my dream maker
samisa, 896 words, E
tags: solo masturbation, pillow humping, cum shot
Skin. It was all over his phone screen, blinking up at him in the dark of his room. Flushed and more tan than usual, like he'd gotten some heavy sun. Sweat dripping down his brow and making its way to rest inbetween two pecs.
Michael was lightheaded from how fast the blood rushed to his cock.
His mouth pooled with saliva and he zoomed in with shaky fingers, taking in every little piece of the picture. The boat, the blue water, the sun lighting up every terrible inch of Sam's toned abdomen. His face squinted up at the camera, mouth half open to reveal teeth.
You're missing out
The accompanying text couldn't be more true. Michael was so chubbed up in his sleep shorts there was an obvious tent in his blanket. It would've been comical if he wasn't five seconds away from losing his goddamn mind.
Sam didn't even mean the photo like that, they're not even like that. As much as Michael would like to be. He'd never admit it to Sam, couldn't handle the chirping if he found out about Michael's weird crush.
He rolls over onto his stomach, groaning loudly into his pillow. This is so fucked. Sam's cherry face is still pulled up in full-screen on his phone, and he turns off auto-lock before propping it up against the water bottle on his nightstand. He's sick for it, probably going to hell, but he stares as he grinds his dick down into the mattress, the friction almost sending him overboard.
It feels good, the drag of material of his Nikes and the sturdiness of the Toffoli's guest mattress. His cock’s already leaking pre and probably creating a big wet spot on the sheets that he'll have to hide later. There's something about being messy that makes it even better, like he's very clearly doing something he's not supposed to.
Michael has to keep swallowing down the spit flooding his tongue or he'll risk drool slipping out. His hips are moving on their own, and it almost starts to hurt a bit with how desperate he is, the mattress veering on the cusp of too hard. He's not thinking when he yanks one of the pillows down from beside his head and shoves it under his cock.
It's like fucking into a cloud, and he reaches down to squish the pillow more, propped up on one elbow so he can still take in Sam's sun-soaked shoulders. He prays Cat and Tyler aren't still awake, because he can hear himself making these pathetic whimpering sounds, and the slightest creak of the bedframe every time he grinds his hips down and forward.
He feels like a fucking girl every time he gets off like this, can't help it when it's just so much better. The pleasure rushes through his whole body, every nerve from his toes to his fingers working overtime. He doesn't even have to focus on anything but humping the pillow and Sam's stupid, pretty body.
His shorts are so wet they're sticking to his cock, chaffing the head in a way that he likes for all of twenty seconds before it burns. He quickly pushes them down, his dick finally coming in full contact with the soft cotton of the pillowcase. Michael doubles over, groaning into his forearm and biting down.
He keeps his teeth latched onto the skin, eyes turning hazy where he still traces them over Sam's collarbones. The position he's in could go two ways, Sam behind him, hands held tight to his hips and cock slamming into him, or Sam under him, taking whatever Michael gives him.
There's teeth impressions and so much spit on his arm he feels kind of gross when he plants his face straight in it, his cheeks going tacky with saliva. No, actually, he doesn't fucking care. He's getting so desperate, his hips fucking the pillow sloppy and rough and uncoordinated now.
Sam's name is fighting it's way up and out of his throat, curses and pleases and shit that would humiliate him for the rest of his life. He thinks of Sam hearing him, like if he just reached up and called him right now, whined loud into his ear about how badly he wants him and how he could be whatever he needed him to be.
Michael grips the sheets so hard they pull from where they're taut on the mattress, and the way he's humping the pillow goes erratic, so frantic he can feel the heat building up inside of his stomach like a ticking time bomb.
The phone gets yanked from the nightstand and put right under his chest, and he holds himself up enough to reach down and quickly stroke his cock. His orgasm bubbles over and he groans, going taut and almost collapsing forward as his cock spurts out cum. Milky white streaks hit the tip of the pillow and all over Sam's face.
"Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck-"
Michael feels like he comes forever, his cum practically covering his entire phone screen and making a fucking mess of his bed. He rubs himself through it, pinching out the last weak dribbles of release before his entire body falls, absolutely exhausted.
There's nothing to do but laugh when he opens his eyes to find Sam filthy and soaked in his sheets. His wet dream come to life.
