˚ · . 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐀𝐑 𝐌𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐘
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: earlyseason(s)!spencer reid x fem!reader
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Spencer loves you no matter what you earn. It’s just a benefit, really, that you’re exceptionally wealthier than he is and you love to spoil him. — masterlist.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: established relationship —bratty!sub!spencer, soft!dom reader, mommy kink, handjobs, dumbification, oral sex [f recieving], safewords [red, green], aftercare
Spencer Reid isn’t exactly one for materialism.
Sure, contemporary society suffers from a consumer culture, and owning expensive items makes people feel good. And, yes, Spencer is a person, so by affiliation, him owning expensive should makes him feel good.
Sure, having a nice, expensive outfit makes Spencer feel good. More than good, actually — feeling luxurious makes him feel attractive, alluring, and he admits that he would love to own more pairs of Dior shoes than he already does.
Despite this, Spencer’s paycheck isn’t exactly hefty enough to buy everything that he wants to buy. He can’t afford all of Dior neckties and Rolex watches that he wants on his own accord. He can’t even look at them without grimacing at the price, which is a little disappointing because he loves the way they look and feel.
Luckily for him, however, that’s where you come in.
Spencer isn’t exactly sure what you do for work. He doesn’t even want to know. He knows it’s not porn, and that makes him satisfied enough, because he isn’t too sure how he’d handle other men looking at you and touching you.
What you do for work is satisfactory. You keep it a secret, you keep it hush — though you have assured him it’s not anything illegal. It gives him a peace of mind, allows him to stay silent when you walk in with a hefty amount of cash after a long day.
Spencer stays silent because he loves you and he loves being spoilt. He stays silent because the second your eyes fall on him, you drop the overwhelming stack of hundred dollar bills on the counter, scattering it all over the place, just to pepper him in kisses.
It’s his favourite part of the day. Especially when he’s been away for so long on a case and he’s been waiting for you on your couch, stirring and needy for your touch.
Spencer can’t count the days one hand the last time he saw you. By proxy, that means it’s been too long. He shuffles on your couch, uncomfortable as he cranes his neck towards your apartment’s door, his eyes flickering down to the Rolex on his wrist that you’d gifted him only two weeks ago, before he left for the case.
You’re late.
Usually, you’re home at six o’clock on the dot. You’re punctual — it’s something he adores about you. Your obsession with sticking to routine allows him a comfort he didn’t know he needed, which is why his face is flushed red in confusion as he realises you’re a half hour late.
He suddenly feels so small sitting on your couch. You’re never late, and he wonders if he’s intruded — what if you had plans, and that’s why you’re not home yet?
He gets so wrapped up in his own mind that he doesn’t hear the door open, nor the clicking of your heels as you walk in.
A sight for sore eyes. Doctor Spencer Reid, your Spencer, is sat on your five thousand dollar leather couch, his knees drawn up to his chest in thinking. A cashmere purple scarf wraps around his neck like a snake, and you smile as you notice his fingers subconsciously rolling against the fabric.
Your heart flutters as you watch him. He smells like Creed Himalaya, the scent of the expensive cologne flooding your senses as you slowly saunter towards him. He’s wearing his glasses, for once — the frames being Cartier, a gift you had brought him three months ago when he’d dropped his contact lenses and lost them somewhere in your bedroom. There’s a few rings that you’ve brought him plastered on his fingers, and he toys with them nervously, his chest rising and falling.
“Spencer,” you call, and his head finally raises, his honey eyes dilating the second his pupils find your face, “are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he breathes, and his fingers abandon his rings, opting to reach out for you instead. “Are you okay?”
His voice is timid and small, so lovingly sensitive. His fingertips brush your waist, his hands toying with the fabric of your workshirt lightly.
“I’m perfect.” You reach down, your fingertips brushing beneath his chin. Spencer’s big eyes instantly flicker up to yours, a glint in them that has your stomach flooding with warmth. “Especially now I’ve seen you, handsome.”
His cheeks tinge pink, and you can’t bite back the smile which tugs at your lips. Always so nervy, his eyes dart away, a small ‘thank you’ brushing past his lips.
Brown curls brushing over your clothed stomach, Spencer nuzzles his forehead into your navel. His breath comes softly, his lashes tickling you as he closes his eyes, his big hands enveloping your waist.
“You haven’t greeted me properly yet,” you say finally, your hands trailing through his curls. “Two weeks without seeing me, and you’ve forgotten your place?”
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, and he stands from his position on the couch.
As he does, your head has to tilt upwards to follow him. He’s much taller than you are, and your hands gently brush over his Ralph Lauren cardigan. It’s fraying at the hems, and you pout slightly.
“I’m going to need to buy you another one of these soon,” you murmur, your face warm as Spencer’s hands softly press against your cheek, his head dipping to pull you into a gentle kiss.
Lips soft against yours, Spencer’s careful to worship you. To kiss you intently, as an apology for not greeting you as you’ve asked him to before. His thumb brushes over your cheekbone, and he drowns in the scent of your Miss Dior perfume, the subtle taste of your cherry lipstick dancing along his tastebuds.
When he finally pulls away, his cheeks are flushed. His lips are a little swollen and puffy, and he smiles apologetically as your hands run over the worn fabric of his cardigan. “I’m sorry. I just pull at the threads when I’m nervous. You know, one in three people actually have an anxiety disorder, and out of all of those people, sixty-three percent are female?”
“I didn’t know that,” you say quietly, your fingers darting over the frayed woven. You watch his eyes follow your movements, and you wonder if he thinks you’re upset with him. “I’m not mad at you, Spencer.”
“I know. It’s just —” he swallows, and his Adams’ Apple bobs nervously, “—it’s upset me. This cardigan was a gift that you got me when we first started dating.”
His lips jut into a pout.
“I’ll buy you another one,” you state simply, and you run your hands along his scarf.
He smiles. “I know you will.”
You beam back at him, and you softly slip his scarf off of his neck.
His neck is plain, rid of the bruises that you sent him away with two weeks ago. It’s a reminder that it’s been half a month without his touch, and your body thrums with excitement as you gently glide your thumb over his throat.
“Was work okay?”
“Work was work,” he responds quickly, his hands coming up to cup your wrists. Spencer’s eyes bore into yours, brimming with love and adoration. “You?”
You grin. “We don’t talk about my work,” you reply, your eyes flickering down to his pillowy lips. “Now, give me another kiss, Spencer.”
He obliges. Of course, he obliges. Spencer will do anything you ask of him. It’s his biggest weakness, and arguably his biggest flaw — you could tell him to ‘jump’, and he’d respond ‘how high?’.
This time, Spencer studies your face before he indulges you. It’s disobedient, it’s bratty, but he has to see you. His lips teasingly brush over yours as he memorises the way your nose crinkles slightly and your brows knit together, the way your lashes fan faintly across your cheekbones as your eyes flutter shut in anticipation.
“Tease,” you grumble as his lips brush softly against yours, hardly encasing you into a kiss.
“I’m not a tease.”
“Maybe brat is more of an appropriate word,” you quip back, and at this, Spencer finally presses his lips against yours in an adequate manner.
Your thumb glides over his button-up shirt, your mouth moulding perfectly against his. His tongue runs over your bottom lip, and you listen to his whimper when you reject him.
“You are most certainly being a brat right now,” you comment, your eyes piercing as you pull away from his lips.
Spencer pouts. He is being a brat, but that’s his role. “I’ve missed you,” he responds, ignoring your comment as he attempts to pull you back in, his hands delicate against your face.
It’s not exactly that he’s missed you. Sure, he most certainly has — but there’s a weird twinge of jealousy which pulses through him. For the life of him, he can’t figure out why you’re home late; and he wants your attention, and he’s too shy to ask.
He’s acting out. He knows it, and you know it.
“So that makes it okay for you to tease me? To forget your place?” Your voice is soft, but the underlying meaning behind it is not, and you resist his feeble attempt at drawing another kiss out of you.
He thrums with excitement at your pointed tone, his eyes scanning your face.
“I’m not being a tease,” Spencer says quietly, innocently, making sure to put on the most vulnerable expression he can muster, “and I’m most certainly not being a brat.”
Your eyes flick over his face. You hate how his big, rounded chocolate eyes make you melt. The way they glisten with apology, the way they never falter as they bore into your own.
“Stop lying to me.” You softly place his scarf on your coffee table, facing away from him. “If you lie to me again, you’re not getting your gift.”
At this, Spencer’s ears seem to perk up. His face literally lightens, and he takes a feathery step forward, his hands taking their rightful place back on your waist.
Gift. He should’ve known, really. It’s been two weeks. Of course you’d gotten him a gift — you always do when he goes away for long periods of time. His heart flutters in his chest, his fingers curling into the soft flesh of your waist.
“A gift?” He asks quietly. “What kind of gift?”
“You might not get it if you keep playing this game of yours,” you warn him, although you’re lying, and both you and Spencer know it.
His lips set into a frown. He weighs out his options. He could either continue being bratty and then be put in his place, perhaps having his present taken away from him as a result, or he could cave and behave and get his gift now.
“Okay,” Spencer says, his hands slipping from your waist. “I surrender. Can I get my gift, now?”
You snort at him. His hazel eyes are glinting with excitement, his hands intertwined as he awaits your answer. He sways on his feet, his thumb brushing subconsciously over the diamond rings you had purchased him.
“No,” you respond, amusement lacing your tone. “You can’t just be a brat and then get a present. What kind of person would I be if I let you walk all over me like that?”
Spencer pouts, a look of disbelief flooding his features. “All I did was not kiss you when you came in,” he argues, his voice coming out like a whine.
“That’s not all you did.” You raise your hand to cup his face, forcing his eyes onto yours. “You didn’t meet my eye to begin with. You didn’t kiss me. When I asked you for a kiss, you deliberately teased me. Do you know how hard it is when I’ve not seen you for two weeks, and then you decide to act out?”
Head dipping in guilt, Spencer tries to avoid your eye. Of course, he knows how awful it is to be teased after that long, because you do it to him all of the time. You flaunted around in nothing but lavender lingerie the last time he was away for more than a week, forbidding him from touching you. It had been painful — excruciating, and he can feel his head grow light as the uncomfortable tightness in his trousers grow worse as he thinks back to how mean you were.
He doesn’t want to get on your bad side again.
“Okay.” He raises his eyes back up to yours. “I’m sorry. I mean it.”
“You mean it?”
“I mean it.”
As if to add to his point, Spencer nods his head. His words are affirming, and he stays still. You convey him, weighing up his words.
“Get on your knees, then.”
Spencer’s eyes glint, but he doesn’t move. He stays glued into place.
You stare at him, unwavering. “Why are you making me repeat myself today?” You tut, and shake your head. “Maybe you aren’t all that sorry.“
As you begin to turn, Spencer sinks to his knees. His hands reach up to grab at the plush flesh of your thighs, and his eyes are slightly wide and blown as he cups the flesh through your dress.
“Please.” His voice is breathy and his pupils are dilated from his lust, sheathing his honey irises. “I’m sorry. I mean it.”
“Did I give you permission to touch me?”
Something similar to a strangled whine crawls out of Spencer’s throat, but his hands drop from your thighs. His lips are set into a small pout, his brows furrowed. You can feel your slick uncomfortably begin to paint your panties as you stare down at him; his subservient stance making your body thrum with arousal.
Feeling lightheaded, Spencer shakes his head. “No. I’m sorry,” he whispers, feeling foolish as he gazes up at you. All of his blood has rushed somewhere else entirely, and he finds himself forgetting about the prospect of gift-giving as he stares up at you from his position on the floor.
You look deliciously cruel.
“Colour?” You ask, your features softening for only a second.
“Green.”
He says green, so you go for it.
“You’re being awfully naughty tonight, aren’t you?” Your words cut through him like a knife.
Your hands glide into his hair, your lips quirking upwards slightly as he shivers from your touch. His brows pinch together as you reprimand him, confusion fluttering his features.
“I’m not meaning to be,” his answers, lying through his teeth, and you can hear his voice crack as your heels softly glide over the tight crotch of his trousers. “I’m sorry.”
Spencer is agonisingly hard.
“Your apologises mean nothing if you don’t have the decency to respect me by referring to me by name.”
His lips part, so pillowy and pink, so swollen. Desperate to touch you, but unable to do so, Spencer’s fingers curl into his trousers, a low whimper slipping past his lips as your heel gently begins to press down into his crotch, applying a satisfying amount of pressure to his throbbing cock. He knows what you want, and he’s now desperate to give it to you.
“I’m sorry…” his voice shakes as he meets your eye, “…mommy. I’m sorry, mommy. I mean it.”
“You mean it?”
“God, yes, I mean it more than anything,” he breathes, his voice laced with affirmation. His eyes screw shut as your heel teasingly glides over his inner thigh.
You blink down at him. You pull your heel away, tired of watching him writhe beneath you. “Clothes off, Spencer.”
You don’t have to tell him that twice.
His button-up and cardigan are tossed to the floor besides him before you could even finish speaking his name. The clinging sound of his Gancini belt floods your ears, and you watch as he struggles to unbuckle it, his lust for you making him dumb.
“I thought you were supposed to be smart,” you call from above him, taking satisfaction in the way his fingers glide over the leather.
“I am smart,” he says, wavering slightly as he tugs the belt off. He lets out a satisfied huff, his cheeks reddened from his frustration, and he scrambles to unbutton his trousers.
You hum in response. “Clearly not. You couldn’t even take off your belt, and you’re talking back again.”
Biting back a retort, Spencer slides his trousers down. The tent in his boxers is impressive, the grey fabric stained darker from his lust, and your eyes stay trained on the dribble of precum which has bled through.
“Needy?” You ask slyly, and he shuffles from your praise.
“Yes. I’m sorry, mommy. I can’t help it.” His breathing quickens as he slides his trousers off. “I’ve needed you everyday the past two weeks.”
His fingers tremble as he pulls his boxers down, exposing his cock. The tip is red, glistening with dribbles of precum, and you watch as his hands stay by his sides, waiting for your next command.
“Did you touch yourself when you were away?”
“No, never.” Spencer shakes his head, “I know the rules, mommy. I wouldn’t dare to break them.”
“You’ve broken a lot of rules tonight, baby. How can I trust you?”
You indulge him with your touch. Your fingers dance beneath his chin, tilting his head up to look at you. The expression on his face is priceless — his features contorted into a mixture of submissive and pure desperation.
He blinks. You rub your thighs together, the slick in your panties a result of his pitiful actions tonight. One thing you love more than a docile, willing Spencer is a bratty Spencer, and in reality, he wasn’t being all too bad.
You just needed an excuse to punish him.
“I — I wouldn’t lie to you, mommy. Ever.” His heart races in his chest as you sit on the couch opposite him, his hands still remaining at his side. “I promise.”
You smile down at him. “You’re such a good boy when you want to be,” you praise sweetly, “now, come here. Mommy wants you.”
Spencer shuffles forward slightly. He slots between your legs perfectly, his eyes finding yours. He waits.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Four seconds pass until you speak again. You’d spent those four seconds gliding your eyes over his frame, appreciating every dip, every freckle, every scar.
“You were being a brat —“
“—I was not being a brat, mommy, I —”
“—Interrupt me one more time, baby, and I’m going to make sure you don’t cum for a month.”
Your voice is smooth. Steady. Even. You mean it.
You blink, and then Spencer blinks. His cheeks tint a deep shade of red, and he leans backwards slightly. Lips parting, they then close. He wants to argue; to say that he just wanted to embed your face into his memory so he could relive the moment of seeing you for the first time in two weeks forever, but it doesn’t matter.
You’re going to punish him anyway.
“I’m sorry, mommy.”
You cock your head. “I know you are,” you say, after observing him for an additional for seconds.
He shuffles, the tip of his cock brushing against your ankle. You watch how his teeth grit, how a quiet hiss is born and killed in his throat. He’s sensitive, he’s sore, and he’s needy.
But he’s also bratty.
“You’ve been so naughty,” you begin again, your voice smooth and even as you stare down at Spencer, “why?”
He blinks. “I missed you.”
“Nuh-uh. It’s more than that.” Your brows pinch together, and you open your legs a little further. “What have I done to turn my pretty boy into such a little brat?”
Your fingers are cool and soft against his face. You reach towards him; angling yourself so the low-cut of your dress exposes itself to him.
From the way your thighs have parted to show him how wet you are, your panties dampened; darkened by your slick, Spencer knows you want him just as badly as he wants you.
He swallows. “I just missed you,” he tries again, his voice thick with emotion. “Please. I’m sorry, mommy.”
He’s lying, and you know it.
“Colour?”
“Green.”
You reach out to cup his face. “Stop being a brat, Spencer. I’m serious now,” you say, digging your nails into his cheeks slightly, relishing in the way he inhales sharply. “What’s gotten into you?”
He whines. His brows knit together and he pulls away. You let him, your eyes still trained on his.
“You were late,” Spencer mumbles, quiet as a mouse, gazing away from you. His words are incoherent, and you tilt your head.
“Repeat yourself, baby. I can’t hear you when you mumble. You know that.”
Your fingers gently graze his jaw, and you encourage him to meet your eyes. The necklace you’re wearing — the one which spells out Spencer’s name — is hidden between your cleavage, and his eyes flutter shut.
It’s pathetic, but he repeats himself, more clearly this time. “You were late home, mommy.”
You feel your shoulders lax. “I was late?”
“You were late. You’re never late.” Spencer opens his eyes again, and you almost pity him for how solemn he looks. “I — I don’t like the idea of other people having your attention.”
“How late was I?” You ask.
“Thirty minutes,” he grumbles, and he feels pathetic now. You’re staring down at him with an unreadable expression, and he pouts. “I — that’s our time, mommy. You know that.”
Spencer craves routine. He craves stability, and with his messy job, you bring him that. Coming home late meant that it was broken, and coming home late probably meant that one of your many male colleagues were dragging you into conversation when you were supposed to be at home with him.
“I do know that, baby.” Your voice is soothing, and your thumb glides over his cheek. “I’m sorry.”
Your stomach twirls with heat.
Spencer Reid — your Spencer Reid — a doctor with three PhD’s, who has never been anything but kind and docile, is jealous.
“You’re being bratty because you wanted my attention?” You ask quietly, your fingers gently running through his hair.
Spencer feels his face grow even warmer. There’s an ache that’s been pulsing between his legs for the better half of forty minutes. You’ve been teasing him, non-stop. He presses his head against your cool thigh to soothe the heat on his face — and surprisingly, you don’t reprimand him.
“Yes,” he admits quietly, trying to dull the throbbing of his leaking cock. “I’m sorry, mommy.”
You tug him by his hair slightly. It sends a wave of pleasure throbbing through him.
“You could’ve just said so,” your voice is plain, “you know, because I understand.”
“You understand?”
“Yeah.” You see his shoulders lax. You part your thighs more, watching the way his eyes flicker down to your soaked panties. Relishing in the ways his pupils dilate. “But you’re still going to have to make it up to me.”
Spencer blushes. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”
He doesn’t ask for your permission to touch you, and for once, you don’t scold him.
There’s something so arousing about the way his nimble fingers push your soaked panties to the side. He’s eager — there’s no denying that. The low groan which slips past his lips as his eyes dart over your slick, puffy folds is affirmation of that, and he gently grazes his teeth against your inner thigh as he nears the area in which you need him most.
“Spencer,” you warn as he presses teasing kisses to your thigh, his warm breath fanning your cunt.
You swear you hear him chuckle. “Sorry, mommy,” he murmurs, “I’ll get to the point.”
Chanel, Dior, Louis Vuitton.
The three brands swirl inside of your brain, creates a luxurious mixture of words as he dips his head further.
You’re going to buy him whatever he wants after this.
Spencer’s tongue rolls through your sticky folds, licking a deliberate, slow stripe up your heat. Warmth bubbles in your stomach as he does so, your chest tight with desire as your hands find his locks.
So perfect, positioned between your legs like the obedient little brat he is, his hazel eyes sheathed by their lids as he indulges in the taste of you.
“So sweet,” Spencer praises, and you don’t miss the way he grinds against your ankle in the process.
You part your lips to scold him for his movements, but the words die in your throat as his tongue rolls around your delicate pearl.
Spencer knows your body better than you know it yourself. You let out a quiet gasp, your stomach growing flush with arousal as his nose presses further into your pelvis, his tongue lapping at you. He’s like a dog starved; a bitch in heat, his tongue flicking up and down your folds as he grinds his hips into your ankle.
Another shuddery whimper glides past your lips. Spencer's fingers curl into the soft flesh of your thighs, and he nuzzles closer towards you. His lips pepper lewd kisses along your folds, suckling around your clit gently, aware that you're overwhelmingly sensitive.
You tug on his hair softly, encouraging him to do more. You can feel his lips quirk upwards, and he feels your walls pulse, desperate for something more than his mouth. You don't want him to indulge you — if you did, you'd say, so he keeps his hands by his side, rolling the sensitive tip of his cock against the soft skin of your ankle.
"That's it," you murmur, your fingers curling in his hair, tugging at the roots of his brunette curls, "my good boy."
Spencer lets out a quiet whimper. You angle your ankle so he can hump against it easier, the slick of his precum acting as lube against your skin. Your body grows electric with sparks as his tongue licks stripes up and down your cunt, his tongue carefully swirling around your clit.
Your legs jolt, and his fingers curl into your thighs more. You're sure his fingers will leave bruises in their wake, but you don't care — you praise him, consistently, until your sentences becomes strings of wordless, incoherent babbles.
"Spencer," you whine, bucking your cunt into his face.
"Please, mommy," he begs shakily, "cum for me? Please? Wanna taste you so bad, mommy, please?"
Movements becoming more deliberate, more sloppy, Spencer lets out a choked groan as you tug his hair again — this time, a little harder. Your thighs clench, and your walls flutter, your stomach blooming with butterflies as you grind down against his face.
You indulge him, blinking away stars as Spencer's lips and tongue sloppily dote on your clit. Your mouth opens and closes, quiet gasps of pleasure spilling past your lips, your stomach tight with pleasure.
It feels like there's a knot inside of you. Spencer's worshipping is ripping it apart, slowly, and your eyes grow teary, swirls of black and white stars shrouding your vision.
You walls flutter, and your hips judder against his face.
You cum, gasping and writhing, your hands curling in his hair tightly, locking him into place. Spencer doesn't move, instead, lapping up everything that you give him. He indulges himself in you completely, happily drowning himself in you.
"Thank you, mommy," Spencer blushes, pulling away from your cunt. A string of spit and slick follows him, and his lower lip glistens from your orgasm. "So tasty."
His voice drops, and you roll your eyes. Your breath shudders as you exhale, blinking away stars as you gaze down at him.
"You're stupid."
"No, I'm not, mommy."
You lean forward, swiping your thumb over his lower lip. You collect the string of salvia and cum, pushing the pad of your thumb past his lips, humming as they instinctively suck on your digit.
"You're not dumb?" you ask, not moving your ankle away from Spencer as he continues to roll his hips against you.
"No." Spencer's breath hitches slightly as precum dribbles out of his sensitive tip. "I'm not dumb. I have an IQ of —"
"— 187, three PhD's, and you can read up to 20,000 words per minute." You lean backwards, pulling your thumb from his lips. "You're not dumb, baby. You're right. I'm wrong."
Spencer beams at this, your appraisal sending jolts of electricity pulsing through him. His tip brushes over your ankle, and his head lulls against your thigh. It's not much, but he's been going at it for a while now, and the friction is just enough to get him going, to get his length pulsing with want.
It's when you draw your ankle away, he's snapped back into reality. "But when I'm done with you, Spencer," you sneer down at him, your painted red lips twisting upwards into a cruel grin, "you will be."
Already, the lustful desire of needing you has melted his brain to mush. He's entirely forgotten about the gift that you'd gotten him, and your lips quirk twitch in satisfaction as he gazes up at you silently, his beautiful, honey-coloured eyes glistening with anticipation.
You wait until he speaks.
"Mommy —"
"Bedroom, baby." You interrupt, drawing your hands away from his face. When he stays still between your legs, you instruct, "now."
You don't have to ask him a third time. Spencer practically scrambles from his position on the floor, desperate to reach your bedroom before you call him back and decide to scold him further.
Whatever you've got planned for him must be somewhat tame if you're secluding it to the privacy of your bedroom.
It doesn't take long for you to follow him. You're pulling your shirt off when you enter your bedroom — the blouse fluttering down towards the ground, forgotten as you begin to unclip your bra.
Spencer's mildly upset that you've decided to strip without his help, having been looking forward to undressing you. It's arguably his favourite pastime; being able to shed you of your clothes and worship every inch of your exposed skin. He tries not to show his disappointment, but it doesn't work, the frown on his lips evidence of his dismay.
"Did you really thing I'd let you undress me after you've been so bratty?" You ask, watching his eyes dart over your body, although they're primarily focused on your chest.
He pouts as you say this. "I guess I'd thought you'd be nice," he grumbles, his hands positioned on his thighs as he stares at you.
You bite back a laugh at this. "I'm never nice," you respond, sliding into bed. You pat his back slightly, urging him forwards.
"You are nice," Spencer responds, following your instructions. He shuffles forward, and you position yourself against your pillows, your body resting against the headboard. His brows knit together in thought as you struggle to grow comfortable, and he adds, "sometimes."
"I'm nice when you're good," you tell him, finally satisfied with your position.
Spencer leans his head against your shoulder, and he exhales softly. You're so close — there's not an inch of you not touching him. Your thighs are looped on either side of his, your arms wrapped around his middle. Spencer looks so content like this, snuggled against you, in your arms; entirely at your mercy.
"I'm always good, mommy."
"Liar."
You softly glide your hand over his front, beginning at his navel. You ignore the area which needs you most — simply swiping your hand over his tip teasingly, cooing as he jolts slightly. Your nails rake into his skin, dragging upwards, and he shudders as crescent moons indent in their wake.
"What are you doing?" Spencer asks softly, shuddering as your hands meet his chest, your nails gliding over his nipple incredibly gently.
The cold air nips at his skin. Goosebumps ripple on his arms and his chest, and he exhales shockingly as you give his skin a light pinch.
"I told you," you answer quietly, enjoying the way his muscles tense as you gently roll his hardened nipple between your fingers, "I'm going to make you dumb."
"Mm," he murmurs in disbelief, only engaging in your antics because of the desire simmering in his lower belly.
Spencer sighs sweetly as your palm presses against his chest, softly dragging down his body. Your nails gently trace lines over his tummy, jagged, gentle lines. You pepper soft kisses to his left shoulder, your nose pressing into his skin as you breathe in his scent. He smells amazing, and his skin is so warm, and you lull your head against him as you gently begin to trail your hands over his thighs.
His cock is perked and needy, and he lets out another gentle sigh. It sounds more like a huff this time, but you don't mind. He's frustrated — of course he is; he's been interested in his relief for about an hour now, so incredibly frustrated and needy for you.
Your touch lingers near his crotch, and your nails digging into the skin of his thighs as your lips skim his ear. "I'm going to ask you a few questions, baby, and I want you to answer them," you murmur, pressing a small, wet kiss to his jaw. "Can you do that for me?"
Heart racing in his chest, Spencer nods timidly. "I can do that," he breathes, his eyes fluttering shut as you softly suckle at his skin. "You know I can do that, mommy."
"Mm," you hum quietly, beginning to trail your lips down towards where his shoulder meets his neck, "do you know... when the first aeroplane was flown, baby?"
Parting his lips to speak, Spencer is interrupted by the feeling of your right hand gently circling around his length. It envelopes him, barely wraps around his girth, and he has to focus on steadying his voice as he responds. "That's easy, mommy," he says, "December 17th, 1903."
"Who flew it?"
You jerk your hand slightly, and Spencer's thighs flex. Your left hand scrapes at his thigh.
"The Wright Brothers," he answers finally, a choked moan gliding past his lips as your hand rolls slowly, up and down his length.
"Good boy," you praise quietly, and you nip at his neck softly. "You're so smart. Do you know that?"
"Yes."
Spencer's eyes droop slightly. He shifts his hips, a quiet 'ah' gliding past his lips as your thumb swipes over his leaking tip softly. He's so sensitive that even the small squeezes of your palm drive him overboard, his body sizzling with electricity as you tease him.
"Mommy, please," he begs quietly, his breath short and staggered already. His thighs tense again as you softly scratch your nails against his thigh, and his cock aches harder in your hand.
It's been so long. It's been two weeks, and your hand is so small and delicate against his length. So teasing. He doesn't dare rut into your hand, but he wants to.
You ignore him. "What's the one letter that doesn't appear in the name of any American state?"
"Q," he responds quickly — a little too quickly for your liking. "Please?"
Spencer shifts his hips again, hoping to allow you a better angle. If anything, it makes you pull away more, your grip on his cock loosening.
"Impatient," you comment, disapproval seeping from your tone as you glide your hand up his glistening cock softly, "so impatient."
"I'm sorry. It's been two weeks."
"I know."
"This is torture," he grumbles, his eyes screwing shut slightly as your palm softly squeezes him. His heart thrums.
"I know."
Spencer lets out a soft whimper as you continue to jerk your hand, your lips pressing warm, hot kisses to his shoulder.
"Another question," you say, breaking through the sound of your hand wetly rolling up and down Spencer's cock. "You should know this one."
His jaw ticks. "I know them all."
“Six letter word for the hole on a shoe in which laces are threaded through."
"Eye —" Spencer grunts as your hand squeezes his cock, forcing another spurt of precum to dribble out of the slit, "— eyelet."
"Impressive," you pause, and you kiss your teeth. "How many ridges does a dime have?"
Spencer's head tilts back in exhaustion. His curls are damp from sweat, his skin warm and a little sticky. You press wet, hot kisses to his exposed neck, and your teeth pinch at his throat softly.
"A dime?"
You glide your tongue over his pulse point. "Yes, a dime. My pretty boy is getting teased so badly he can't even think straight?"
He's so hungry for release. He's practically gnawing for the bliss that you bring him, and he lets out a soft whimper as your teeth scrape down his throat.
"118," he answers shakily, "the ridges allow the coin to determine if it is real or fake, and it —"
Faltering as your thumb twists around his mushroom head, Spencer's words stifle in his throat.
"What, baby?"
"It was implemented on all coins before the 18th century to help do so," he forces out, a pant following suit. "You're — oh, mommy, please?"
Voice coming out strained, you feel Spencer's thighs twitch beneath your palm. Your dig your nails into his skin a little harsher now.
"Please, what?"
"Let me — let me cum," he answers, his head lulling against your shoulder.
You smirk. "Not yet," you answer, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "That'd be rewarding your disobedience, Spencer, and I can't let you cum until I've got what I've wanted from you."
His hips shift upwards, a sign of his impatience.
You understand; you do. There's just something so satisfying about pushing him to the edge, melting his genius brain into a puddle of incoherent goo.
As his thighs tremble again, you pull your hand away. Spencer lets out his first irritated cry, his hips bucking upwards.
"This is awful," he grunts, his eyes screwing shut.
You smile. "You'll get what you want soon enough, baby. You'll get this present, and your present from earlier. I'll make sure that you're very satisfied."
You softly let yourself drool over your hand, massaging the sticky saliva into your palm. You pull your hand back towards Spencer, and as you grip his cock, he lets out a deep gasp.
He wants to speak — you know he wants to speak. His throat bobs as you gently jerk him off, the slick, lewd sounds of your hand slapping against him reverberating around your bedroom. You twist your palm perfectly, your movements deliberate, touching him exactly how he likes.
"What are the plastic tips of shoelaces called?"
"Aglets."
"What's a jiffy?"
"It's 1/100th of a second."
You hum. Your teeth nibble at Spencer's neck, and your hand continues to pump away at his cock. His tummy and thighs tense, and you drag your thumb over his leaking tip softly.
"How many seconds are in a year?"
Spencer shivers, a sickly sweet whine escaping his lips. Your hand drags down to cup his balls, the other still pumping his cock lovingly. It's so much, and yet it's nowhere near enough. He needs more, he needs relief, something that you're refusing to give him.
"I —"
His eyes screw shut, his hands clutching the bedsheets tightly.
"Seconds in a year?"
You nod your head in affirmation, a small coo gliding past your lips as he bucks into your hand. Your grip on his cock is tight, and it's wet, and he glides in and out of your palm beautifully. His lips part in wonder, his body trickling with warmth.
"Don't know," he breathes finally, a broken moan choking in his throat, "'m sorry, mommy, I don't know."
He's burning hot. It's like he's got a fever. You fondle his balls softly, careful not to squeeze too hard. You want him to dip into the feeling of ecstasy, not drown in it.
"I thought you were supposed to be a genius," you whisper huskily, a satisfied grin on your lips as you speed up your movements.
Your stomach is pinched with warmth, sizzling with desire as Spencer cries out at your words. You wonder if you've pushed him too far, if your degradation was wrong, but his incoherent babbles of, 'mommy, please' reassures you that you haven't.
Pleasure buzzes wildly in his body. He can't think, let alone speak correctly, and his back arches up to meet you better. "Please," is all he manages, his words coming out in staggered breaths, "oh, please!"
"You little brat," you murmur, twisting your hand purposefully, "so fucked out you can't even think straight."
"I'm going to cum," is all he can manage to say before his sentence gets swallowed by a moan, "mommy, I'm going to —"
You quicken your pace.
Fire blazes inside of his stomach. Your nails rake into the soft flesh of his thighs, and Spencer's head tips further back. His lips are all pretty and pink, dangerously pump, and your breath hitches in your throat as he lets out another strangled whine. His eyes screw shut, and you give him a deliberate, tight squeeze.
He moans your name as he cums. It's too much — all of it is too much. His hips jolt, bucking upwards into your touch. Your feverish pace burns a hole in his heart, the loving kisses you pepper to his shoulder soothing his quarrels as his cock spurts of lines of cum, his hot seed coating your hand.
"My sweet boy," you coo quietly, inhaling the concussion of his expensive cologne and his sweat, "all fucked out and dumb for me."
Spencer gasps softly. His head rings as he finishes, your thumb gliding over his slit carefully. He can't speak, and his body twitches as your palm slows, your hand still cupping his balls softly, worshipping every inch of his cock.
"So pretty," you praise, and Spencer blinks away the black stars which shroud his vision.
It feels like it takes forever for him to settle back down. Your nails lovingly scrape up and down his skin, your voice gentle and angelic as it utters sweet praises to him. He feels spent, exhausted, impossibly stupid as he slumps against you, his lungs burning with relief.
He's tired, and he doesn't open his eyes again until he can feel damp fabric softly press against his forehead.
"Did I go too far?" You murmur quietly, concern plastering over your features as your eyes flit over your boyfriend.
You've never seen him so physically exhausted. You gently glide the cloth down towards his crotch, wiping away any evidence of your rendezvous, and he shakes his head.
"No. You were perfect."
"I got you your gift," you say meekly, pointing his gaze towards the small box in the corner of your bedroom, wrapped neatly with a satin bow.
A chuckle is dragged from Spencer's throat, and you smile, unable to bite back your own small laugh as his face burrows into your neck. "Can I open it tomorrow? I'm a little tired now."
"Of course," you murmur sweetly, letting him rest the weight of his body on you.
Your fingers run it's way through his hair, a small smile of satisfaction painting your lips.
It drops, though, when Spencer speaks.
"There's 31,536,000 seconds in a year," he mumbles into your neck, "just in case you wanted to keep doubting my genius."