well-behaved. clive rosfield/reader. tags: petplay, hybrid au, puppy boy clive, submissive clive, hand jobs
Your fingers run through his tousled mane of dark hair, the sudden bliss of your touch eliciting a small whimper. His ear twitches, the fur silken, and you can’t resist the urge to give him a well-earned scritch, savoring the breathy sigh he rewards you with. All things considered, he’s been such a good boy—
He pushes greedily into your palm, breath warm against your fingers as you slide down to cup his cheek. The bristled stubble draws a shiver down your spine. You cast him a glance as he kisses your palm. His tongue peeks out from between plush lips, greedily running over the salt of your skin.
“You’re distracting me,” you mumble, and gently pinch his nose. He grumbles, dissatisfied, and drops his face into your thigh, rubbing up against you through your trousers.
“You should already be distracted by the naked man who's been sitting at your feet for the better part of an hour” Clive lifts his head just enough to glower at you. Such a mean look would be intimidating if he were not already on his knees and bare. “What are you working on up there, anyways?”
He’s entirely hunched over, hulking mass of him curled to press against your lower leg. His cock is absolutely throbbing—weeping, even. Every now and again, his hips twitch. He’s barely holding back the urge to rut against you, still too proud despite the plug you know is wedged between his cheeks, settled underneath the plush expanse of his tail.
You pinch the tip of one crooked ear. “Important paperwork,” you say coolly. “Like your adoption papers. They were very happy to hand over such a poorly behaved pup.”
“Hah,” Clive huffs humorlessly at your little joke.
“Silly, really. They just didn’t know how to make you act like a good boy.”
“And how is that?” Clive inquires, a measure intrigued as he peers up at you. The press of his body is immeasurably warm up against you. He’s his own furnace.
“I’ll tell you, but you have to come here first.” You pat your lap with both hands, your smile bright and expectant. He blinks at you, as though attempting to discern if this is another joke—but there is no humor to your countenance.
“What? I’ll squish you.” he says, frankly concerned.
You don’t dignify him with a response. It’s an order, one you give whilst well-aware of how his weight will likely crush you into this chair.
“...If you insist,” Clive says. He sighs, but he clambers onto your lap just a bit too eagerly to be humoring you. He settles perpendicular to you, both of his thighs settled across yours. It must be a ridiculous sight, considering how he has to hunch in on himself to fit, how his legs dangle far over the armrest. One of his arms wraps around the back of your shoulders, forced to cling tight lest he topple to the floor. Your legs are probably going to be numb by the end of this, but it’s hard to care when you’re finally able to run your hand up and down the abundant expanse of his chest.
He sighs into your temple, rippling muscle of his abdomen tensing as you skirt your touch over his tummy, nails scratching light at his skin. You pet the downy hair there.
“You’re so beautiful, Clive,” you purr into his throat. He tilts his head and exhales shakily as you kiss up and down the strong column of his throat, going bone loose against you. He shivers and sighs. His hand clings onto one of the chair’s arms, grip knuckle-white as you come dangerously close to his erect cock. He’s got one of the prettiest you’ve ever seen, flushed and weeping. You would have him in your lap all the time, if you could. Safe and warm in your arms.
“Don’t,” he mutters, half-hearted and weak. He hides his face, nose pressing to the top of your head. Anything else he could have said dies on his tongue as you finally wrap your hand around his heavy, aching cock. Your fingers just barely touch together, girth as impressive as his length.
He gives throaty moans and husky growls, a euphony of deep sounds he can scarcely withhold. He’s long since given up on trying—a habit you had wrung out of him by the fourth day of living together.
“So good for me,” you continue. His halfhearted little protests are belied by the sounds he makes as you start to pump him in earnest, slow and sweet.
He arches his back, skin glistening with new sweat. Your free hand wanders up to his chest, petting the plush of his pecs. Your thumb skirts around his areola in circles.
“God, your chest is just not fair,” you mumble.
“So you’ve said,” he says, a little shake in his voice. His petal perfect lips open to say something else, but his voice pitches into a debauched whine. You pinch his left nipple, bud pebbled against the chilled air in your study.
He goes quiet, then. Only breathes wetly as he struggles to tamper down each lewd noise. His eyes flutter shut and his face contorts with each syrupy pulse of pleasure, cock throbbing hot in your hand as you knead him. His hips roll, pathetic little squirms atop of your thighs. The looming threat of tumbling over the armrest and onto the floor keeps him clinging tight to your shoulders, each desperate pant brushing against your temple. He kisses you there, and on your cheek, any patch of skin he can reach, really.
“Oh, Clive. You’re so perfect.” you praise, and he lets loose a choked sob.
He cums into your fist with a quiet sob, taut muscles of his abdomen shuddering. Thick cum spurts on his chest and dribbles over your closed fingers. You work him through it, until his moans tremble onto the wrong side of pained. Still, he doesn’t ask you to stop. One of Clive’s biggest weaknesses is his desperation to please. He craves approval like he needs air to breathe, lets you draw climax after climax out of him because he knows you love seeing him so ruined, so debauched.
And there are times when you will keep going, keep wringing pleasure from him until he forgets his own name. Those are some of his best moments, when his tummy and chest are painted white with his own cum. When his head is tossed back to give you more room to kiss, to bite, to carve your claim into his very flesh.
But you’re feeling particularly sweet on him, today, so you stop. He slumps in relief, catching his breath. Hot puffs of air brush your temple. His spent cock rests heavy next to his thigh.
“Good?” you lean over, pressing a kiss to his jaw.
“You’ll be the death of me,” he says after several shuddering breaths. His chest rises and falls with each one. You shamelessly admire the plush of his pecs.
“A little death, maybe,” you murmur. You nip at one of his hickies, relish in the hitch of his breath. Your lips linger against the skin, letting him feel your fond smile.