Private Training - Cam Boy Series
Summary: One innocent username, one dangerously low camera angle, and suddenly you’re giving orders to a colonel who looks way too good following them. It starts playful. It gets competitive. It gets… heated.
Pairing: Camboy! Caleb x Reader
Content Warning: Smut, Porn without plot, reader commands Caleb, mutual masturbation, climaxes, MNDI, NSFW, livestream porn.
Author's note: Like I mentioned before. This is a series. We started with Zayne, and Caleb is next in line. :3
If you enjoy my writing and want to support me, you can buy me a Ko-fi! ☕
Sylus Edition | Rafayel Edition | Xavier Edition | Zayne Edition | Caleb Edition
It had been another one of those nights.
You weren’t even sure why you were still scrolling.
The site felt louder than it should have. Too many exaggerated thumbnails. Too many forced smirks. Men leaning too close to their cameras with artificial confidence, trying too hard to look dominant, too eager to be wanted.
One flexed aggressively in neon lighting. Another winked every five seconds. Someone else kept talking in a rehearsed whisper that sounded more awkward than seductive.
It all felt… fake.
You sighed, half ready to close the tab.
Then you saw it.
COLONEL STRIKER – PRIVATE TRAINING OPEN
The thumbnail was simple.
No flashy neon.
No exaggerated pose.
Just a man mid–pushup, the camera positioned low beneath him. Shirtless. Grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips. A black mask covering the lower half of his face.
Your cursor stilled.
Dark brown hair falling slightly into his eyes.
And those eyes purple and vivid. Sharp and focused. Intense in a way that didn’t look performative at all.
You clicked before you could think too hard about it.
The stream loaded.
The first thing you heard was breath. Heavy breathing that sounded les like a work out and more suggestive.
The camera angle was placed almost on the floor, tilted upward. It framed him from the waist down to his chest and face, capturing the flex of his shoulders as he lowered himself slowly into another pushup.
One.
His arms bent, muscles tightening beneath smooth skin.
His chest hovered inches from the camera.
Two.
His abdominal muscles flexed as he pushed himself back up, every line defined by the soft overhead lighting.
The grey sweatpants clung to his hips, the fabric shifting with each movement. The low angle left very little to the imagination deliberate and unapologetic.
Three.
A quiet, rough exhale escaped him. The sound of effort. Of strain. Of control.
You felt your throat go dry.
The chat was moving quickly — hearts, comments, requests — but he wasn’t looking at them.
He was focused.
Pushup after pushup, his body moving with precision. His biceps tightening, veins faintly visible along his forearms. His shoulders broad and powerful, back muscles shifting under his skin when he rose.
The mask covered his mouth, but you could see the subtle tension in his jaw beneath it.
A low, controlled groan slipped out as he pushed up.
It wasn’t exaggerated. It sounded like he wasn’t trying to be heard. Which somehow made it worse.
You leaned closer to your laptop without realizing it.
He paused at the bottom this time, holding himself just above the floor. Arms trembling slightly under sustained tension.
His purple eyes flicked to the camera for the first time.
And stayed there.
The look wasn’t playful. It wasn’t soft. It was assessing. Focused directly through the lens like he could see you.
Your pulse jumped.
He held the position longer than necessary. Muscles tightening further. Sweat forming faintly along his collarbone and sliding downward. Then he pushed up in one smooth, controlled motion. His dark brown hair was damp at the temples, strands falling slightly over his forehead. Sweat traced down the side of his neck.
When he reached the top this time, he didn’t immediately start another repetition.
Instead, he shifted. Sat back on his knees, still breathing hard.
The camera now framed him from lower chest to hips more clearly. His abdomen rose and fell steadily, defined muscles catching the soft overhead light.
His purple eyes lifted slowly to the camera.
And held.
The chat was flying now. Donations chiming.
Messages begging him to take the mask off. To stand, to turn around, to strip, to do more.
He reached up and dragged a hand through his hair instead, fingers combing it back. His other hand rested casually on his thigh, relaxed, but possessive in its stillness.
Your throat feels dry.
The chat scrolls wildly.
“Faster.”
“Take it off.”
“Spread wider.”
“Show us your plane, Colonel.”
He ignores most of them. He pushes up again.
Another exhale.
That sound — low, strained, controlled — makes something tighten in your stomach.
Without thinking, you type.
Your username sits in the corner: HoneyApple
Soft. Innocent. Almost ridiculous in this environment.
You add a small tip.
HoneyApple: Slow down. Hold at the bottom longer.
The donation notification chimes.
His eyes flick to the screen mid-rep. He reads it.
You can see it in the way his gaze softens slightly. He lowers himself again.
This time slower, much slower. The descent is almost agonizing. Muscles trembling slightly under sustained tension. He hovers inches from the floor.
And holds.
His arms quiver faintly. Sweat gathers at his collarbone and slides downward. His breathing deepens to something louder and heavier.
You swallow.
HoneyApple: Stay there.
Another tip.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink for a second. His eyes lock onto the camera as if he’s looking through it. Through you.
His shoulders strain. His chest trembles. A low sound vibrates from him — restrained effort barely contained.
It’s not a moan. But it’s close enough.
You feel heat pool low in your stomach.
HoneyApple: Push up. One count.
He obeys.
But he makes it slow. Slower than necessary.
Every muscle visible as he presses upward in a single controlled motion. The tension in his abdomen tightens beautifully before releasing at the top.
He doesn’t break eye contact. Not even once.
He shifts slightly, spreading his stance a fraction.
Not because the chat told him to. Because you did.
HoneyApple: Spread your knees more.
This time there’s a pause. His eyes darken. Then he adjusts.
Just enough. The angle changes everything. The grey fabric pulls tighter across his hips. The motion of his body becomes heavier. More grounded.
His breathing is thicker now. Rougher around the edges.
When he pushes up this time, there’s a faint groan caught behind the mask.
You feel it in your spine.
He finishes the rep and instead of dropping for another, he shifts onto his knees. Sits back on his heels.
The camera angle still low, emphasizing the broadness of him. The powerful lines of his body. Sweat catching in the hollow of his throat.
He stares at the screen.
At your username.
“HoneyApple,” he says for the first time.
His voice is deep. Gravelly from exertion. He says it slowly. Tastes it.
His voice is rough from exertion, but there’s something else beneath it now. Something amused. Something sharp.
He shifts slightly on his knees and that’s when you notice it.
The grey sweatpants don’t hang as loosely as before. The fabric at the front is undeniably tented.
The low camera angle makes it impossible to ignore, the outline visible through the soft material, rising with every heavy breath he takes.
He notices that too.
Those purple eyes flick downward for the briefest second, acknowledging it, before returning to the camera.
“To think,” he says, voice calm but edged with something darker, “a username like HoneyApple would be the bold one.”
The chat explodes again.
He ignores them.
His focus is still locked on you.
“You’re comfortable giving orders,” he continues, tilting his head slightly. “To a colonel.”
The choice of words is deliberate. “You understand what that implies?”
He shifts his weight forward slightly, one hand bracing on the floor, the other resting casually on his thigh, dangerously close to the visible strain in his sweatpants.
“Command me again,” he says softly.
It doesn’t sound submissive. It sounds like a challenge.
Your throat feels dry.
Your body reacts before your mind catches up. Heat pools low in your stomach, spreading outward in slow waves.
You type.
HoneyApple: Do ten more. Slower.
A tip follows.
His eyes flick to the notification. A corner of his eye creases slightly, almost a smirk beneath the mask.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says lightly.
But there’s something possessive in the way he says it.
He drops back into position.
Your thighs press together instinctively.
Heat curls low in your stomach, the sight of him, powerful, controlled, visibly aroused and still composed, doing something dangerous to your thoughts.
“You’re watching closely, aren’t you, HoneyApple?” He grunts as he is midway through the set.
Your stomach flips at how easily he says that.
“You like control,” he continues, voice lowering slightly. “But you don’t look like someone who’s used to having it.”
You feel exposed and inexplicably more aroused because of it.
He finishes the set and looks at the camera, amused. As if waiting for another demand.
HoneyApple: Hands on your thighs. Don’t move.
He considers it.
Just long enough to make you question whether he will obey. Then he places both hands flat on his thighs. Muscles flexing subtly under the skin. The tension in his sweatpants remains visible.
His breathing is heavier now, slower but deeper.
“Like this?” he asks softly.
The chat explodes again. You barely see it.
HoneyApple: Spread your legs more.
A pause.
His gaze sharpens.
But he does it.
Knees widening slowly, deliberately. The fabric stretches tighter. The outline becomes more pronounced under the overhead light.
The sharp, colonel-like edge in his posture softens just slightly. His head tilts, not calculating this time, but curious. Almost playful.
Those vivid purple eyes narrow just a fraction in mischief.
“Mm,” he hums behind the mask, the sound low and warm. “HoneyApple…”
He tilts his head further to the side.
It’s disarming. Almost puppy-like.
A dangerous contrast to the disciplined control from moments ago.
“You’re not going to leave me doing all the work, are you?” he asks, voice dropping into something lighter. His shoulders relax just enough to make him look less like a commanding officer and more like a man enjoying the attention.
“I won’t be the only one training tonight,” he continues, leaning slightly closer to the camera. “You’ll keep me company… riiiiiight?”
He raises one brow subtly. “Or are you just going to sit there and watch, HoneyApple. Won’t you join me?”
The chat goes wild again — heart emojis, frantic messages, begging him to take off his pants.
“You’re bold enough to command a colonel,” he says softly. “So you can handle joining in.”
Your pulse jumps.
Heat spreads low in your stomach, warmer now. He sounds amused but there’s something deliberate underneath the playfulness. Like he’s testing how far you’ll go.
“Go on,” he murmurs. “Match me.”
The suggestion lands heavy.
You swallow.
Your thighs press together instinctively before you separate them slightly, mirroring his earlier stance. Your hands on your thighs.
He watches.
Not the chat.
Not the donations.
You. As if he could somehow see you through the camera.
“See?” he adds, tone lighter now. “You’re not as innocent as your name, HoneyApple.”
The way he says it makes your skin heat.
HoneyApple.
Soft. Sweet. Harmless.
He leans back slightly on his heels again, shoulders broad, chest still rising with controlled breaths. “Are you joining me?”
Your fingers hover over the keyboard.
You type.
HoneyApple: Only if you follow instructions.
His eyes flick down.
Then back up.
The playful tilt disappears just enough for something sharper to return.
“Of course,” he says lightly. “You’re the one in charge, right?”
You shift slightly on your bed without thinking. You were getting bolder. To see how far he would listen to you while ignored the others.
HoneyApple: Palm it.
The room feels hotter.
He glances down at himself briefly, then back at the camera.
“Direct contact?” he asks, mock-innocent. “You escalate quickly.”
But he obeys.
His hand lifts from his thigh and settles over the front of his sweatpants. The fabric compresses under his palm. A low breath escapes him and he shudders. He doesn’t move at first. Just holds it there.Letting you see the effect.
“Like this?” he asks, head tilting slightly again that playful expression returning.
Your pulse spikes as you mimic his actions.
HoneyApple: Press harder.
He inhales slowly. His hand tightens. The outline beneath the fabric shifts visibly as his fingers flex. His shoulders tense. A faint sound slips from him. Half breath, half restrained groan.
“You’re watching very closely,” he murmurs.
You are.
Your body responds instantly, warmth pooling low, breath shallow.
He rubs once. The twitch of his erection is subtle but unmistakable beneath the grey fabric. His purple eyes never leave the lens.
Never leave you.
“You’re joining me, right?” he asks softly. “You’re not just making me suffer alone.” The playful tone lingers, but there’s hunger under it now.
You swallow.
Your hand mirrors his instinctively, pressing over your own apex the way he does. The warmth beneath your palm is immediate. Your breath catches and this time you don’t bother trying to steady it.
A quiet sound slips from you, unintended.
His palm presses again over the front of his sweatpants. Firmer this time. The fabric pulls tight, the outline unmistakable. A faint darkened patch begins to form where his hand lingers too long.
Your breath hitches as you notice it. The grey fabric isn’t as uniform anymore.
There’s a dampness spreading slowly beneath his palm.
His eyes flick down briefly then back up.
“You see that?” he asks quietly. The question isn’t embarrassed.
Your stomach flips.
HoneyApple: Lower the pants.
But this time he doesn’t comply immediately.
He leans back slightly instead, one hand still resting over the tension at the front of his pants. His head tilts again — playful, yes — but now there’s something almost possessive in the way he studies the camera.
“You escalate fast, HoneyApple…” he says softly.
He slides his palm slowly downward along the fabric instead of pulling anything yet. The movement is slow and teasing.
“It’s a little unfair, don’cha think?” he adds.
His voice lowers.
“I can’t see you.”
The words land heavier than they should.
“But I’m sure,” he continues, eyes narrowing slightly, “you’re following my lead.”
Your breath stutters.
His gaze sharpens as if he can feel it through the screen.
“You’re not just sitting there politely, giving out orders…” he murmurs.
His fingers hook lightly at the waistband of his sweatpants now but he doesn’t pull yet. Just rests there.
“I bet,” he continues quietly, “you’re just as affected.”
There’s a faint edge of challenge in his tone.
“Probably more.”
Your thighs press together instinctively.
“You’re wet too, aren’t you?” he says softly.
The damp patch beneath his hand has spread slightly more now. His breathing is heavier, chest rising deeper with each inhale.
He tugs the waistband down just an inch. Enough to hint. Enough to make the chat lose its mind. But not enough to fully reveal anything.
He pauses there.
Looking at you.
“Join me properly,” he says. “Match the rhythm.”
His hand resumes a slow, deliberate motion over the fabric, controlled, steady, emphasizing the tension rather than rushing toward release.
You follow.
Your breathing grows heavier. A soft sound slips from your throat without permission.
“You like bossing around,” he says quietly. “But you like being bossed too.”
Your pulse pounds.
The tease about fairness lingers between you.
He gives another small tug at the waistband lowering it just enough to show a sliver of skin above the fabric beneath.
The chat absolutely loses control.
But he doesn’t.
His eyes remain locked on the camera.
On you.
On HoneyApple.
And on the other side of the screen, your hand has long since slid from your thigh. It’s no longer just resting there. Your fingers move slowly, pressing through the thin fabric, feeling the heat pooling beneath your touch. You’re soaked more than you expected to be. The damp warmth against your fingertips makes your breath hitch again.
You hadn’t planned to participate this much.
You hadn’t planned to react like this.
But the way he looks at you, like he knows exactly what you’re doing, makes it impossible to stay still.
Your other hand grips the edge of your laptop.
“Are you really keeping up with me?” he asks quietly.
Your fingers slide more deliberately now, matching the slow rhythm he’s set. You can feel how wet you are, how sensitive. Every small movement sends a ripple up your spine.
He inhales slowly, chest expanding.
“Tell me,” he says, voice low and steady. “Do you really want me to take them off?”
There’s no bravado in the question.
Your pulse pounds so loudly you can hear it in your ears.
You type quickly — too quickly.
HoneyApple: Yes, stake them off.
The typo hangs there in the chat. Stake…
For a split second you freeze.
The chat explodes with laughing emojis.
His eyes flick down.
Then back up.
“Take them off?” he repeats softly.
There’s a faint laugh under his breath. “Careful, HoneyApple. Your typing’s slipping.”
The way he says it makes heat rush up your neck.
“You must be distracted.” He drags the word out slightly.
Your thighs press together instinctively again.
He hums. Then, finally, his fingers hook more firmly into the waistband. He rises just enough on his knees to push the grey fabric lower. The waistband slides over his hips, revealing more skin, the subtle flex of muscle beneath the soft light. He pauses halfway down.
Looks up at the camera again.
“You’re sure?” he asks one last time.
Not because he doubts you.
Because he likes hearing it.
HoneyApple: Yes.
His eyes darken at the certainty in it.
Then he lowers the sweatpants further, pushing them down while keeping the angle teasing. The reveal is slow. Intentional. Enough to make the chat combust again.
He settles back onto his heels, breathing heavier now. His erection standing proudly, staring right into the camera.
“There,” he says quietly. His gaze lifts back to the camera. “You asked for it.”
On the other side of the screen, your hand presses more firmly now. You can feel how slick you are, how sensitive. Your breathing has lost all pretense of calm.
He adjusts the camera now. He reaches down and tilts it just a fraction lower, angling it upward more deliberately. The shot shifts to capture his erection while still capturing his face, still catching those vivid purple eyes, but now the perspective is more intimate. More direct. A low, almost first-person angle that makes it feel like you’re right there in front of him.
His chat was going fast, losing it over him.
His hand moves again. A steady rhythm that makes his jaw tighten slightly. His head tips back just enough for a soft sound to escape him, not loud, not exaggerated, but real.
You mirror him instinctively.
Your own movements slow, matching his pace. The pressure of your fingers intensifies, dragging in time with him. The sensation is overwhelming now, heat coiling low, building steadily.
Your other hand grips the bedsheet.
He exhales sharply.
“You’re not holding back anymore, are you, my HoneyApple?” he murmurs.
You aren’t.
The rhythm between you synchronizes without needing more instruction. When he slows, you slow. When his breath hitches, yours does too.
For a moment, it feels like the rest of the world has disappeared.
No chat.
No donations.
His hand tightens slightly.
Your hips lift involuntarily.
A soft whimper escapes you.
“You’re with me, right?” he breathes. “HoneyApple...”
And this time, the word is almost a whimper from him too.
The control he held earlier is thinning.
His shoulders tense. His chest rises faster. His movements lose a fraction of their discipline.
You feel it building — in him, in you.
His free hand braces against the floor as he leans slightly closer to the camera, the low angle making the shot even more intimate.
“You’re with me.” he says softly.
Not a question. A claim.
Your fingers move faster without meaning to.
So do his.
The synchronized rhythm turns desperate around the edges.
A sharp inhale tears from him.
Your body tightens.
Another whimper, from him this time, low and almost involuntary. And the sound sends a shock straight through you.
And even through a screen, it feels dangerously close. Like he’s not just performing anymore. Like he’s right there. Matching you.
And that’s when it snaps.
The rhythm between you stops being controlled. Stops being deliberate. It turns uneven, desperate at the edges breaths overlapping, movements losing their careful restraint.
His hand tightens.
Your hips lift sharply from the mattress.
A broken sound tears from his throat. Your own breath fractures into a soft cry you can’t swallow back.
He leans closer to the camera, bracing himself as everything unravels at once. His head tips back, jaw clenched, shoulders flexing hard under strain. The rhythm falters — then surges — then breaks completely.
His release isn’t elegant. It’s messy. It’s real. His breath stutters out in uneven bursts, chest heaving as he rides it through. The low angle of the camera captures the intensity in his expression, the way his purple eyes squeeze shut for a second before snapping back open.
And in that split second of loss of control, there’s no Colonel Striker.
No teasing dominance between either of you.
Just him.
You.
And the shared crash.
On your side of the screen, your body arches fully. The sensation hits in waves, hot and overwhelming, leaving your fingers shaking and your breath wrecked. Your hand slows, then stills, chest rising and falling too fast.
For several seconds, neither of you speaks while the chat goes haywire.
He huffs out a breath that turns into a low chuckle. “…Damn.”
He leans forward slightly, squinting at the lens.
And then he laughs under his breath again. “Got some on the camera.”
The chat absolutely loses its mind.
He reaches forward and wipes at the lens with a cloth, his movements slower now, , body still catching up from the high.
“Hold on,” he mutters, amused. “Can’t have you watching through a blur.”
He wipes carefully, polishing the lens until it’s clear again.
“There,” he says softly.
Then, with that playful tilt of his head returning, he adds, “Feels like I’m cleaning you up too.”
Your heart stutters again at that.
He studies the camera for a moment longer, calmer now, but still flushed. Still glowing faintly from exertion.
“That was intense,” he says, voice rough but steadier.
He pulls the sweatpants back up slowly, adjusting himself with composed movements, though the earlier sharp control has softened into something more relaxed.
“Next time,” he says lightly, “maybe we skip the crowd, HoneyApple.”
His gaze sharpens again. “One-on-one training session.”
The words hang between you.
“Private workout.” A faint smirk tugs at his eyes. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Before you can type anything back, he leans toward the camera once more. “Rest up, HoneyApple.”
And then the stream cuts to black.
The silence in your room feels louder than the stream ever did. Your breathing slowly steadies. Your body still warm.
You’re just about to close the tab when a notification pops up.
A message from Colonel Striker.
His message is short.
So, HoneyApple.
When are we scheduling our next private training session?
Your breath catches again as your stomach flips.
The cursor blinks beneath it.
Waiting.
And somehow, that feels even more thrilling than the stream ever did.
AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!
If you enjoy my writing and want to support me, you can buy me a Ko-fi! ☕
Sylus Edition | Rafayel Edition | Xavier Edition | Zayne Edition | Caleb Edition
