REDAMANCY — the act of loving in return.
mdni. male solo masturbation (Caleb) he uses your panties. and he’s very much in love.
Caleb yearns.
He yearns, and he yearns, and he yearns, and he yearns. He feels it innately, an instinctual longing for your presence and heat—anything of yours. Does it with something deeply ingrained into him like a repeating code etched into his wires, and sometimes, he feels that is all he knows how to do. He aches for you in ways that are greedy and possessive.
And he knows it.
He misses you, too. Constantly. Feverishly. Thinks of you when you’re not around and sees you in every aspect of his mundane, bleak routine. It comes to the point where Caleb is positive that this pure, unadulterated love that festers zealous blooms in his heart is the only guarantee in his life.
Desire, too, follows him where you linger in his mind even when your presence is absent. Desire so prominent that it feels as if fire lights in his veins, crawling into his body as it comes to rest in every pump of his heart, eating at the cage of his ribs like the want itself can carve the bones away so his heart may reach yours.
It’s the same love and desire in him that leads him to your room in his Skyhaven residence. It’s a room he’s become intimately familiar with—holding your lasting scent and touch of color in his otherwise monotone house (it is a house and not a home, because his home will forever be where you are.)
Those very things lead him to the dresser by your nightstand, his hand stopping just before it reaches the handle, hovering over it for just a few seconds. Long enough to think about the simmering arousal in him, weighing morals and want. He thinks about you, as he always does.
Thinks about your smile and stubbornness. Contemplates how to protect and care for you in all the ways he no longer knows how to do. Wrestles his love and devotion. Turns you around in his mind, over and over and over.
And he opens the dresser.
Inside, right where he last left it, are pairs upon pairs of your panties. Some in comfortable cotton and some in sultry lace. Each and every one makes his pants unbearably taut and cock achingly hard.
His hand twitches, nails biting into the flesh of his palm, an automatic reaction to the flimsy articles of clothing that've been pressed flush against your most delicate parts. And the images it brings of you in his mind bite with a vengeance that stirs up the heat coiling low in his gut. You're seared into every neuron pulsing in his mind. Specifically, a visual of you—dressed in the lacy black pair he chooses out of the plethora.
The last time these panties were in his hands was when he last took them off you. Sliding them down your legs while you whimpered his name in whiny pitch and trembling breath. Unfortunately, he's washed them since then, and with it has gone your scent. But not the memories.
Now, those same memories flood his head as he collapses on your bed, sound mind muffled behind the hum of lust rushing through him. Once, he felt shame in doing this, rummaging through traces of you and indulging in his hunger. It used to be shame and guilt that ate at him early on in your relationship, dwindling as far back as your teenage years, but it's different now. This is love and devotion and desire. It's a reservoir of everything that defines his truest form. This is his rawest version—the one you love.
Caleb tugs his pants down just enough to free his cock—thick, heavy, and throbbing when it meets the charged air. The slick head drools with need as he drags his hot palm over it, sucking in a sharp breath at the touch. It'd be better if it were your touch over him, so, so much better. He wishes it were your warmth bleeding into his body, heart pumping in mirroring tandem against his, and flesh fusing into flesh until he can haul you into euphoric paradise with him, breathless and satisfied—that, to him, would be home.
But you're not here. And Caleb can do nothing but bury his nose into the pillow to catch the remnants of your scent, wrap the delicate fabric around his shaft, and soak the lace as he bucks his hips.
In his mind, it's you with him. A vivid, carnal fantasy that descends into his head, spinning mirages of you on your back, looking down eagerly at him while your legs bracket his broad shoulders. You'd thread your fingers through his hair, tugging insistently in that cute, needy way you always do, lashes fluttering and pleading his name before you guide him to where you want his tongue the most.
And he swears he can taste you on his tongue—after all, he remembers it well, he could never forget. Familiar sweet nectar pooling in his mouth that makes him salivate, humping fervently into the sopping lace. He'd eat you so well, always does. Sucks and drools on your clit to get you wetter, sloppier before lapping up the mess, spreading it over puffy folds and that delicate hole that oozes with flushed need. He knows exactly how you want it, knows the precise pitch and gasp and twitch you make when you're close. It's how he wants you, too. Always needy, always pleased for him.
Or he could have you perched on his lap, weeping cunt full of his cock. He'd sit back and watch you stubbornly struggle to ride him, your nails raking down his chest in delicious pain before you do that adorable scrunch in your features, batting your eyes and asking him to help. Because you need him—you need him to make you feel good. And it's what gets Caleb off the most.
He'd indulge, always indulges in your begging and whining. Hands latched to your hips, lips to your perky tits as he moves you up and down, listening to the symphonious squelch of your pussy sinking down on his shaft. You'd sound even better when his thumb finds your clit, circling it in tight rounds that make you cry his name and cling closer so his scent and touch cloud you fully. You'd be his, and you'd claim him more in every way he already is. Your love desecrates him completely.
"F-fuck…" He mutters the syllables of your name raggedly, like a devotee to an altar. It's similar, he thinks, to how he feels about you. You're his entire world; he orbits you, made from the same source, and everything you are, he is too.
His strokes fall off their rhythm, holding the lace tighter against his cock so the fabric bites roughly, running it over the sensitive head of his cock with a hissed sigh. The avid longing in his chest ricochets back tenfold as he grows closer.
… Caleb, I love you…
That's what breaks him. Your words that his mind conjures up in hazy, blurred ecstasy whispered so gently to him.
"I-I love you mo-more," he chokes out to the silence, words layered with croaked devotion that you won't hear, a guttural moan tearing through him as he comes in thick, hot spurts. Ivory ribbons soiling the black lace, seeping into the delicate threads as he shudders with searing release.
It feels more intense than usual. He cums harder than he normally does, spills more over lacy fabric and sheets before the quivering euphoria leaves him slumped.
After a long pause of heavy breathing and silence, Caleb looks down at the soiled black lace, and he laughs, the quiet kind of laugh that sounds more like a tired sigh than anything of joy. You'd tease him constantly if you found out what he does without you. You tease and tease and tease until you've had your fill. And if it made you happy, if it made you need him a little more, he'd let you. Always.
The besotted feelings he harbors for you feel like the only tether he has left sometimes; everything else is something he's buried away long ago. After all, you're the only thing he needs.
And maybe it's because he loves you a little more than you realize.
caleb and i were actually in the same class when we got our phds in yearnology