broad shoulders forcing them wider to accommodate him.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs, his hands continuing their journey up your legs to your thighs. “So perfect for me.”

You watch, breath quickening, as Caleb lowers himself onto his stomach, his face level with your knees. His eyes never leave yours as he presses a kiss to one kneecap, then the other, the touch feather-light and achingly tender.

“Been thinking about this all day,” he confesses, kissing his way up your inner thigh. “About how you taste, how you feel on my tongue.”

Each press of his lips sends a tiny shiver through you, building anticipation as he works his way higher.

His palms slide under your thighs, lifting them slightly to give him better access, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh in a way that’s sure to leave marks.

When his mouth reaches the crease where thigh meets hip, you can’t help the small sound that escapes you—part anticipation, part plea.

Caleb smiles against your skin, a flash of teeth that’s almost feral before he continues his journey, now kissing down the center of your body.

His lips brush over your lower belly, just above the waistband of your panties. He takes his time, mapping the terrain of your body with his mouth as if committing it to memory.

Finally, his mouth hovers over the front of your panties. You can feel his breath, hot and damp through the thin cotton, raising goosebumps across your skin. He pauses there, looking up the length of your body to meet your eyes once more.

“I want to remember this,” he says, his voice rough with desire. “The way you look right now, spread out for me. So brave. So perfect.”

Before you can respond, he lowers his head, pressing his nose against the center of your panties and inhaling deeply.

The sound he makes—a groan that seems torn from somewhere deep inside him—sends heat rushing through your veins.

“Even better than this morning,” he murmurs, nuzzling against you through the fabric. His tongue darts out, tracing a line up the center seam of your panties. “Already wet for me.”

You hadn’t realized until he mentioned it, but he’s right—there’s a dampness gathering between your legs, your body responding to his attention with eager anticipation.

“Taste me,” you whisper, surprising yourself with the demand.

Caleb’s eyes flash with approval. His hands tighten on your thighs, and then his mouth is on you, open and hot through the thin barrier of your panties.

His tongue presses against the fabric, seeking the shape of you beneath, licking a broad stroke from your entrance to the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex.

You twitch beneath him, caught off guard by the pleasure that spirals outward from his touch. Your thighs tense, instinctively trying to close against the overwhelming feeling, but Caleb holds them firmly open, his strength easily overpowering yours.

“That’s it,” he encourages between licks. “Let me make you feel good. Let me have my medicine.”

You don’t know where this sudden bravery came from—this willingness to spread yourself before him, to demand his touch.

Maybe you’re ovulating, hormones making you bolder, hungrier.

Or maybe it’s just Caleb, the way he looks at you like you’re the answer to every question he’s ever had, the way he touches you like you’re something precious.

Caleb’s arms snake around your thighs like vines, pulling you closer to his mouth with unexpected strength.

His hands slide beneath your ass, lifting you slightly off the couch to give himself better access. His eyes close as he presses his open mouth against your center, no longer just tasting but devouring, making out with your covered pussy like it’s the last meal he’ll ever have.

“Oh,” you gasp, the sound high and breathy as his tongue works against you through the thin cotton.

The wet heat of his mouth seeps through the fabric, creating a strange contrast of sensations—the softness of his tongue, the slight roughness of the cotton, the building pressure of his insistent mouth.

Caleb growls against you, the vibration sending shivers up your spine. His lips move against your covered folds, sucking and licking with increasing hunger.

The cotton of your panties, already damp with your arousal, grows saturated under his attention. You can hear the wet sounds of his mouth working against the fabric, obscene and thrilling in the quiet room.

His saliva mingles with your own moisture, creating a soaked patch that clings to your flesh, revealing the shape of your folds through the now-translucent material.

“Fuck,” Caleb mumbles against you, the curse muffled by your flesh and fabric. “So good, Pips. So fucking good.”

His hands tighten on your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pulls you even closer, grinding your center against his face.

The pressure makes you cry out, your back arching involuntarily as pleasure spirals outward from where his tongue presses against your clit through the soaked barrier.

Time seems to slow as Caleb loses himself in the act, his world narrowed to the taste and feel of you against his mouth.

He alternates between broad strokes of his tongue that cover your entire center and focused attention on your clit, sucking it through the fabric with pressure that makes your toes curl.

Something changes in his rhythm, his movements becoming more deliberate. He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at your panties, now dark with moisture and clinging to every contour of your intimate flesh.

“You taste different,” he says, voice rough with desire. He leans in again, this time pressing his nose directly against your center and inhaling deeply. “Sweeter. Stronger.”

You blink down at him, confused by the observation. “What do you mean?”

Instead of answering, Caleb dives back in, his tongue tracing the outline of your labia through the wet fabric.

He moans against you, the sound vibrating through your core, his eyes closing in apparent ecstasy.

“It‘s like...” he pulls back again, licking his lips as if savoring a fine wine. “Like everything about you just got turned up. More intense. More you.”

His eyes open, fixing you with a stare so hungry it makes your breath catch. “And so fucking sweet. Like honey but... sharper. More potent.”

You don‘t understand what he’s talking about, but the way he’s looking at you—like you’re some rare delicacy he’s discovered—makes heat bloom in your cheeks and between your legs.

Caleb inhales again, his nostrils flaring as he takes in your scent. Something shifts in his expression, a dawning realization that transforms his features into something almost predatory.

“You’re ovulating,” he says, and it’s not a question but a revelation. His pupils dilate further, nearly swallowing the purple of his irises. “That‘s why you taste different. Why you smell so good.”

Caleb’s breathing grows more ragged, his hands tightening on your flesh as if he’s fighting to maintain control.

“Your body’s getting ready,” he continues, voice dropping to a register you’ve never heard from him before—something primal and raw. “Ready to be bred. To be filled.”

The words sent a pulse of heat directly to your core, your inner walls clenching around nothing as your body responds to his voice, his words.

Caleb seems equally affected by the realization.

Something wild flashes in his eyes, a feral hunger that transforms his familiar features into something almost animalistic.

Without warning, he grips the sides of your panties, and instead of sliding them down your legs, he bares his teeth and tugs.

The fabric stretches, then gives, tearing slightly at the seam as he pulls it away from your body with his teeth.

He works the panties down your legs with a combination of hands and teeth, his movements urgent and clumsy with need.

When he finally gets them off, he doesn’t toss them aside. Instead, he holds them up, examining the soaked crotch with naked fascination.

You watch, transfixed, as he brings the wet fabric to his face, pressing it against his nose and inhaling deeply. His eyes close in apparent bliss, a low groan rumbling from his chest.

“Fuck, Pips,” he murmurs, opening his eyes to look at you through the tangle of your ruined underwear. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

Before you can respond, he opens his mouth and sucks the saturated crotch of your panties between his lips.

His eyes roll back slightly, his expression one of such intense pleasure it’s almost painful to witness. He sucks at the fabric, drawing out your taste with obscene slurping sounds.

Without the barrier of your panties, the air feels cool against your wet flesh, raising goosebumps across your skin.

“I’m getting cold,” you complain softly, though the heat building inside you contradicts your words.

Caleb’s eyes snap open, focusing on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

For a moment, he looks torn, clearly reluctant to part with the soaked garment in his mouth. Then, with visible effort, he pulls the panties free, giving them one last, lingering look before folding them carefully and tucking them into the pocket of his sweatpants.

“Saving those for later,” he explains, his voice a low growl that sends another shiver through you—this one having nothing to do with the temperature.

Before you can process the implications of that statement, Caleb is moving again, returning to his position between your legs.

But this time, there’s no barrier between his mouth and your flesh, nothing to mute the sensation of his hot breath against your exposed center.

His large hands slide beneath your thighs, pushing them wider as he settles on his stomach, your pussy splayed out before him like a feast he intends to devour completely.

“Keep yourself open for me,” Caleb commands, his voice rough with desire. His hands slide from your thighs to your knees, pushing them wider. “Show me all of you.”

When you hesitate, unsure of what he means, his gaze darkens. “Your pussy, Pips. Spread your folds for me. I want to see everything.”

With trembling fingers, you reach down, placing your hands on either side of your center. The position feels obscenely vulnerable—holding yourself open for his inspection like some kind of offering.

You’ve never touched yourself like this before, never examined your own body with such deliberate attention. The unfamiliarity makes your movements clumsy, uncertain.

“Like this?” you ask, voice small as you part your outer lips slightly.

Caleb’s breath catches, his eyes fixed on your fingers. “More,” he instructs, the single word tight with restraint. “Show me everything, baby. Don’t be shy.”

Swallowing your embarrassment, you press your fingers deeper, spreading yourself fully beneath his hungry gaze.

The cool air hits your exposed flesh, making you shiver. You can feel how wet you are, your arousal gathering in slick droplets at your entrance, threatening to spill onto the couch beneath you.

In the harsh afternoon light filtering through the curtains, you can see everything—and so can Caleb.

Your pussy is swollen with arousal, the delicate pink flesh shiny with your wetness. Your opening pulses visibly under his stare, clenching around nothing as if seeking his touch.

Your clit peeks from beneath its hood, engorged and sensitive even to the slight breeze of Caleb’s exhales.

“Perfect,” he breathes, the word reverent. “So fucking perfect.”

Your fingers quiver with the strain of holding yourself open, with the overwhelming vulnerability of being displayed so completely.

No one has ever seen you like this—spread wide, exposed to the light, every secret part of you revealed for inspection.

Caleb seems transfixed by the sight, his eyes darting from your entrance to your clit, mapping every fold and crease with his gaze. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, a unconscious gesture that makes your core clench again.

“Caleb,” you whisper, his name half plea, half question.

Something breaks in his expression—the last threads of his control snapping visibly as hunger overtakes him. Without another word, he dives forward, no longer able to resist the temptation you present.

The first touch of his mouth against your bare flesh draws a cry from your throat—sharp and surprised despite your anticipation.

Without the barrier of fabric, the sensation is overwhelming, his tongue hot and slick against your sensitive folds.

Caleb wastes no time with gentle exploration. He attacks your pussy with the desperation of a starving man, his nose nudging against your clit as his tongue circles your entrance.

His hands wrap around your thighs again, gripping hard enough to leave marks as he holds you open for his feast.

“So sweet,” he mumbles against you, the words vibrating through your core. “Fucking delicious.”

His tongue flattens, dragging up the length of your slit in a broad stroke that collects your arousal. You watch, transfixed, as he pulls back just far enough to visibly savor your taste, his eyes closing briefly in apparent ecstasy before diving back for more.

The sight of his dark head between your pale thighs, his mouth working eagerly against your most intimate flesh, is almost as arousing as the physical sensation.

His technique shifts, becomes more focused as he learns your body’s responses. When a particular flick of his tongue against your clit makes you gasp, he repeats the motion, cataloging your reactions.

Just as you’re growing accustomed to the rhythm of his mouth against your folds, you feel a new sensation—pressure at your entrance, firm and insistent.

Caleb’s tongue, you realize with a jolt of surprise, is pushing inside you. The intrusion is foreign but not unwelcome, your body yielding easily to his probing muscle.

You’ve never felt anything like it—the strange, slick pressure of his tongue wiggling deeper, tasting you from the inside.

“Oh god,” you breathe, unable to tear your eyes away from where his face is pressed so firmly against you that you wonder how he can breathe. “Caleb, that’s—“

He doesn’t respond verbally, just pushes his tongue deeper, curling it upward in a way that makes your thighs tremble.

The muscle is strong, more dexterous than you would have imagined, massaging your inner walls with determined strokes.

Each thrust of his tongue sends new waves of pleasure through you, building a pressure at the base of your spine that feels both familiar and more intense than what you experienced this morning.

His nose continues to bump against your clit with each movement, adding another layer of stimulation that makes coherent thought increasingly difficult.

The sensation is too much, too good. You release your grip on your cunt, your hands flying to Caleb’s hair instead. Your fingers tangle in the dark strands, tugging perhaps harder than you intend as pleasure overwhelms your coordination.

Caleb groans at the pull, the vibration traveling through his tongue and into your core. Far from discouraging him, your grip on his hair seems to spur him on. His tongue withdraws only to plunge deeper, fucking into you with increasing urgency.

Unable to close your thighs against the overwhelming sensation, you find yourself moving in a different way—lifting your hips to meet his thrusting tongue, grinding your clit against the bridge of his nose. The movement is instinctive, your body seeking more of the pleasure he offers.

“Don’t stop,” you plead, the words barely recognizable through your gasping breaths. “Please, please don’t stop.”

Your hips move with increasing urgency, rubbing yourself against his face with abandoned need.

Some distant part of you wonders if you‘re being too rough, if you’re making it hard for him to breathe, but Caleb shows no signs of discomfort or desire to pull away.

If anything, his grip on your thighs tightens further, encouraging your movements as his tongue continues its relentless exploration of your depths.

You ride his face without shame now, chasing the building pressure that promises relief. His tongue feels impossibly deep inside you, touching places you didn’t know could be reached, while his nose provides steady pressure against your throbbing clit.

Caleb’s rhythm suddenly falters, his eager movements growing erratic. He pulls back with a gasp, chest heaving as he desperately sucks in air.

His chin and lips glisten with your arousal, his eyes still dark with hunger despite his obvious need for oxygen. You whimper at the loss of contact, your body strung tight on the edge of release.

“Don’t stop,” you plead, trying to guide his head back between your thighs with your grip on his hair. “Please, I’m so close.”

“Just need a second,” Caleb rasps, voice rough from exertion. He rolls his shoulders, tilting his head from side to side. The motion produces an audible crack that makes you wince in sympathy. “This angle is killing my neck.”

You hadn’t considered the mechanics of what he was doing, how uncomfortable it must be to lay on his stomach, neck craned upward for so long. Guilt mingles with your frustration, cooling the edge of your desire.

“We can stop if you—“ you begin, but Caleb cuts you off with a sharp look.

“I didn’t say I wanted to stop.” His tongue darts out, licking his lips as if savoring the taste of you that lingers there. “I just need a better position.”

Before you can suggest alternatives, Caleb moves with sudden, decisive strength. His hands grip your hips, and in one fluid motion, he falls back onto the couch, dragging you with him.

You barely have time to register what’s happening—the room tilting, your body moving through space—before you find yourself straddling his chest, facing his feet.

“Caleb!” you gasp, disoriented by the sudden change. “What are you—“

He doesn’t answer with words. Instead, his hands slide to your waist, lifting you as if you weigh nothing at all.

For a surreal moment, you‘re suspended in air, knees no longer touching the couch, entirely supported by Caleb’s strong grip.

Then he’s pulling you backward, positioning you directly above his face.

“Wait,” you stammer, understanding dawning as he guides your knees to either side of his head. “Are you sure this is—“

Again, he doesn’t let you finish. With firm pressure, he pulls you down until your core makes contact with his eager mouth.

The new angle sends a jolt of pleasure through you, sharper and more intense than before. From this position, your weight presses you more firmly against his tongue, deepening the contact in ways that make your breath catch.

“Oh,” you breathe, the single syllable inadequate to express the sensation. Your hands fly out to brace against his thighs, steadying yourself as he resumes his feast with renewed enthusiasm.

His hands slide from your thighs to your ass, palms cupping each cheek firmly. You feel his fingers dig into the soft flesh, kneading and squeezing as his tongue works against your entrance.

Then, without warning, he spreads you wider, thumbs pulling your cheeks apart to expose you completely.

The cool air hits places that have never been exposed before, making you gasp with embarrassment and unexpected arousal.

“Caleb,” you whimper, torn between pulling away and pressing closer.

His response is a muffled groan against your flesh, the vibration traveling through your core. His tongue plunges deeper from this angle, aided by gravity and the leverage his position provides.

The sensation is overwhelming—his tongue somehow reaching parts of you that felt untouchable before, massaging your inner walls with firm, deliberate strokes.

Most shocking of all is the feeling of his nose, now pressed against the sensitive pucker of your asshole.

The unexpected contact makes you jolt forward, a startled sound escaping your throat. Caleb‘s hands immediately tighten, holding you firmly in place as his tongue continues its relentless exploration.

Far from being put off by this most intimate contact, Caleb seems to delight in it. His nose nuzzles against you deliberately now, adding pressure that sends confusing but not unpleasant sensations spiraling through your lower body.

Your fingers dig into his thighs, seeking stability in this maelstrom of new sensations. His sweatpants provide little cushioning—beneath the thin fabric, you can feel the hard muscle of his legs tensing with each movement of his mouth against you.

With your other hand, you grip the back of the couch, trying to anchor yourself as pleasure threatens to sweep you away.

Your thighs begin to shake with the effort of maintaining your position, muscles burning as pleasure coils tighter and tighter.

Instinctively, you shift your hips, seeking more direct contact where you need it most. The movement drags your clit against Caleb’s chin, the light stubble creating a friction that sends sparks shooting up your spine.

“Yes,” you gasp, repeating the motion with more purpose. “Right there.”

Caleb seems to understand immediately. His hands guide your movements, encouraging you to grind against his face at the angle that brings you the most pleasure.

His tongue withdraws slightly, focusing instead on flicking against your entrance in counterpoint to the rocking of your hips.

You find a rhythm that works—sliding forward to drag your clit against his chin, then back to feel his tongue press inside you. The combination is devastatingly effective, each circuit bringing you closer to the edge.

Sensing your building pleasure, Caleb adjusts his approach yet again. He flattens his tongue, extending it outward from his mouth like an offering.

The invitation is clear, and you take it without hesitation, positioning yourself so that your clit makes direct contact with the hot, wet muscle.

The sensation is electric—more intense than his chin, more precise than his nose had been. You rock against his outstretched tongue, using it as a platform to pleasure yourself.

His hands never leave your ass, continuing to spread you open, but he allows you to set the pace, to find exactly what you need.

You ride his tongue with growing confidence, the initial awkwardness of the position forgotten as pleasure builds to a crescendo.

Your movements grow more urgent, less coordinated as your focus narrows to the point where his tongue meets your clit.

“I’m close,” you warn, voice breaking as tension coils at the base of your spine. “Caleb, I’m so close.”

Caleb’s moment of surrender is brief. Just as you teeter on the edge of climax, his arm wraps around your waist from below, the muscles in his forearm flexing with sudden strength.

The grip is iron-tight, controlling, a reminder of the physical power he usually keeps carefully leashed. With this leverage, he takes back control, forcefully guiding your movements against his face.

Your autonomy vanishes in an instant—you’re no longer riding his tongue by choice but because he’s holding you there, dictating the pressure and pace with unwavering authority.

“Caleb!” you gasp, startled by the sudden shift. Your hands scramble for purchase, one gripping his thigh while the other clutches the back of the couch.

He doesn’t respond except to tighten his hold, using his considerable strength to lift you slightly before pulling you back down onto his waiting mouth.

The firm pressure against this most responsive part of you draws a strangled cry from your throat, pleasure so intense it borders on pain shooting through your system.

“Oh god,” you whimper, thighs trembling as Caleb repeats the motion, lifting and pulling you down again. “That’s too much, I can’t—“

But Caleb isn’t listening. His arm locks around your waist, holding you firmly in place as his free hand spreads you wider, exposing every intimate part to his hungry mouth. You feel his lips shift, moving higher, and then—

The wet heat of his mouth closes around your clit entirely, sucking the sensitive bud between his lips with gentle but insistent pressure.

The sensation is so overwhelming, so unexpected, that your mind goes blank, your vocabulary reduced to a single, keening cry that doesn‘t even sound like your voice.

Caleb suckles at your clit like it’s a pacifier, applying rhythmic pressure that sends shock waves of pleasure radiating outward.

It’s a different sensation from the licking and rubbing before—more concentrated, more intense, building pressure that feels like it might shatter you from the inside out.

His lips form a seal, creating a gentle vacuum that makes your hips jerk involuntarily against his face. The arm around your waist tightens further, holding you steady for his ministrations, refusing to let you escape the overwhelming pleasure he’s inflicting.

Just when you think you can’t bear any more, his technique changes again. His lips release your clit only to latch onto your outer labia instead.

The feeling of him sucking your folds into his mouth, applying pressure to flesh that’s never received such attention, draws another startled gasp from you.

He alternates between sides, sucking first one fold then the other between his lips. The tugging sensation is foreign but undeniably arousing, blood rushing to the delicate tissues as he manipulates them with his mouth.

Then, to your shock, you feel the gentle scrape of teeth—not biting, just holding, pulling the sensitive flesh with the barest hint of pressure that walks the line between pleasure and pain.

“Caleb,” you moan, no longer sure if you’re begging him to stop or pleading for more. Your thighs quiver uncontrollably, muscles burning with the strain of holding this position and the onslaught of sensation.

His response is to suck harder, his mouth working your flesh with increasing urgency. There’s a desperation to his movements now, a frenzy that wasn’t there before.

Through the haze of your pleasure, you remember his earlier observation—that you’re ovulating, that your taste is different. The thought that your body’s natural cycle is driving him to this state of abandon only heightens your arousal.

You can feel him inhaling deeply between sucks, drawing your scent into his lungs as if he could absorb you that way too.

His grip on your waist shifts, becomes somehow more possessive, more primal. The arm holding you grinds you down harder against his face, as if he’s trying to crawl inside you through sheer force of will.

The pressure builds rapidly, a tight coil of heat at your center that winds tighter with each pull of his lips, each press of his nose against your clit.

Your breathing becomes shallow, your vision narrowing until all you’re aware of is the point where his mouth connects with your pussy and the tension threatening to snap inside you.

“I’m going to—“ The warning dissolves into a wordless cry as the tension finally breaks. Your orgasm crashes through you with unexpected force, your inner walls clenching rhythmically around nothing as waves of pleasure radiate outward from your core.

Your body convulses, hips jerking against Caleb’s face without any conscious control on your part. His arm around your waist tightens further, holding you firmly against his mouth as he works you through the peak.

But unlike before, Caleb doesn’t slow or stop when your climax begins. If anything, his movements become more insistent, his suction increasing as if determined to draw every last drop of pleasure from your trembling body.

What started as ecstasy quickly tips toward overstimulation, your sensitive cunt protesting the continued attention.

“Too much,” you gasp, pushing weakly at his thigh. “Caleb, stop, it’s too much!”

He either doesn’t hear or chooses to ignore your plea, continuing his relentless feast as if unaware that your climax has come and gone.

His lips and tongue work against your oversensitive flesh, drawing out aftershocks that border on painful in their intensity.

Desperation lends you strength. You plant your hands on his thighs and push yourself up and away from his devouring mouth, breaking his grip around your waist.

The sudden absence of contact leaves you shaking, every nerve ending still firing with residual pleasure.

For a moment, you stay there, hovering above him on trembling limbs, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. Caleb’s eyes open, meeting yours with a gaze so dark and hungry it makes your heart stutter despite your recent release.

His face is a mess—chin and cheeks slick with your arousal, lips swollen from his enthusiastic attentions.

With careful movements, you shift away from him, settling back on the couch beside his form. Your legs feel like jelly, muscles weak from exertion and release.

Caleb sits up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he eyes you with a satisfaction that borders on smug.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough and low.

You nod, not trusting your voice just yet. Your body feels simultaneously boneless and hypersensitive, every brush of air against your still-exposed lower half sending tiny shivers across your skin.

Caleb reaches into his pocket, pulling out the panties he stashed there earlier. With deliberate movements, he uses the fabric to wipe his face, cleaning away the evidence of your pleasure from his skin.

You watch as he examines the now-doubly-soaked garment, turning it in his hands with apparent fascination. Then, to your shock, he opens his mouth and stuffs the entire bundle of fabric inside, cheeks bulging slightly as he sucks on your panties like they’re a piece of candy.

His eyes meet yours as he does this, challenging, unapologetic. After a moment, he removes the panties, now darker and wetter than before, and carefully folds them before returning them to his pocket.

Before you can formulate a response to this bizarre but strangely erotic behavior, Caleb reaches for the remote, increasing the TV volume as if nothing unusual has happened.

The mukbang show resumes, the woman now enthusiastically devouring a platter of dumplings.

Caleb shifts on the couch, positioning himself beside you. His hand finds your bare thigh, traveling upward until his thumb rests against your still-sensitive pussy.

The touch isn’t demanding or insistent—just present, his thumb making small, idle circles against your flesh as his attention returns to the screen.

“This is a good episode,” he comments, as casual as if he hadn’t just devoured you with animal hunger minutes before. “She’s trying that new place on Fifth Street. We should go there sometime.”

You stare at him, bewildered by his ability to switch from feral to normal so quickly. Yet his hand remains between your legs, thumb still tracing lazy patterns against your core, maintaining that connection even as he acts as if you’re just watching TV together like any other day.

Exhaustion suddenly washes over you, the intensity of your orgasm combined with the emotional whiplash of the afternoon leaving you drained.

His arm comes around you, pulling you closer to him. His thumb continues its gentle exploration between your legs, more soothing than arousing now, like he’s playing with a fidget toy—something to keep his hands busy while his mind focuses elsewhere.

“Rest, Pips,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ve got you.”

As you drift toward sleep, his thumb still idly circling your center, you can’t help but wonder what other things Caleb might want to teach you during his month home. And why, despite the strangeness of it all, you find yourself eager to learn.

Refer to Party RSVP

Comment to be tagged!

@littlewhitefairy7777 @celaenaglynn @mothmans-left-nipple @lotusapple-xia @gflscer @swiggitty-swoogity @aoomiines @puchu-puchuu @fulldoves @goobermi6 @typicalme23 @teira-osairis @vy-olet @calebsbabyapple @xyzyogurt @earthtohoney @skyekudasai @kalydos @navvzy @tempeststhings @young-adult-summer @remnantsofgildedcages @applebite01 @vatarvaliantchaosvalkyrie @applarchve @hangingwiththestars @thisaintviolet69 @asilaydead @snowapples-stuff @calebsmeimeii @cherrysherryblossom @mindelicious1 @nansfyy @ccoeurhee @tomriddleslovergirl @beelpita @cchiiwinkle @feelingfaye

[gardenialily]

The Ultimate Xavier Fic Recs List⋆.˚

please heed all of the authors' content warnings & check out their other amazing works too! show them some love; be kind!

⋆˙⟡𝔽𝕝𝕦𝕗𝕗/ℂ𝕠𝕞𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕥ᯓ☆

11:53pm by @aethercoreheart

Asleep on My Shoulder Again by @aprilshowersbringmayflowerz

What your eyes say by @atzeroo

dad!Xavier puts on a light show for your daughter by @lunarify

xavier is the best boyfriend an asmr creator could have! by @luvinbloom

Meals & Mayhem by @rika-mmendmethings

Precious Lumiere. by @purpleconch

a light that never goes out by @starryeyed-knight (series ongoing)

man of indulgence. by @venusblooms

⋆˙⟡ℂ𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕜ᯓ☆

xavier is a... dancing hot pot panda?! by @luvinbloom

random xavier headcanons by @xaviersbunny

⋆˙⟡𝔸𝕟𝕘𝕤𝕥ᯓ☆

choose me by @shaiyasstuff

seasonal feathers by @shaiyasstuff (you prob will cry)

⋆˙⟡𝕄𝔻ℕ𝕀 𝕊𝕞𝕦𝕥ᯓ☆

pornstar xavier by @applecaviar (mdni)

stuck bunnies by @glubglubgurgle (mdni)

moonbound by @lowkeylaufeysons (mdni)

sleepover by @lunarify (mdni; xavierxreaderxcaleb)

mean xavier by @medicli (mdni)

Bad Bunny by @miaisleepy (mdni)

jelly xavier by @mwphisto (mdni)

2111 - Xavier by @nottellingofname (mdni)

so sweet, knowing that you love me by @starryeyed-knight (mdni)

slutty xavi by @xaviever (mdni)

⋆˙⟡𝕄𝕚𝕤𝕔ᯓ☆

Scared of the dark? by @bbnosylus

Forged in Silence by @colonelkaboom (mdni; xavierxreaderxsylus; series ongoing)

Thrice Stricken by @lowkeylaufeysons (mdni)

wonderstruck and your silhouette by @starryeyed-knight

+1 Clause by @touchdowntides

In plain sight by @zaynessbeloved (series; mdni)

ginny's note: tried to give a good range of awesome fics i love and/or was recommended to include, but pls lemme know of any fics you think i should add!! this list is meant to grow hehe @rmstitanics for the moon divider!

[nottellingofname]

OMG??? Idk why i just saw this but thanks for the mention!!

This list is making me drip to fill a hot spring

[nottellingofname]

For My Caleb ⋆⭒˚｡⋆✈︎

Operation: Make mei mei feel good

Caleb’s arm is heavy across your waist, his breath warm against the nape of your neck.

For a moment, you simply exist in this cocoon of warmth, the events of last night playing behind your closed eyelids like a delicious secret.

Your body feels different somehow. Heavier, more present, as if last night’s pleasure has rewired your nervous system to make you hypersensitive to every sensation.

Caleb’s nightmares had frightened you at first, his desperate plea not to leave him tearing at your heart. But what followed... the memory alone sends a flush of heat across your skin.

The way he looked at you, touched you, praised you—called you his good girl.

A guilty thought sneaks through your contentment. Part of you almost wishes he’d have nightmares more often if they lead to such blissful endings.

And it has. Caleb has had nothing but nightmares the past few days. And you're always there to help him out.

The digital clock on the nightstand glows 8:17 AM.

You should get up, prepare breakfast—something special to welcome Caleb home properly. With careful movements, you attempt to lift his arm from your waist and slide out from under it.

Pain lances through you, sharp and unexpected. Not intense enough to make you cry out, but surprising in its thoroughness.

Your thighs feel as though you’ve run a marathon, muscles protesting even this small movement. There’s a deeper ache too, a pulsating sensation low in your abdomen that feels both foreign and intimate. You freeze, a small gasp escaping your lips.

“Pips? What’s wrong?” Caleb’s voice is rough with sleep, but instantly alert to your distress.

“Nothing,” you lie automatically, but your face betrays you, wincing as you try to shift again.

The mattress dips as Caleb sits up, sleep vanishing from his expression as his eyes narrow with concern. His hand, warm and steady, comes to rest on your hip.

“Don‘t lie to me. Where does it hurt?”

The direct question makes heat rise to your cheeks.

How do you explain this? That the friction of riding him through layers of clothing has left your inner thighs chafed and your core aching?

That you’ve never experienced this particular kind of soreness before because you’ve never dry humped anyone to orgasm before last night?

“I’m just a little... sore,” you manage, avoiding his gaze.

“Sore?” His voice drops lower, and something shifts in his expression—concern mingling with a flicker of masculine pride that makes your stomach flip. “Where exactly?”

You gesture vaguely to your lower half, embarrassment making your movements jerky. “My thighs. And... other places.”

Understanding dawns in his purple eyes, followed immediately by a flash of guilt. His thumb traces small circles against your hip bone, the touch gentle but enough to send shivers through you despite the discomfort.

“From last night,” he says, not a question but a realization. His gaze travels down your body as if he can see through the blankets to the evidence of what he’s done to you.

You nod, unable to form words under the intensity of his stare. The ache between your legs pulses in time with your heartbeat, a reminder of how he made you feel, how he taught your body something new.

Caleb’s expression shifts again, guilt fading into something more possessive. His hand slides from your hip to your thigh, squeezing just firmly enough to make you gasp at the sensation of pain and pleasure.

“Your first time doing anything like that,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Of course you’d be sore. I should have been more careful with you.”

“It’s okay,” you hurry to reassure him, not wanting him to regret what happened. “It was worth it. To help you feel better.”

His eyes darken at your words, pupils dilating slightly. “Always so eager to make me happy,” he says, voice tinged with something that sounds almost like awe. “My sweet Pips.”

You try to sit up again, determined not to let a little discomfort keep you from your daily routine, but the movement sends another wave of pain through your core. This time, you can’t suppress the wince that contorts your features.

Caleb’s reaction is immediate. He shifts into a protective posture, one arm sliding beneath your shoulders to support you while the other hovers over your body, uncertain where to touch without causing more pain.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Caleb’s voice carries that rare edge that reminds you he commands soldiers for a living.

His hand presses firmly on your shoulder, keeping you pinned to the mattress as you try once more to rise. “Did you not hear me say stay still?”

The question is rhetorical, his eyes narrowed with a mixture of concern and frustration. This isn’t the gentle ge ge who indulges your every whim—this is Colonel Xia, accustomed to immediate obedience.

“I can‘t just lie here all day,” you protest, though your body betrays you with another wince as you shift beneath his restraining hand. “I have things to do.”

Caleb’s expression softens fractionally, but his grip remains firm. “What things could possibly be more important than letting me take care of you?”

There’s a hint of hurt beneath his authoritative tone, as if your resistance wounds him. “What am I even here for if not to do everything for you?”

The question hangs between you, weighted with implications you’re not quite ready to examine. Caleb has always been protective, attentive to your needs, but this feels different.

“But—“

“No buts,” he interrupts, his thumb tracing small circles on your collarbone where his hand still pins you. “You think I don’t notice how you’re wincing with every movement? How you can barely twist without pain?” His eyes darken. “I did that to you, Y/N. I pushed you too far, too fast.”

Something flickers across his expression—guilt, certainly, but underneath it lurks a primal satisfaction that sends a shiver down your spine. He looks... proud of having marked you, even as he regrets your discomfort.

“It wasn’t just you,” you counter softly. “I wanted it too.”

His eyes soften momentarily before a determined look crosses his features. “All the more reason for me to fix it. To show you that pleasure doesn’t have to come with this much aftermath.”

The hand not holding you down drifts to your hip, fingers splaying possessively across the curve. “I’m going to make it better.”

“Caleb,” you try again, squirming slightly beneath his touch. “I really need to use the bathroom first.”

He pauses, considering this practical concern, but then shakes his head. “Not yet. Your muscles are all tight and knotted. If you try to walk now, you’ll just make it worse.” His voice drops lower, more intimate. “Let me massage you first, loosen everything up. Then you can go.”

The authority in his voice brooks no argument, and despite your bladder’s insistence, you find yourself nodding in acquiescence.

Something about the way Caleb takes control makes resistance feel not just futile but somehow wrong, as if denying him the chance to care for you would be denying his very nature.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, the praise sending a flush of warmth through you despite your discomfort.

He releases you, confident now that you’ll obey, and moves to the nightstand. From the bottom drawer, he retrieves a small bottle—baby oil, the label gleaming in the morning light filtering through the curtains.

The sight of it makes your stomach flip with anticipation and a touch of nervousness.

“Roll onto your stomach for me,” he instructs, his voice gentler now but no less commanding.

You hesitate, bladder protesting. “Caleb, I really should—“

“Trust me,” he cuts you off, his eyes intense. “This won’t take long, and then you’ll be able to walk without wincing. Don’t you trust me to know what’s best for you, Pips?”

Put that way, how can you argue?

Caleb has always looked out for you, always known what you needed, sometimes before you knew yourself.

With a small sigh of surrender, you carefully shift onto your stomach, biting your lip against the twinge of discomfort the movement causes.

“There we go.” The approval in his voice warms you from within. The mattress dips as he positions himself beside you, and then his hands are on your shoulders, strong fingers finding knots of tension you didn‘t even realize were there. “Just relax for me. Let go.”

You try to obey, melting into the mattress as his thumbs work small circles into your shoulder blades.

It feels good—so good that for a moment you almost forget the more urgent ache between your legs and your full bladder.

“You’re carrying so much tension,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble above you. “Not just from last night. Have you been stressing while I was away?”

The question surprises you. “Maybe a little,” you admit. “I always worry when you’re gone.”

His hands pause momentarily, then resume their gentle kneading with increased purpose. “You never need to worry about me, Pips. I always come back to you.” There’s a possessive edge to his words that makes your heart beat faster. “Always.”

The baby oil appears in your peripheral vision as he uncaps it. The subtle scent fills the air—clean, slightly sweet.

“This will help with the friction,” he explains, and though the words are innocent enough, something in his tone suggests double meaning. “The skin on your inner thighs is delicate. I should have remembered that last night.”

The guilt is back in his voice, but it doesn’t match the hungry look in his eyes as they track down your body.

You’re suddenly hyperaware that you’re still wearing what you slept in—an oversized t-shirt and the shorts that are now slightly stained from last night’s activities.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, not sure why you’re whispering. “I didn’t exactly know what to expect either.”

His smile is gentle but there‘s an edge to it—the smile of a man who knows exactly what to expect and is anticipating every moment.

“That’s why you have me,” he says, pouring a small amount of oil into his palm and rubbing his hands together to warm it. “To teach you. To take care of you.”

The oil glistens on his fingers, catching the morning light. You'd think being babied would make you feel like a kid, but nope—there's nothing innocent about how Caleb's looking at you right now, his eyes getting all hungry while he checks you out, or how he's taking his sweet time rubbing that oil between his hands like he's thinking about where they're gonna end up.

“I‘m going to start with your back,” he says, his voice dropping to that register that makes your stomach flutter. “Then work my way down. By the time I’m done, you’ll be able to walk without pain.”

He pauses, and something shifts in his expression—a flash of that hunger you glimpsed last night. “And maybe you’ll feel something even better than relief.”

His hands descend on your back, warm and slick with oil, and all thoughts of protesting further dissolve under his skilled touch.

Your body surrenders to his ministrations, even as a small voice in the back of your mind whispers that this massage might be about more than just easing your physical discomfort.

But as Caleb’s strong hands work their magic, dissolving knots of tension and sending waves of relief through your sore muscles, you find you don‘t much care what his true intentions might be.

You’re putty in his hands, and some newly awakened part of you wouldn‘t have it any other way.

Caleb’s hands work their way down your back with practiced efficiency, finding knots you didn’t know existed and dissolving them with firm, circular pressure.

The baby oil makes his touch glide seamlessly across your skin, leaving warmth in its wake. When he reaches the small of your back, his movements slow, becoming more deliberate.

“I need to get to your thighs now,” he says, voice lower than before. “That’s where most of the soreness is, right?” His fingers hover at the waistband of your shorts. “I’ll need to take these off to do this properly.”

Your breath catches in your throat. There’s nothing inherently inappropriate about his request—he’s giving you a massage, after all—but something about the intensity in his voice makes this feel like a threshold being crossed.

Still, your thighs do ache terribly, the muscles stiff and tender from last night’s activities.

“I—okay,” you agree, your voice small and uncertain.

Caleb’s fingers curl around the elastic waistband, but he pauses. “Are you sure, Pips?”

The question feels loaded, as if he’s asking for permission for more than just removing a piece of clothing.

You nod against the pillow. “I trust you.”

Three simple words, but they transform his expression. Something flashes in his purple eyes—triumph mixed with an emotion so raw it makes your heart stutter.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, the praise warming you from within.

With a gentleness that belies the tension coiled in his shoulders, Caleb begins to peel the shorts down your hips.

His movements are deliberately slow, almost reverential, as if he’s unwrapping a precious gift. The fabric catches slightly where it sticks to your skin from residual dampness, a reminder of last night’s pleasure that sends heat rushing to your cheeks.

As he works the shorts past your hips and down your thighs, his breath audibly hitches. You turn your head slightly, catching his expression from the corner of your eye.

He’s staring at your exposed lower half, now clad only in the apple-patterned cotton panties you threw on last night after he cleaned you up.

“These are cute,” he says, but the strained quality of his voice contradicts the casual observation. His fingertips trace the elastic edge where it cuts across your buttock, a touch so light it makes you shiver. “Little apples for my Pips.”

He says "my" and his voice drops half an octave, the word stretching out like taffy. Your chest tightens.

You should back away, but instead you lean forward, your cheeks warming as if you've just taken a sip of something stronger than you're used to.

You watch as he visibly swallows, Adam‘s apple bobbing in his throat as he carefully removes your shorts completely, setting them aside with more care than the simple garment warrants.

“Roll over for me,” he instructs, his voice rougher than before. “I need to get to the front of your thighs too.”

You comply, wincing slightly as the movement reminds you of your soreness.

Now on your back, you feel suddenly vulnerable—exposed in just your t-shirt and panties under Caleb’s hungry gaze. He’s looking at you like a man starved, though he’s trying to mask it behind clinical concern.

“Tell me where it hurts most,” he says, reaching for the baby oil again.

“The inner thighs,” you admit, heat rising to your face. “From the... friction.”

Something darkens in his eyes at your words—a flash of male pride quickly suppressed.

“I’ll fix it,” he promises, and it sounds like both an apology and a vow.

The baby oil makes a soft splashing sound as he pours a generous amount into his palm, warming it between his hands before reaching for your leg.

The first touch of his slick fingers against your tender skin draws a gasp from your lips—partly from the coolness of the oil, partly from the intimate nature of the contact.

“Too much?” he asks immediately, his hands pausing.

You shake your head. “Just sensitive.”

His smile is gentle but there’s something predatory lurking behind it. “I‘ll be careful.”

Caleb begins with your right thigh, strong hands encircling the muscle completely. His thumbs work small circles into the meat of your quadriceps, gradually increasing pressure as he gauges your reaction.

The oil makes his movements smooth, frictionless, his fingers gliding over your skin with practiced ease.

“How’s this?” he asks, though his eyes are fixed not on your face but on the way your flesh yields beneath his touch, spilling between his fingers like soft clay.

“Good,” you breathe, because it is—the initial discomfort giving way to relief as he works out the stiffness in your overused muscles.

Caleb seems transfixed by the sight of his own hands on your skin. His breathing has changed, growing deeper, more measured, as if he’s exerting great control. His thumbs dig into a particularly tender spot, making you wince.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, immediately gentling his touch. “So soft here. I forget how delicate you are sometimes.”

The comment might seem condescending from anyone else, but from Caleb, it feels like worship.

His hands continue their work, kneading and stroking, gradually moving higher up your thigh. Each time his fingers near the edge of your panties, your breath catches, but he always redirects, focusing on the sore muscles with seemingly professional detachment.

Only the darkness of his eyes gives him away—pupils dilated so wide they nearly swallow the purple iris entirely.

When he seems satisfied with the state of your right thigh, he shifts his attention to your left, repeating the process with the same thorough attention.

The second thigh goes faster, your muscles already loosened from his earlier ministrations. As he finishes, his hands slow, lingering on your skin as if reluctant to break contact.

Then, to your surprise, he bends down and presses his lips to the inside of your knee in a feather-light kiss.

“What—what was that for?” you stammer, caught off guard by the tender gesture.

“Recovery kisses,” he says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “To help heal the sore spots.”

Before you can respond, he’s moved slightly higher, pressing another kiss to your inner thigh. His lips are warm against your oil-slick skin, the contact brief but sending sparks through your nervous system nonetheless.

He repeats this pattern—a firm massage followed by a gentle kiss—working his way up your thigh in a way that makes your heart race.

“Caleb,” you breathe, uncertain whether you’re protesting or encouraging.

He pauses, looking up at you from his position between your legs. The sight is so intimate it steals your breath—Caleb’s dark head bent over your body, his hands splayed possessively across your thighs, his eyes burning with barely contained hunger.

“Too much?” he asks again, but there’s a challenge in his tone now, as if daring you to stop him.

You want to say yes. This has clearly moved beyond a therapeutic massage into something else entirely.

But the concern in his expression seems genuine, and the kisses do bring a strange comfort to your tender muscles. More than that, you don’t want to disappoint him—don’t want to break the spell of this intimate moment.

“No,” you whisper. “It’s... nice.”

Relief washes over his features, followed by that flash of triumph again. “Good,” he says, his voice dropping to a register that vibrates through you. “Because I’m not done taking care of you yet.”

He returns to his ministrations, switching back to your right leg and repeating the process—firm massage followed by soft kisses.

As he works, you notice how his gaze keeps returning to the apex of your thighs, to the cotton fabric with its cheerful apple pattern that now feels absurdly childish in this charged atmosphere.

“Better?” he asks as he finishes with your left thigh, his voice strained with effort.

You nod, because it is—the soreness has receded, replaced by a pleasant warmth and lingering sensitivity from his touch. “Much better. Thank you.”

His answering smile is tight, restrained. “Good,” he says, but he makes no move to stop, his hands still resting on your thighs, thumbs tracing small circles against your skin. “But I think there might be other places that need attention too.”

The question hangs in the air between you, heavy with implication.

You know you should draw a line here—should thank him for the massage and retreat to the bathroom as you’d originally intended.

But the heat in his gaze and the memory of last night’s pleasure makes you hesitate, caught between innocence and newfound desire.

And in that moment of hesitation, Caleb makes the decision for you, his hands sliding higher up your thighs with newfound purpose.

Without warning, Caleb’s hands slide to your knees and press outward, spreading your legs wider. The movement is confident, authoritative—not a request but a repositioning.

“Need better access,” he murmurs, though his eyes tell a different story as they fixate on the juncture of your thighs.

You’re suddenly aware of how exposed you are, legs splayed open with Caleb kneeling between them, his large hands looking almost threatening against your soft skin.

“Is this really necessary?” you ask, voice small and uncertain despite the warmth building low in your belly.

“Absolutely,” Caleb replies, his tone brooking no argument. “The sorest muscles are right here, where the friction was most intense.”

His thumbs press into your inner thighs, simultaneously, mere inches from the elastic edges of your apple-patterned panties. “Trust me, I know exactly where you need attention.”

The pressure of his thumbs sends shivers up your spine. Unlike before, when he worked on one leg at a time, now his hands mirror each other, creating symmetrical patterns of pleasure-pain as he kneads the tender flesh of both inner thighs.

Each press of his fingers brings his knuckles dangerously close to the center of you, causing your breath to hitch in anticipation.

“Relax,” he instructs, though the rough edge to his voice betrays his own tension. “I can‘t help if you’re all tight like this.”

You try to obey, forcing your muscles to unclench, letting your legs fall open more naturally. Caleb rewards you with a smile that’s equal parts approval and hunger.

“Good girl,” he praises, the words sending a now-familiar warmth through you. “Always so good for me.”

His hands work higher, thumbs pressing small circles into the crease where thigh meets groin, fingers splayed across the softness of your outer thighs.

The massage is undeniably skilled—each press releases tension you didn’t know you were holding—but there’s nothing clinical about the way his eyes keep dropping to the cotton barrier between his hands.

A tiny gasp escapes you when his thumb brushes—accidentally?—against the edge of your panties. Caleb‘s eyes dart to your face, gauging your reaction.

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “Sensitive spot.”

Before you can respond, his gaze drops again, narrowing slightly. “Your panties are damp,” he observes, voice casual but eyes intense. “Not from the oil, huh?”

Heat floods your face. You hadn’t realized, but now that he mentions it, you can feel it—the telltale warmth and wetness gathering between your legs in response to his touch.

“I bet you’re sore here too, aren’t you?” His finger traces the seam where elastic meets skin, not quite touching you intimately but close enough to make your heart race. “The center always takes the most friction.”

“I—maybe a little,” you admit, not meeting his eyes. It’s true—there’s a tender, swollen feeling in your most private place, a lingering reminder of last night’s pleasure.

“I thought so,” Caleb nods, satisfaction darkening his eyes. “This is all part of the healing process, Y/N. We need to address all the sore spots.”

His thumb brushes over the front of your panties, a feather-light touch that still makes you jerk in response. “I bet your clit is especially sensitive, isn’t it? First orgasm and all.”

His voice drops an octave when he says it, so matter-of-fact and medical, and you find yourself shifting, cheeks burning, stomach fluttering with a sensation you're not ready to name.

“Caleb, I don’t think—“

“Shh,” he soothes, reaching for the baby oil again. “Let me take care of you. That’s what I’m here for, remember?”

Before you can protest further, he’s tilting the bottle, drizzling a thin stream of oil directly onto the front of your panties.

The cool liquid seeps instantly through the thin cotton, making you gasp at the sensation. More oil follows, saturating the thin material until it becomes translucent, adhering like a second skin to every intimate fold and swollen ridge of your cunt.

“There,” Caleb breathes, eyes fixed on what he’s revealed. “That’s better.”

You look down, mortified to see that the once-opaque fabric has turned nearly transparent, the oil rendering it a sheer window to your most private parts. The cheerful apple pattern now seems obscene, stretched across your visible flesh.

“Caleb!” you exclaim, hands moving instinctively to cover yourself.

He catches your wrists with surprising speed, pinning them gently but firmly to your sides. “Don’t,” he says, voice rough with need. “Let me see what I‘m working with. How can I help if I can’t see where it hurts?”

Put that way, it almost makes sense, though a voice in the back of your mind whispers that this has gone far beyond therapeutic massage.

Still, you let your hands fall back to the mattress, surrendering to his care once more.

“Good,” he praises, releasing your wrists to return his attention to your center. “Now, let’s take care of this soreness.”

His thumbs press against your outer labia through the soaked fabric, applying gentle but firm pressure that draws a surprised moan from your lips.

The oil makes his touch slippery, frictionless as he begins massaging your swollen pussy lips, his thumbs spreading your wet folds apart before pressing back together in a lewd rhythm that makes obscene squelching sounds with each movement.

“Does that help?” he asks, though his eyes are fixed not on your face but on the movement of his own hands against you. “Tell me how it feels.”

“It—it feels—“ Words fail you as his thumb finds your clit through the fabric, circling the sensitive nub with practiced ease. “Oh!”

“Sensitive,” he observes, not easing his touch but adjusting the pressure slightly. “But that’s to be expected after last night. Your first time experiencing that kind of pleasure.”

There’s that pride again in his voice—the satisfaction of knowing he was your first, that he introduced you to these sensations.

His thumbs continue their work, massaging your folds with firm, circular motions that send waves of confused pleasure through you.

It does ease the soreness, replacing it with a building heat that makes your hips twitch involuntarily.

Through the translucent fabric, Caleb watches, entranced, as your body responds to his ministrations.

Your labia is visibly swelling, darkening with blood. Your clitoris peeks from beneath its hood, a tiny pink bud that twitches when his thumb passes over it.

Most telling of all is the slickness gathering at your entrance, mixing with the oil to create a wet patch that has nothing to do with his massage.

“You’re so pretty here,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “So perfect.” His breathing has grown labored, his pupils so dilated. “Look how your body responds to me. Opening like a flower.”

The poetic words sound strange in his usually practical mouth, evidence of how affected he is by the sight of you.

“Is this—is this still part of the massage?” you ask, voice breathy and uncertain.

Caleb’s eyes flick up to yours, dark with hunger. “Of course,” he assures you, though his voice has dropped an octave. “The best way to heal soreness is to replace it with pleasure. To remind the body that touch can feel good.”

His thumb presses more firmly against your clit, circling with deliberate intent now, and your back arches in response.

The thin, oil-soaked fabric creates a strange barrier—not enough to block the sensation but adding a different texture to his touch.

Through the translucent cotton, he can see everything—the way your opening clenches around nothing, the swelling of your sensitive tissues, the gathering wetness that has nothing to do with the baby oil and everything to do with how he’s making you feel.

“I can see how much this is helping you,” he says, voice strained with restraint. “How your body is relaxing for me.”

It’s not relaxation you feel but a mounting tension, a coiling heat building deep in your core that’s becoming familiar after last night.

“Caleb,” you whimper as his fingers find a particularly sensitive spot. “I don’t—I think—“

“Shh,” he soothes, not slowing his ministrations. “Just let it happen. Let gege take care of you.”

And despite the confusion, despite the vague sense that this should feel wrong, you surrender to his touch once more, hips rising to meet his hands as pleasure builds toward something profound and inevitable.

Caleb’s hands suddenly abandon their attention to your center, sliding upward to rest on your lower abdomen.

His palms press flat against the soft skin just below your navel, thumbs meeting in the center to form a V that points downward toward your panties.

“This part needs attention too,” he murmurs, eyes darkening as they fix on his hands splayed across your belly.

His thumbs press into the flesh just above your pubic mound, making small circular motions that seem less about easing muscle tension and more about... claiming.

“Does it hurt here too?” he asks, voice oddly tender as he presses down, watching the way your soft skin yields beneath his touch.

“Not really,” you admit, confused by this new focus. The soreness from last night was concentrated in your thighs and between your legs, not your abdomen.

Caleb doesn’t seem to register your answer, his attention fixed on the sight of his large hands spanning your lower belly.

“So perfect,” he whispers, almost to himself. His thumbs trace the slight dip below your navel, pressing with more firmness than necessary. “Right here.”

Something in his expression makes your breath catch—a possessive intensity that borders on reverence.

His purple eyes have taken on a distant quality, as if he’s seeing something beyond the present moment.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask, voice small beneath the weight of his gaze.

His eyes flick to yours, then back to his hands on your belly. “The future,” he says cryptically, lips curving into a smile that sends shivers down your spine. “What will be.”

The pressure of his massage increases, his movements becoming more deliberate. He pours more oil onto your skin, creating a slick surface for his palms to glide over.

The scent fills the air between you—clean and sweet, almost cloying now with how much he’s used.

“One day,” he continues, voice dropping to a near-whisper, “there will be life growing right here.” His thumbs press into the soft flesh below your navel, circling the area with pointed intent. “Our little one, safe inside you.”

The words send a jolt of shock through you.

Is he talking about... pregnancy? About you carrying his child?

The thought disturbed you—he’s your adopted brother, your guardian—but something about the raw need in his voice makes your heart race with confused emotion.

“Caleb, I—“

“Shh,” he soothes, not looking up from where his hands work your abdomen with increasing pressure. “Just let me take care of you. Let me make it all better.”

His massage has taken on a rhythm now, firm circular motions that press deep into your lower belly.

It might feel good if not for a growing discomfort—your bladder, already full when you woke, now protesting sharply under his ministrations.

“Caleb,” you try again, squirming slightly. “I really need to use the bathroom now.”

He makes a non-committal sound, clearly not fully registering your words. His eyes have that faraway look again, focused on some vision only he can see as his hands continue their relentless pressure on your abdomen.

“So perfect,” he murmurs again. “Made for this. Made for me.”

The pressure in your bladder increases to an uncomfortable degree. You press your thighs together instinctively, trying to alleviate the sensation, but Caleb immediately notices and uses his elbows to nudge your legs apart again.

“Don‘t tense up,” he admonishes gently. “Let me work out all the knots.”

“But I really need to—“

“Just a little longer,” he interrupts, pressing deeper, his thumbs finding the exact spot that makes you wince with the pressure on your full bladder. “You’re holding so much tension here.”

It’s not tension he’s feeling but your distended bladder, now sending urgent signals that you can’t ignore much longer.

You try to shift away from his touch, but his hands follow, maintaining that firm, circular pressure that’s becoming almost painful.

“Caleb, please,” you whimper, genuine distress entering your voice now. “I need to go. Badly.”

For a moment, his brow furrows as if he’s finally processing your words. But then his expression smooths out again, replaced by that same possessive intensity.

“Let go,” he says, voice hypnotic. “Just relax and let go. I’ve got you.”

He can’t possibly be suggesting what it sounds like—Caleb, always so proper and protective, wouldn’t want you to urinate in his bed.

He must have misunderstood, must think you’re talking about emotional tension rather than a physical need.

“No, I mean I literally need to use the toilet,” you clarify, panic rising as his thumbs press down again, sending a jolt of urgent pressure through your lower body. “Please, just let me up for a minute.”

Caleb’s eyes remain fixed on your belly, his hands continuing their massage with unrelenting focus.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs, as if he hasn’t heard you at all. “Perfect vessel for my seed. Let go, Pips. Let me take care of everything.”

One hand slides lower again, fingers finding your clit through the oil-soaked panties while the other continues pressing firmly on your bladder. The sensation makes you cry out, hips bucking involuntarily.

“That’s it,” he encourages, misinterpreting your reaction as pure pleasure. “Let it all go. Show me how good it feels.”

Your body is at war with itself—arousal building under his skilled touch even as your bladder screams for release.

You try once more to squirm away, but his weight shifts, one knee pinning your thigh to the mattress as his fingers continue their relentless stimulation.

“Caleb, stop, I’m going to—“ Your warning cuts off in a gasp as his palm presses down harder on your lower abdomen, his other hand circling your clit with increasing speed.

“Cum for me,” he demands, voice rough with need. “Let it happen, Y/N.”

It’s too much—the pressure, the pleasure, the desperate need for release of any kind.

You feel it happening and can’t stop it—a warm trickle at first, then more, heat spreading between your legs as your bladder finally gives in to the relentless pressure.

“Oh god,” you moan, equal parts mortification and relief as the dam breaks. Warm liquid pulses from you, soaking through your already damp panties to pool beneath you on the bed.

“Caleb, I’m sorry, I couldn’t—“

But something unexpected is happening alongside your embarrassment—the release of pressure, combined with Caleb’s continued stimulation of your clit, sends shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your core.

Your back arches as the release overtakes you—bladder emptying even as an orgasm crashes through your system, the two sensations twining together.

“Yes,” Caleb hisses, watching in fascination as your body surrenders completely. His fingers don’t stop their movement, working your clit through the thin, soaked fabric as you continue to release both urine and pleasure.

“That’s it, let it all out. Show me everything.”

Waves of ecstasy pulse through you, stronger than what you experienced last night, heightened by the relief of finally emptying your aching bladder.

You’re literally pissing on Caleb’s bed while he watches—but the pleasure is too intense to leave room for shame.

Your body shudders with aftershocks as the flow finally slows, your muscles relaxing completely in the aftermath of such total release.

The mattress beneath you is soaked, as are your panties and thighs. Caleb’s hand is wet too, glistening with more than just baby oil, yet he doesn’t pull away in disgust.

Instead, he looks... enraptured. His eyes are wide with wonder, fixed on the evidence of your complete surrender as if witnessing something sacred.

“Perfect,” he whispers, fingers still moving gently against your oversensitive flesh. “So beautiful when you let go for me.”

Awareness begins to return as the pleasure fades, bringing with it a flood of embarrassment so acute it makes your chest tight.

You just peed on Caleb’s bed—peed while he was touching you, while he was massaging you.

What kind of person does that make you?

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, tears springing to your eyes as the full weight of what just happened crashes down on you. “I tried to tell you—I didn’t mean to—“

But Caleb’s expression shows no disgust, no anger. If anything, he looks even more entranced than before.

“Don’t apologize,” he says, voice husky with arousal. “You were perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

His thumb brushes your clit once more, sending an oversensitive shudder through your spent body, before he finally removes his hand from between your legs.

The mattress is growing cold beneath you, reality intruding on the strange bubble of pleasure and release you were suspended in moments ago.

“But I—I made such a mess,” you stammer, gesturing helplessly at the wet spot spreading across the sheets.

Mortification propels you into motion, hands shoving at his chest as you try to scramble away.

“Let me go,” you plead, voice thick with embarrassment. “Please, just let me—“

But Caleb’s hands clamp down on your thighs, keeping you firmly in place despite your struggles.

“No,” he says, the single word carrying the weight of command. “Stay.”

“But I made a mess,” you protest, unable to look him in the eye. “I need to clean up, I need to—“

“Look at me,” Caleb demands, one hand releasing your thigh to grasp your chin, forcing your gaze to his. His pupils are blown wide with arousal, his breathing ragged.

He doesn‘t look disgusted or angry; he looks hungry. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Before you can process his words, he’s using his strength to spread your thighs wide again, exposing your soaked panties and the wet mattress beneath.

You try to clamp your legs shut, but his grip is unrelenting, his larger frame easily overpowering your embarrassed struggles.

“Caleb, please,” you whimper, tears of humiliation pricking at your eyes. “This is so embarrassing.”

His expression softens momentarily, thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. “Don’t be embarrassed, Pips. Not with me. Never with me.”

The tenderness in his voice contrasts sharply with the possessive grip he maintains on your thighs. “What just happened was amazing.”

You shake your head in disbelief.

How could he possibly find your accident amazing? But his eyes are sincere, burning with an intensity that makes your heart race despite your mortification.

“Let me show you how much I mean that,” he murmurs, and before you can guess his intentions, his hand returns to your lower abdomen, pressing down with deliberate pressure.

“No!” you gasp, feeling a small fresh trickle escape at his touch. “Caleb, don’t—I can’t—“

But he doesn’t relent, his palm applying steady pressure to your bladder while his other hand moves between your legs again, fingers finding your sensitive clit through the sodden fabric of your panties.

“Let it go,” he coaxes, voice hypnotic. “Give me everything, Y/N. Every last drop.”

To your horror and confusion, your body responds to his command—another warm rush escaping to join the wetness already saturating the bed.

The release brings with it another wave of conflicting sensations—relief mingled with pleasure from his skilled fingers, all wrapped in a cocoon of deep embarrassment.

“Look at me,” Caleb demands again when you try to turn away. “I want to see your face when you surrender to me completely.”

You force yourself to meet his gaze, finding something there that transcends simple desire—a possessive adoration that’s terrifying in its intensity.

He watches every minute expression that crosses your face as the last of your pee releases under his persistent pressure, cataloging your vulnerability like it’s something precious to be treasured.

“Perfect,” he whispers, finally easing the pressure on your bladder but continuing to circle your clit with maddening precision. “So fucking perfect for me.”

Without warning, his hand lifts from between your legs only to return in a gentle slap against your soaked pussy.

The impact isn’t painful—just enough to create a small splash, sending droplets of warm liquid spattering across your thighs and his wrist. Your gasp is equal parts shock and confused arousal.

“Look what you did to me,” he murmurs, but there’s no accusation in his tone—only wonder. He repeats the motion, slightly firmer this time, watching in fascination as more liquid splashes from your saturated panties. “Marked me with you.”

You find yourself transfixed by the reverence in his expression, the careful way he explores this new territory between you.

“Caleb,” you breathe, not sure if you’re pleading for him to stop or continue.

His eyes lock with yours as he lifts his wet hand to his face. Time seems to slow as his tongue darts out, tasting the moisture clinging to his fingers.

Your breath catches in your throat—surely he isn’t—he wouldn’t—

But he does. His eyes flutter closed as he sucks his fingers into his mouth, tasting you with evident pleasure.

“Sweet,” he murmurs when his eyes open again, holding your shocked gaze. “Like the rest of you.”

“That’s—that’s disgusting,” you stammer, though your body betrays you with a pulse of heat between your legs at the sight.

Caleb shakes his head slowly, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Nothing about you could ever be disgusting to me, Y/N. Don’t you understand yet?”

His clean hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing across your lower lip. “I want all of you. Every part. Even the parts you think should be hidden.”

“I’ve never—“ you start, then swallow hard. “No one has ever seen me like this before.”

“And no one else ever will,” Caleb says, the words carrying the weight of an oath. “This is just for us. Just for me.” His expression softens, though the possessiveness remains. “Now, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Before you can respond, he’s scooping you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly from the wet spot on the bed. One strong arm supports your back while the other cradles your knees, holding you against his chest as if you weigh nothing at all.

The gesture is so tender, so at odds with the raw intensity of moments before, that fresh tears spring to your eyes.

“Don’t cry, Pips,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he carries you toward the bathroom. “I’ve got you. Always.”

The bathroom is cool and bright after the heated intimacy of the bedroom. Caleb sets you down gently on the closed toilet lid, kneeling before you to peel your soaked panties down your legs.

The apple pattern is barely visible now, the fabric darkened and clinging to your skin. He removes them with unexpected gentleness, setting them aside rather than discarding them in the hamper.

“Arms up,” he instructs softly, and when you comply, he lifts your t-shirt over your head, leaving you completely naked before him.

He turns away to start the shower, adjusting the temperature with careful attention. Steam begins to fill the room as he returns to you, helping you to your feet and guiding you toward the glass enclosure.

“You‘re not coming in?” you ask, suddenly unwilling to be separated from him even for the time it takes to shower.

Caleb’s smile is gentle but his eyes still burn with that hunger. “If I join you now, we’ll never get clean,” he says, voice rough with restraint. “One thing at a time, Pips. We have all month, remember?”

“Go on,” he encourages, hand warm at the small of your back. “I’ll be right here when you’re done.”

When you finally step out of the shower, he‘s waiting with a fluffy towel held open, enveloping you in its warmth and his arms simultaneously.

He dries you with the same attention he showed during the massage, dabbing gently at your sensitive areas and wrapping your damp hair in a second towel with ease.

“Better?” he asks, helping you into a clean t-shirt he must have retrieved from your room while you showered.

You nod, feeling oddly shy now in the aftermath of such intimate exposure. “What about your bed?” you ask, remembering the mess you left behind.

“Don’t worry about that,” he says, something like satisfaction flickering across his expression. “I’ll take care of it later.”

There’s an unspoken promise in those words—that he doesn’t mind, that he might even cherish the evidence of you on his bed.

“That’s what good brothers do, after all,” Caleb adds, his tone light but his eyes anything but as they track over your freshly cleaned body with undisguised hunger. “Take care of their little sisters.”

Comment to be tagged!

@littlewhitefairy7777 @celaenaglynn @mothmans-left-nipple @lotusapple-xia @gflscer @swiggitty-swoogity @aoomiines @puchu-puchuu @fulldoves @goobermi6 @typicalme23 @teira-osairis @vy-olet @calebsbabyapple @xyzyogurt @earthtohoney @skyekudasai @kalydos @navvzy @tempeststhings @young-adult-summer @remnantsofgildedcages @applebite01 @vatarvaliantchaosvalkyrie @applarchve @hangingwiththestars @thisaintviolet69 @asilaydead @snowapples-stuff @calebsmeimeii @cherrysherryblossom @mindelicious1 @nansfyy @ccoeurhee @tomriddleslovergirl @beelpita @cchiiwinkle @feelingfaye

[nottellingofname]

tw: piss kink

I can't help it guys... I think releasing all types of liquids from your body onto your partner is the hottest most animalistic form of staking your claim and making your mark.

So here's that in gegemeimei form

[nottellingofname]

For My Caleb ⋆⭒˚｡⋆✈︎

Operation: Make mei mei feel good

Caleb’s arm is heavy across your waist, his breath warm against the nape of your neck.

For a moment, you simply exist in this cocoon of warmth, the events of last night playing behind your closed eyelids like a delicious secret.

Your body feels different somehow. Heavier, more present, as if last night’s pleasure has rewired your nervous system to make you hypersensitive to every sensation.

Caleb’s nightmares had frightened you at first, his desperate plea not to leave him tearing at your heart. But what followed... the memory alone sends a flush of heat across your skin.

The way he looked at you, touched you, praised you—called you his good girl.

A guilty thought sneaks through your contentment. Part of you almost wishes he’d have nightmares more often if they lead to such blissful endings.

And it has. Caleb has had nothing but nightmares the past few days. And you're always there to help him out.

The digital clock on the nightstand glows 8:17 AM.

You should get up, prepare breakfast—something special to welcome Caleb home properly. With careful movements, you attempt to lift his arm from your waist and slide out from under it.

Pain lances through you, sharp and unexpected. Not intense enough to make you cry out, but surprising in its thoroughness.

Your thighs feel as though you’ve run a marathon, muscles protesting even this small movement. There’s a deeper ache too, a pulsating sensation low in your abdomen that feels both foreign and intimate. You freeze, a small gasp escaping your lips.

“Pips? What’s wrong?” Caleb’s voice is rough with sleep, but instantly alert to your distress.

“Nothing,” you lie automatically, but your face betrays you, wincing as you try to shift again.

The mattress dips as Caleb sits up, sleep vanishing from his expression as his eyes narrow with concern. His hand, warm and steady, comes to rest on your hip.

“Don‘t lie to me. Where does it hurt?”

The direct question makes heat rise to your cheeks.

How do you explain this? That the friction of riding him through layers of clothing has left your inner thighs chafed and your core aching?

That you’ve never experienced this particular kind of soreness before because you’ve never dry humped anyone to orgasm before last night?

“I’m just a little... sore,” you manage, avoiding his gaze.

“Sore?” His voice drops lower, and something shifts in his expression—concern mingling with a flicker of masculine pride that makes your stomach flip. “Where exactly?”

You gesture vaguely to your lower half, embarrassment making your movements jerky. “My thighs. And... other places.”

Understanding dawns in his purple eyes, followed immediately by a flash of guilt. His thumb traces small circles against your hip bone, the touch gentle but enough to send shivers through you despite the discomfort.

“From last night,” he says, not a question but a realization. His gaze travels down your body as if he can see through the blankets to the evidence of what he’s done to you.

You nod, unable to form words under the intensity of his stare. The ache between your legs pulses in time with your heartbeat, a reminder of how he made you feel, how he taught your body something new.

Caleb’s expression shifts again, guilt fading into something more possessive. His hand slides from your hip to your thigh, squeezing just firmly enough to make you gasp at the sensation of pain and pleasure.

“Your first time doing anything like that,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Of course you’d be sore. I should have been more careful with you.”

“It’s okay,” you hurry to reassure him, not wanting him to regret what happened. “It was worth it. To help you feel better.”

His eyes darken at your words, pupils dilating slightly. “Always so eager to make me happy,” he says, voice tinged with something that sounds almost like awe. “My sweet Pips.”

You try to sit up again, determined not to let a little discomfort keep you from your daily routine, but the movement sends another wave of pain through your core. This time, you can’t suppress the wince that contorts your features.

Caleb’s reaction is immediate. He shifts into a protective posture, one arm sliding beneath your shoulders to support you while the other hovers over your body, uncertain where to touch without causing more pain.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Caleb’s voice carries that rare edge that reminds you he commands soldiers for a living.

His hand presses firmly on your shoulder, keeping you pinned to the mattress as you try once more to rise. “Did you not hear me say stay still?”

The question is rhetorical, his eyes narrowed with a mixture of concern and frustration. This isn’t the gentle ge ge who indulges your every whim—this is Colonel Xia, accustomed to immediate obedience.

“I can‘t just lie here all day,” you protest, though your body betrays you with another wince as you shift beneath his restraining hand. “I have things to do.”

Caleb’s expression softens fractionally, but his grip remains firm. “What things could possibly be more important than letting me take care of you?”

There’s a hint of hurt beneath his authoritative tone, as if your resistance wounds him. “What am I even here for if not to do everything for you?”

The question hangs between you, weighted with implications you’re not quite ready to examine. Caleb has always been protective, attentive to your needs, but this feels different.

“But—“

“No buts,” he interrupts, his thumb tracing small circles on your collarbone where his hand still pins you. “You think I don’t notice how you’re wincing with every movement? How you can barely twist without pain?” His eyes darken. “I did that to you, Y/N. I pushed you too far, too fast.”

Something flickers across his expression—guilt, certainly, but underneath it lurks a primal satisfaction that sends a shiver down your spine. He looks... proud of having marked you, even as he regrets your discomfort.

“It wasn’t just you,” you counter softly. “I wanted it too.”

His eyes soften momentarily before a determined look crosses his features. “All the more reason for me to fix it. To show you that pleasure doesn’t have to come with this much aftermath.”

The hand not holding you down drifts to your hip, fingers splaying possessively across the curve. “I’m going to make it better.”

“Caleb,” you try again, squirming slightly beneath his touch. “I really need to use the bathroom first.”

He pauses, considering this practical concern, but then shakes his head. “Not yet. Your muscles are all tight and knotted. If you try to walk now, you’ll just make it worse.” His voice drops lower, more intimate. “Let me massage you first, loosen everything up. Then you can go.”

The authority in his voice brooks no argument, and despite your bladder’s insistence, you find yourself nodding in acquiescence.

Something about the way Caleb takes control makes resistance feel not just futile but somehow wrong, as if denying him the chance to care for you would be denying his very nature.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, the praise sending a flush of warmth through you despite your discomfort.

He releases you, confident now that you’ll obey, and moves to the nightstand. From the bottom drawer, he retrieves a small bottle—baby oil, the label gleaming in the morning light filtering through the curtains.

The sight of it makes your stomach flip with anticipation and a touch of nervousness.

“Roll onto your stomach for me,” he instructs, his voice gentler now but no less commanding.

You hesitate, bladder protesting. “Caleb, I really should—“

“Trust me,” he cuts you off, his eyes intense. “This won’t take long, and then you’ll be able to walk without wincing. Don’t you trust me to know what’s best for you, Pips?”

Put that way, how can you argue?

Caleb has always looked out for you, always known what you needed, sometimes before you knew yourself.

With a small sigh of surrender, you carefully shift onto your stomach, biting your lip against the twinge of discomfort the movement causes.

“There we go.” The approval in his voice warms you from within. The mattress dips as he positions himself beside you, and then his hands are on your shoulders, strong fingers finding knots of tension you didn‘t even realize were there. “Just relax for me. Let go.”

You try to obey, melting into the mattress as his thumbs work small circles into your shoulder blades.

It feels good—so good that for a moment you almost forget the more urgent ache between your legs and your full bladder.

“You’re carrying so much tension,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble above you. “Not just from last night. Have you been stressing while I was away?”

The question surprises you. “Maybe a little,” you admit. “I always worry when you’re gone.”

His hands pause momentarily, then resume their gentle kneading with increased purpose. “You never need to worry about me, Pips. I always come back to you.” There’s a possessive edge to his words that makes your heart beat faster. “Always.”

The baby oil appears in your peripheral vision as he uncaps it. The subtle scent fills the air—clean, slightly sweet.

“This will help with the friction,” he explains, and though the words are innocent enough, something in his tone suggests double meaning. “The skin on your inner thighs is delicate. I should have remembered that last night.”

The guilt is back in his voice, but it doesn’t match the hungry look in his eyes as they track down your body.

You’re suddenly hyperaware that you’re still wearing what you slept in—an oversized t-shirt and the shorts that are now slightly stained from last night’s activities.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, not sure why you’re whispering. “I didn’t exactly know what to expect either.”

His smile is gentle but there‘s an edge to it—the smile of a man who knows exactly what to expect and is anticipating every moment.

“That’s why you have me,” he says, pouring a small amount of oil into his palm and rubbing his hands together to warm it. “To teach you. To take care of you.”

The oil glistens on his fingers, catching the morning light. You'd think being babied would make you feel like a kid, but nope—there's nothing innocent about how Caleb's looking at you right now, his eyes getting all hungry while he checks you out, or how he's taking his sweet time rubbing that oil between his hands like he's thinking about where they're gonna end up.

“I‘m going to start with your back,” he says, his voice dropping to that register that makes your stomach flutter. “Then work my way down. By the time I’m done, you’ll be able to walk without pain.”

He pauses, and something shifts in his expression—a flash of that hunger you glimpsed last night. “And maybe you’ll feel something even better than relief.”

His hands descend on your back, warm and slick with oil, and all thoughts of protesting further dissolve under his skilled touch.

Your body surrenders to his ministrations, even as a small voice in the back of your mind whispers that this massage might be about more than just easing your physical discomfort.

But as Caleb’s strong hands work their magic, dissolving knots of tension and sending waves of relief through your sore muscles, you find you don‘t much care what his true intentions might be.

You’re putty in his hands, and some newly awakened part of you wouldn‘t have it any other way.

Caleb’s hands work their way down your back with practiced efficiency, finding knots you didn’t know existed and dissolving them with firm, circular pressure.

The baby oil makes his touch glide seamlessly across your skin, leaving warmth in its wake. When he reaches the small of your back, his movements slow, becoming more deliberate.

“I need to get to your thighs now,” he says, voice lower than before. “That’s where most of the soreness is, right?” His fingers hover at the waistband of your shorts. “I’ll need to take these off to do this properly.”

Your breath catches in your throat. There’s nothing inherently inappropriate about his request—he’s giving you a massage, after all—but something about the intensity in his voice makes this feel like a threshold being crossed.

Still, your thighs do ache terribly, the muscles stiff and tender from last night’s activities.

“I—okay,” you agree, your voice small and uncertain.

Caleb’s fingers curl around the elastic waistband, but he pauses. “Are you sure, Pips?”

The question feels loaded, as if he’s asking for permission for more than just removing a piece of clothing.

You nod against the pillow. “I trust you.”

Three simple words, but they transform his expression. Something flashes in his purple eyes—triumph mixed with an emotion so raw it makes your heart stutter.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, the praise warming you from within.

With a gentleness that belies the tension coiled in his shoulders, Caleb begins to peel the shorts down your hips.

His movements are deliberately slow, almost reverential, as if he’s unwrapping a precious gift. The fabric catches slightly where it sticks to your skin from residual dampness, a reminder of last night’s pleasure that sends heat rushing to your cheeks.

As he works the shorts past your hips and down your thighs, his breath audibly hitches. You turn your head slightly, catching his expression from the corner of your eye.

He’s staring at your exposed lower half, now clad only in the apple-patterned cotton panties you threw on last night after he cleaned you up.

“These are cute,” he says, but the strained quality of his voice contradicts the casual observation. His fingertips trace the elastic edge where it cuts across your buttock, a touch so light it makes you shiver. “Little apples for my Pips.”

He says "my" and his voice drops half an octave, the word stretching out like taffy. Your chest tightens.

You should back away, but instead you lean forward, your cheeks warming as if you've just taken a sip of something stronger than you're used to.

You watch as he visibly swallows, Adam‘s apple bobbing in his throat as he carefully removes your shorts completely, setting them aside with more care than the simple garment warrants.

“Roll over for me,” he instructs, his voice rougher than before. “I need to get to the front of your thighs too.”

You comply, wincing slightly as the movement reminds you of your soreness.

Now on your back, you feel suddenly vulnerable—exposed in just your t-shirt and panties under Caleb’s hungry gaze. He’s looking at you like a man starved, though he’s trying to mask it behind clinical concern.

“Tell me where it hurts most,” he says, reaching for the baby oil again.

“The inner thighs,” you admit, heat rising to your face. “From the... friction.”

Something darkens in his eyes at your words—a flash of male pride quickly suppressed.

“I’ll fix it,” he promises, and it sounds like both an apology and a vow.

The baby oil makes a soft splashing sound as he pours a generous amount into his palm, warming it between his hands before reaching for your leg.

The first touch of his slick fingers against your tender skin draws a gasp from your lips—partly from the coolness of the oil, partly from the intimate nature of the contact.

“Too much?” he asks immediately, his hands pausing.

You shake your head. “Just sensitive.”

His smile is gentle but there’s something predatory lurking behind it. “I‘ll be careful.”

Caleb begins with your right thigh, strong hands encircling the muscle completely. His thumbs work small circles into the meat of your quadriceps, gradually increasing pressure as he gauges your reaction.

The oil makes his movements smooth, frictionless, his fingers gliding over your skin with practiced ease.

“How’s this?” he asks, though his eyes are fixed not on your face but on the way your flesh yields beneath his touch, spilling between his fingers like soft clay.

“Good,” you breathe, because it is—the initial discomfort giving way to relief as he works out the stiffness in your overused muscles.

Caleb seems transfixed by the sight of his own hands on your skin. His breathing has changed, growing deeper, more measured, as if he’s exerting great control. His thumbs dig into a particularly tender spot, making you wince.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, immediately gentling his touch. “So soft here. I forget how delicate you are sometimes.”

The comment might seem condescending from anyone else, but from Caleb, it feels like worship.

His hands continue their work, kneading and stroking, gradually moving higher up your thigh. Each time his fingers near the edge of your panties, your breath catches, but he always redirects, focusing on the sore muscles with seemingly professional detachment.

Only the darkness of his eyes gives him away—pupils dilated so wide they nearly swallow the purple iris entirely.

When he seems satisfied with the state of your right thigh, he shifts his attention to your left, repeating the process with the same thorough attention.

The second thigh goes faster, your muscles already loosened from his earlier ministrations. As he finishes, his hands slow, lingering on your skin as if reluctant to break contact.

Then, to your surprise, he bends down and presses his lips to the inside of your knee in a feather-light kiss.

“What—what was that for?” you stammer, caught off guard by the tender gesture.

“Recovery kisses,” he says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “To help heal the sore spots.”

Before you can respond, he’s moved slightly higher, pressing another kiss to your inner thigh. His lips are warm against your oil-slick skin, the contact brief but sending sparks through your nervous system nonetheless.

He repeats this pattern—a firm massage followed by a gentle kiss—working his way up your thigh in a way that makes your heart race.

“Caleb,” you breathe, uncertain whether you’re protesting or encouraging.

He pauses, looking up at you from his position between your legs. The sight is so intimate it steals your breath—Caleb’s dark head bent over your body, his hands splayed possessively across your thighs, his eyes burning with barely contained hunger.

“Too much?” he asks again, but there’s a challenge in his tone now, as if daring you to stop him.

You want to say yes. This has clearly moved beyond a therapeutic massage into something else entirely.

But the concern in his expression seems genuine, and the kisses do bring a strange comfort to your tender muscles. More than that, you don’t want to disappoint him—don’t want to break the spell of this intimate moment.

“No,” you whisper. “It’s... nice.”

Relief washes over his features, followed by that flash of triumph again. “Good,” he says, his voice dropping to a register that vibrates through you. “Because I’m not done taking care of you yet.”

He returns to his ministrations, switching back to your right leg and repeating the process—firm massage followed by soft kisses.

As he works, you notice how his gaze keeps returning to the apex of your thighs, to the cotton fabric with its cheerful apple pattern that now feels absurdly childish in this charged atmosphere.

“Better?” he asks as he finishes with your left thigh, his voice strained with effort.

You nod, because it is—the soreness has receded, replaced by a pleasant warmth and lingering sensitivity from his touch. “Much better. Thank you.”

His answering smile is tight, restrained. “Good,” he says, but he makes no move to stop, his hands still resting on your thighs, thumbs tracing small circles against your skin. “But I think there might be other places that need attention too.”

The question hangs in the air between you, heavy with implication.

You know you should draw a line here—should thank him for the massage and retreat to the bathroom as you’d originally intended.

But the heat in his gaze and the memory of last night’s pleasure makes you hesitate, caught between innocence and newfound desire.

And in that moment of hesitation, Caleb makes the decision for you, his hands sliding higher up your thighs with newfound purpose.

Without warning, Caleb’s hands slide to your knees and press outward, spreading your legs wider. The movement is confident, authoritative—not a request but a repositioning.

“Need better access,” he murmurs, though his eyes tell a different story as they fixate on the juncture of your thighs.

You’re suddenly aware of how exposed you are, legs splayed open with Caleb kneeling between them, his large hands looking almost threatening against your soft skin.

“Is this really necessary?” you ask, voice small and uncertain despite the warmth building low in your belly.

“Absolutely,” Caleb replies, his tone brooking no argument. “The sorest muscles are right here, where the friction was most intense.”

His thumbs press into your inner thighs, simultaneously, mere inches from the elastic edges of your apple-patterned panties. “Trust me, I know exactly where you need attention.”

The pressure of his thumbs sends shivers up your spine. Unlike before, when he worked on one leg at a time, now his hands mirror each other, creating symmetrical patterns of pleasure-pain as he kneads the tender flesh of both inner thighs.

Each press of his fingers brings his knuckles dangerously close to the center of you, causing your breath to hitch in anticipation.

“Relax,” he instructs, though the rough edge to his voice betrays his own tension. “I can‘t help if you’re all tight like this.”

You try to obey, forcing your muscles to unclench, letting your legs fall open more naturally. Caleb rewards you with a smile that’s equal parts approval and hunger.

“Good girl,” he praises, the words sending a now-familiar warmth through you. “Always so good for me.”

His hands work higher, thumbs pressing small circles into the crease where thigh meets groin, fingers splayed across the softness of your outer thighs.

The massage is undeniably skilled—each press releases tension you didn’t know you were holding—but there’s nothing clinical about the way his eyes keep dropping to the cotton barrier between his hands.

A tiny gasp escapes you when his thumb brushes—accidentally?—against the edge of your panties. Caleb‘s eyes dart to your face, gauging your reaction.

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “Sensitive spot.”

Before you can respond, his gaze drops again, narrowing slightly. “Your panties are damp,” he observes, voice casual but eyes intense. “Not from the oil, huh?”

Heat floods your face. You hadn’t realized, but now that he mentions it, you can feel it—the telltale warmth and wetness gathering between your legs in response to his touch.

“I bet you’re sore here too, aren’t you?” His finger traces the seam where elastic meets skin, not quite touching you intimately but close enough to make your heart race. “The center always takes the most friction.”

“I—maybe a little,” you admit, not meeting his eyes. It’s true—there’s a tender, swollen feeling in your most private place, a lingering reminder of last night’s pleasure.

“I thought so,” Caleb nods, satisfaction darkening his eyes. “This is all part of the healing process, Y/N. We need to address all the sore spots.”

His thumb brushes over the front of your panties, a feather-light touch that still makes you jerk in response. “I bet your clit is especially sensitive, isn’t it? First orgasm and all.”

His voice drops an octave when he says it, so matter-of-fact and medical, and you find yourself shifting, cheeks burning, stomach fluttering with a sensation you're not ready to name.

“Caleb, I don’t think—“

“Shh,” he soothes, reaching for the baby oil again. “Let me take care of you. That’s what I’m here for, remember?”

Before you can protest further, he’s tilting the bottle, drizzling a thin stream of oil directly onto the front of your panties.

The cool liquid seeps instantly through the thin cotton, making you gasp at the sensation. More oil follows, saturating the thin material until it becomes translucent, adhering like a second skin to every intimate fold and swollen ridge of your cunt.

“There,” Caleb breathes, eyes fixed on what he’s revealed. “That’s better.”

You look down, mortified to see that the once-opaque fabric has turned nearly transparent, the oil rendering it a sheer window to your most private parts. The cheerful apple pattern now seems obscene, stretched across your visible flesh.

“Caleb!” you exclaim, hands moving instinctively to cover yourself.

He catches your wrists with surprising speed, pinning them gently but firmly to your sides. “Don’t,” he says, voice rough with need. “Let me see what I‘m working with. How can I help if I can’t see where it hurts?”

Put that way, it almost makes sense, though a voice in the back of your mind whispers that this has gone far beyond therapeutic massage.

Still, you let your hands fall back to the mattress, surrendering to his care once more.

“Good,” he praises, releasing your wrists to return his attention to your center. “Now, let’s take care of this soreness.”

His thumbs press against your outer labia through the soaked fabric, applying gentle but firm pressure that draws a surprised moan from your lips.

The oil makes his touch slippery, frictionless as he begins massaging your swollen pussy lips, his thumbs spreading your wet folds apart before pressing back together in a lewd rhythm that makes obscene squelching sounds with each movement.

“Does that help?” he asks, though his eyes are fixed not on your face but on the movement of his own hands against you. “Tell me how it feels.”

“It—it feels—“ Words fail you as his thumb finds your clit through the fabric, circling the sensitive nub with practiced ease. “Oh!”

“Sensitive,” he observes, not easing his touch but adjusting the pressure slightly. “But that’s to be expected after last night. Your first time experiencing that kind of pleasure.”

There’s that pride again in his voice—the satisfaction of knowing he was your first, that he introduced you to these sensations.

His thumbs continue their work, massaging your folds with firm, circular motions that send waves of confused pleasure through you.

It does ease the soreness, replacing it with a building heat that makes your hips twitch involuntarily.

Through the translucent fabric, Caleb watches, entranced, as your body responds to his ministrations.

Your labia is visibly swelling, darkening with blood. Your clitoris peeks from beneath its hood, a tiny pink bud that twitches when his thumb passes over it.

Most telling of all is the slickness gathering at your entrance, mixing with the oil to create a wet patch that has nothing to do with his massage.

“You’re so pretty here,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “So perfect.” His breathing has grown labored, his pupils so dilated. “Look how your body responds to me. Opening like a flower.”

The poetic words sound strange in his usually practical mouth, evidence of how affected he is by the sight of you.

“Is this—is this still part of the massage?” you ask, voice breathy and uncertain.

Caleb’s eyes flick up to yours, dark with hunger. “Of course,” he assures you, though his voice has dropped an octave. “The best way to heal soreness is to replace it with pleasure. To remind the body that touch can feel good.”

His thumb presses more firmly against your clit, circling with deliberate intent now, and your back arches in response.

The thin, oil-soaked fabric creates a strange barrier—not enough to block the sensation but adding a different texture to his touch.

Through the translucent cotton, he can see everything—the way your opening clenches around nothing, the swelling of your sensitive tissues, the gathering wetness that has nothing to do with the baby oil and everything to do with how he’s making you feel.

“I can see how much this is helping you,” he says, voice strained with restraint. “How your body is relaxing for me.”

It’s not relaxation you feel but a mounting tension, a coiling heat building deep in your core that’s becoming familiar after last night.

“Caleb,” you whimper as his fingers find a particularly sensitive spot. “I don’t—I think—“

“Shh,” he soothes, not slowing his ministrations. “Just let it happen. Let gege take care of you.”

And despite the confusion, despite the vague sense that this should feel wrong, you surrender to his touch once more, hips rising to meet his hands as pleasure builds toward something profound and inevitable.

Caleb’s hands suddenly abandon their attention to your center, sliding upward to rest on your lower abdomen.

His palms press flat against the soft skin just below your navel, thumbs meeting in the center to form a V that points downward toward your panties.

“This part needs attention too,” he murmurs, eyes darkening as they fix on his hands splayed across your belly.

His thumbs press into the flesh just above your pubic mound, making small circular motions that seem less about easing muscle tension and more about... claiming.

“Does it hurt here too?” he asks, voice oddly tender as he presses down, watching the way your soft skin yields beneath his touch.

“Not really,” you admit, confused by this new focus. The soreness from last night was concentrated in your thighs and between your legs, not your abdomen.

Caleb doesn’t seem to register your answer, his attention fixed on the sight of his large hands spanning your lower belly.

“So perfect,” he whispers, almost to himself. His thumbs trace the slight dip below your navel, pressing with more firmness than necessary. “Right here.”

Something in his expression makes your breath catch—a possessive intensity that borders on reverence.

His purple eyes have taken on a distant quality, as if he’s seeing something beyond the present moment.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask, voice small beneath the weight of his gaze.

His eyes flick to yours, then back to his hands on your belly. “The future,” he says cryptically, lips curving into a smile that sends shivers down your spine. “What will be.”

The pressure of his massage increases, his movements becoming more deliberate. He pours more oil onto your skin, creating a slick surface for his palms to glide over.

The scent fills the air between you—clean and sweet, almost cloying now with how much he’s used.

“One day,” he continues, voice dropping to a near-whisper, “there will be life growing right here.” His thumbs press into the soft flesh below your navel, circling the area with pointed intent. “Our little one, safe inside you.”

The words send a jolt of shock through you.

Is he talking about... pregnancy? About you carrying his child?

The thought disturbed you—he’s your adopted brother, your guardian—but something about the raw need in his voice makes your heart race with confused emotion.

“Caleb, I—“

“Shh,” he soothes, not looking up from where his hands work your abdomen with increasing pressure. “Just let me take care of you. Let me make it all better.”

His massage has taken on a rhythm now, firm circular motions that press deep into your lower belly.

It might feel good if not for a growing discomfort—your bladder, already full when you woke, now protesting sharply under his ministrations.

“Caleb,” you try again, squirming slightly. “I really need to use the bathroom now.”

He makes a non-committal sound, clearly not fully registering your words. His eyes have that faraway look again, focused on some vision only he can see as his hands continue their relentless pressure on your abdomen.

“So perfect,” he murmurs again. “Made for this. Made for me.”

The pressure in your bladder increases to an uncomfortable degree. You press your thighs together instinctively, trying to alleviate the sensation, but Caleb immediately notices and uses his elbows to nudge your legs apart again.

“Don‘t tense up,” he admonishes gently. “Let me work out all the knots.”

“But I really need to—“

“Just a little longer,” he interrupts, pressing deeper, his thumbs finding the exact spot that makes you wince with the pressure on your full bladder. “You’re holding so much tension here.”

It’s not tension he’s feeling but your distended bladder, now sending urgent signals that you can’t ignore much longer.

You try to shift away from his touch, but his hands follow, maintaining that firm, circular pressure that’s becoming almost painful.

“Caleb, please,” you whimper, genuine distress entering your voice now. “I need to go. Badly.”

For a moment, his brow furrows as if he’s finally processing your words. But then his expression smooths out again, replaced by that same possessive intensity.

“Let go,” he says, voice hypnotic. “Just relax and let go. I’ve got you.”

He can’t possibly be suggesting what it sounds like—Caleb, always so proper and protective, wouldn’t want you to urinate in his bed.

He must have misunderstood, must think you’re talking about emotional tension rather than a physical need.

“No, I mean I literally need to use the toilet,” you clarify, panic rising as his thumbs press down again, sending a jolt of urgent pressure through your lower body. “Please, just let me up for a minute.”

Caleb’s eyes remain fixed on your belly, his hands continuing their massage with unrelenting focus.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs, as if he hasn’t heard you at all. “Perfect vessel for my seed. Let go, Pips. Let me take care of everything.”

One hand slides lower again, fingers finding your clit through the oil-soaked panties while the other continues pressing firmly on your bladder. The sensation makes you cry out, hips bucking involuntarily.

“That’s it,” he encourages, misinterpreting your reaction as pure pleasure. “Let it all go. Show me how good it feels.”

Your body is at war with itself—arousal building under his skilled touch even as your bladder screams for release.

You try once more to squirm away, but his weight shifts, one knee pinning your thigh to the mattress as his fingers continue their relentless stimulation.

“Caleb, stop, I’m going to—“ Your warning cuts off in a gasp as his palm presses down harder on your lower abdomen, his other hand circling your clit with increasing speed.

“Cum for me,” he demands, voice rough with need. “Let it happen, Y/N.”

It’s too much—the pressure, the pleasure, the desperate need for release of any kind.

You feel it happening and can’t stop it—a warm trickle at first, then more, heat spreading between your legs as your bladder finally gives in to the relentless pressure.

“Oh god,” you moan, equal parts mortification and relief as the dam breaks. Warm liquid pulses from you, soaking through your already damp panties to pool beneath you on the bed.

“Caleb, I’m sorry, I couldn’t—“

But something unexpected is happening alongside your embarrassment—the release of pressure, combined with Caleb’s continued stimulation of your clit, sends shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your core.

Your back arches as the release overtakes you—bladder emptying even as an orgasm crashes through your system, the two sensations twining together.

“Yes,” Caleb hisses, watching in fascination as your body surrenders completely. His fingers don’t stop their movement, working your clit through the thin, soaked fabric as you continue to release both urine and pleasure.

“That’s it, let it all out. Show me everything.”

Waves of ecstasy pulse through you, stronger than what you experienced last night, heightened by the relief of finally emptying your aching bladder.

You’re literally pissing on Caleb’s bed while he watches—but the pleasure is too intense to leave room for shame.

Your body shudders with aftershocks as the flow finally slows, your muscles relaxing completely in the aftermath of such total release.

The mattress beneath you is soaked, as are your panties and thighs. Caleb’s hand is wet too, glistening with more than just baby oil, yet he doesn’t pull away in disgust.

Instead, he looks... enraptured. His eyes are wide with wonder, fixed on the evidence of your complete surrender as if witnessing something sacred.

“Perfect,” he whispers, fingers still moving gently against your oversensitive flesh. “So beautiful when you let go for me.”

Awareness begins to return as the pleasure fades, bringing with it a flood of embarrassment so acute it makes your chest tight.

You just peed on Caleb’s bed—peed while he was touching you, while he was massaging you.

What kind of person does that make you?

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, tears springing to your eyes as the full weight of what just happened crashes down on you. “I tried to tell you—I didn’t mean to—“

But Caleb’s expression shows no disgust, no anger. If anything, he looks even more entranced than before.

“Don’t apologize,” he says, voice husky with arousal. “You were perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

His thumb brushes your clit once more, sending an oversensitive shudder through your spent body, before he finally removes his hand from between your legs.

The mattress is growing cold beneath you, reality intruding on the strange bubble of pleasure and release you were suspended in moments ago.

“But I—I made such a mess,” you stammer, gesturing helplessly at the wet spot spreading across the sheets.

Mortification propels you into motion, hands shoving at his chest as you try to scramble away.

“Let me go,” you plead, voice thick with embarrassment. “Please, just let me—“

But Caleb’s hands clamp down on your thighs, keeping you firmly in place despite your struggles.

“No,” he says, the single word carrying the weight of command. “Stay.”

“But I made a mess,” you protest, unable to look him in the eye. “I need to clean up, I need to—“

“Look at me,” Caleb demands, one hand releasing your thigh to grasp your chin, forcing your gaze to his. His pupils are blown wide with arousal, his breathing ragged.

He doesn‘t look disgusted or angry; he looks hungry. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Before you can process his words, he’s using his strength to spread your thighs wide again, exposing your soaked panties and the wet mattress beneath.

You try to clamp your legs shut, but his grip is unrelenting, his larger frame easily overpowering your embarrassed struggles.

“Caleb, please,” you whimper, tears of humiliation pricking at your eyes. “This is so embarrassing.”

His expression softens momentarily, thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. “Don’t be embarrassed, Pips. Not with me. Never with me.”

The tenderness in his voice contrasts sharply with the possessive grip he maintains on your thighs. “What just happened was amazing.”

You shake your head in disbelief.

How could he possibly find your accident amazing? But his eyes are sincere, burning with an intensity that makes your heart race despite your mortification.

“Let me show you how much I mean that,” he murmurs, and before you can guess his intentions, his hand returns to your lower abdomen, pressing down with deliberate pressure.

“No!” you gasp, feeling a small fresh trickle escape at his touch. “Caleb, don’t—I can’t—“

But he doesn’t relent, his palm applying steady pressure to your bladder while his other hand moves between your legs again, fingers finding your sensitive clit through the sodden fabric of your panties.

“Let it go,” he coaxes, voice hypnotic. “Give me everything, Y/N. Every last drop.”

To your horror and confusion, your body responds to his command—another warm rush escaping to join the wetness already saturating the bed.

The release brings with it another wave of conflicting sensations—relief mingled with pleasure from his skilled fingers, all wrapped in a cocoon of deep embarrassment.

“Look at me,” Caleb demands again when you try to turn away. “I want to see your face when you surrender to me completely.”

You force yourself to meet his gaze, finding something there that transcends simple desire—a possessive adoration that’s terrifying in its intensity.

He watches every minute expression that crosses your face as the last of your pee releases under his persistent pressure, cataloging your vulnerability like it’s something precious to be treasured.

“Perfect,” he whispers, finally easing the pressure on your bladder but continuing to circle your clit with maddening precision. “So fucking perfect for me.”

Without warning, his hand lifts from between your legs only to return in a gentle slap against your soaked pussy.

The impact isn’t painful—just enough to create a small splash, sending droplets of warm liquid spattering across your thighs and his wrist. Your gasp is equal parts shock and confused arousal.

“Look what you did to me,” he murmurs, but there’s no accusation in his tone—only wonder. He repeats the motion, slightly firmer this time, watching in fascination as more liquid splashes from your saturated panties. “Marked me with you.”

You find yourself transfixed by the reverence in his expression, the careful way he explores this new territory between you.

“Caleb,” you breathe, not sure if you’re pleading for him to stop or continue.

His eyes lock with yours as he lifts his wet hand to his face. Time seems to slow as his tongue darts out, tasting the moisture clinging to his fingers.

Your breath catches in your throat—surely he isn’t—he wouldn’t—

But he does. His eyes flutter closed as he sucks his fingers into his mouth, tasting you with evident pleasure.

“Sweet,” he murmurs when his eyes open again, holding your shocked gaze. “Like the rest of you.”

“That’s—that’s disgusting,” you stammer, though your body betrays you with a pulse of heat between your legs at the sight.

Caleb shakes his head slowly, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Nothing about you could ever be disgusting to me, Y/N. Don’t you understand yet?”

His clean hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing across your lower lip. “I want all of you. Every part. Even the parts you think should be hidden.”

“I’ve never—“ you start, then swallow hard. “No one has ever seen me like this before.”

“And no one else ever will,” Caleb says, the words carrying the weight of an oath. “This is just for us. Just for me.” His expression softens, though the possessiveness remains. “Now, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Before you can respond, he’s scooping you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly from the wet spot on the bed. One strong arm supports your back while the other cradles your knees, holding you against his chest as if you weigh nothing at all.

The gesture is so tender, so at odds with the raw intensity of moments before, that fresh tears spring to your eyes.

“Don’t cry, Pips,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he carries you toward the bathroom. “I’ve got you. Always.”

The bathroom is cool and bright after the heated intimacy of the bedroom. Caleb sets you down gently on the closed toilet lid, kneeling before you to peel your soaked panties down your legs.

The apple pattern is barely visible now, the fabric darkened and clinging to your skin. He removes them with unexpected gentleness, setting them aside rather than discarding them in the hamper.

“Arms up,” he instructs softly, and when you comply, he lifts your t-shirt over your head, leaving you completely naked before him.

He turns away to start the shower, adjusting the temperature with careful attention. Steam begins to fill the room as he returns to you, helping you to your feet and guiding you toward the glass enclosure.

“You‘re not coming in?” you ask, suddenly unwilling to be separated from him even for the time it takes to shower.

Caleb’s smile is gentle but his eyes still burn with that hunger. “If I join you now, we’ll never get clean,” he says, voice rough with restraint. “One thing at a time, Pips. We have all month, remember?”

“Go on,” he encourages, hand warm at the small of your back. “I’ll be right here when you’re done.”

When you finally step out of the shower, he‘s waiting with a fluffy towel held open, enveloping you in its warmth and his arms simultaneously.

He dries you with the same attention he showed during the massage, dabbing gently at your sensitive areas and wrapping your damp hair in a second towel with ease.

“Better?” he asks, helping you into a clean t-shirt he must have retrieved from your room while you showered.

You nod, feeling oddly shy now in the aftermath of such intimate exposure. “What about your bed?” you ask, remembering the mess you left behind.

“Don’t worry about that,” he says, something like satisfaction flickering across his expression. “I’ll take care of it later.”

There’s an unspoken promise in those words—that he doesn’t mind, that he might even cherish the evidence of you on his bed.

“That’s what good brothers do, after all,” Caleb adds, his tone light but his eyes anything but as they track over your freshly cleaned body with undisguised hunger. “Take care of their little sisters.”

Refer to Party RSVP

Comment to be tagged!

@littlewhitefairy7777 @celaenaglynn @mothmans-left-nipple @lotusapple-xia @gflscer @swiggitty-swoogity @aoomiines @puchu-puchuu @fulldoves @goobermi6 @typicalme23 @teira-osairis @vy-olet @calebsbabyapple @xyzyogurt @earthtohoney @skyekudasai @kalydos @navvzy @tempeststhings @young-adult-summer @remnantsofgildedcages @applebite01 @vatarvaliantchaosvalkyrie @applarchve @hangingwiththestars @thisaintviolet69 @asilaydead @snowapples-stuff @calebsmeimeii @cherrysherryblossom @mindelicious1 @nansfyy @ccoeurhee @tomriddleslovergirl @beelpita @cchiiwinkle @feelingfaye