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apocalypticgargoyle · 2 years

Text

— STARVING. dream (18+)

summary: sub!Dream; this ain’t no mf pg shit, this shit rated porn

cw: nsfw (18+, minors dni), smut, submission (m.), domination (fm.), breeding/mommy kink, praise kink, edging, hair pulling, spit, phone sex, masturbation, oral (m. receiving), shower sex, this is literally straight up p0rn no plot and IM SORRY also suffering

wc: ~2650

You had been teasing him all week; bringing him to the brink of insanity with merely a few curls of your fist, a coupling of words, and the batting of your eyelashes. Normally, Clay was absolutely putty for you, wrapped around your pinky and following you around like a puppy dog, but now it was becoming difficult to weather.

‘Come on, good boy,’ you’d urged over the phone one night while the two of you were apart. Your lunch break was taking a heated turn you hadn’t exactly predicted as Clay called you nearly whimpering your name. ‘If you want to touch yourself, sweetheart, you have to ask me,’ you continued, voice even and almost as heavy-handed as if he were already receiving punishment.

You heard the sharp, shuttering inhale from him on the other end as if he were too prideful to bend to your domination so quickly. ‘Fuck,’ he groaned. You could tell his nails were biting in to his thigh, leg bouncing as he tried not to give in to the urge and just get himself off. ‘When are you getting home?’

You bit back a smile as your eyes shifted up to the clock on the wall. ‘Oh, not for hours, love,’ you mellowed. ‘Clay, I want you to touch yourself.’

A breathy moan slipped past his lips, echoing through the phone. ‘Please,’ he murmured. ‘I want you so bad,’ he begged. You could tell he was heeding your commands.

‘You’re such a sweet boy for me, aren’t you?’ You whispered, earning a soft groan from him. You let your imagination paint the image of Clay on the couch, head leaned back with the phone pressed to his ear and his hand wrapped around his cock for you. You knew his pace would be slow, waiting for you to tell him to go faster.

His voice came out an octave deeper. ‘Yes, god yes. I’d do anything for you,’ he mumbled, tone sounding drowsy as he focused on your words.

You chewed on your bottom lip. ‘I want you to pick the pace that feels the best, love,’ you soothed, mind clicking a few times to mentally lay out your plans. A hiss of a moan drifted into your ear; a muttering of your name and a slew of swears. ‘Does that feel good?’

‘Mmmhmm, thank you,’ he hummed quickly in response. ‘Fuck, I’m so hard.’ If Clay’s voice wasn’t so laced with lust, you could swear he was whining. ‘I’m already close,’ he urged. You could hear him shifting positions on the other line.

You looked at the clock again. ‘Don’t cum,’ you stated, heat flaring within you at the thought of his tense body following your every command as if he didn’t have free will over himself.

He fell silent. ‘W-what?’

‘Don’t cum, baby,’ you repeated. ‘Keep going, but don’t cum, not until I say so,’ you clarified.

Clay exhaled, a whimper drawing from him as he continued. You felt evil for the fact that he had already called you when he was so needy and on the brink of losing himself, but you were in charge. He knew that. He was the one who let you be, willingly. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he answered, making you grin as pride flared within you.

‘Good boy.’

You could hear him struggling not to buck into his fist and finish himself off, his responses slowly becoming shorter and more uneven. ‘Clay, I want you to stop,’ you maintained, hearing him still once again.

‘Fuck,’ he whimpered, voice quiet.

That night, you had come home, ignoring his blatant advances and allowed the night to carry on as if nothing had transpired between the two of you during your lunch hour. In a way, you were experimenting; seeing how long he could go without cumming. It was only fair that you keep yourself abstinent during the same time, yet you knew it’d be enough satisfaction for you to watch him beg and whine for you each time you cut him off just as he was ready to fall over the edge.

You’d talked about it multiple times, slowly building him up---training him even---to last, knowing full well that when you finally did let him cum, it’d feel better because you had made him wait.

You climbed into the shower with Clay a few nights later, washing your hair before his fingers met yours within your locks, gently scrubbing at your scalp as you leaned into his touch. You were sure to let out a moan of gratification as he did so, letting him press against you as you rinsed the shampoo from yourself.

You swapped spots with him, pressing your lips to his as the warm water painted rivers and streams down his already dewy skin. His kisses were heated, deep and hungry. It always seemed like Clay wanted you more than he wanted oxygen. He wanted to taste every desire and impulse swirling on your tongue before you told him.

You moved his hand from your neck, kissing the pad of his thumb softly, letting your lips linger against the skin before switching to his index finger. His flesh was calloused and strong from playing guitar for so many years, relentlessly plucking away at the metal strings for hours on end. You were shocked that such rough skin could be so gentle with you.

You pressed his digit into your mouth, letting your tongue cradle the slight pressure of it from the weight he shifted to his fingertip. Your eyes met Clay’s green irises, gaze clouded with lust and hints of desperation for you. He was so close to you, so close. You could tell his body was burning to crack under the tension of his lulling, overdo orgasm and from being so near to you---the object of his heated fantasies---in such a manner.

The restraint he was inflicting upon himself to watch you drop to your knees in front of him was nearly impressive to you. When the two of you weren’t on one of your “marathons,” you’d let Clay tie your hair back into his fist and use your mouth to his heart’s content, but alas, this was not one of those times.

Your fast for each other could have easily been broken in the shower as your hand wrapped around his cock, already partially aroused from your presence and the neglect. You tutted your lips as goosebumps physically spread across his skin as you pumped him a few times; it taking less effort to draw out more of his arousal. You pressed your lips to his throbbing tip briefly before your gaze turned up, locking eyes with him as he balanced a hand against the shower wall. His fingers threaded into your hair softly, looking for some kind of purchase.

You wet your lips, already tasting him. ‘My sweet boy, you’re doing so well,’ you praised. Clay’s arousal stiffened in your grasp at the purring nature of your appraisal. You pressed your lips to his shaft, the water running against the divots in his body splashing onto your skin, wetting your hair further.

You pumped your hand again before pressing his length into your mouth, earning a guttural moan from the man standing over you. Your name was once again a hymnal of worship to echo off the bathroom walls as the pace of your mouth met that of your hand. Your tongue swam against the underside of his cock, making his eyes roll as he gritted his teeth, trying not to push himself further down your throat. You knew if he’d felt you choking around his arousal, he would finish without hindrance.

You pulled off of him, allowing a string of cum and spit to thread between you and his tip. Clay groaned, gently bucking into the rhythm of your hand. He was careful, already tense and hard enough to ruin the progress the two of you had made in your “experiment.” You kissed his excitement again, letting your tongue dart out against the sensitive skin before it was only your hand to encourage the subtle rocking of his hip as he mauled his lower lip.

‘Good boy, look how well you’re doing for me,’ you gloated, looking at his blissed-out face, his features tensing ever so slightly as he moaned. Clay had often recounted that the vision of you below him with your lips aggravated and wet from being wrapped around his cock was enough to make him touch himself when you were gone. He was completely smitten for you, and for you to be on your knees and praising him; he was lava.

‘I’m gonna cum,’ he groaned, his hand tightening in your hair before dropping to knit around your wrist. He tried desperately not to look at your devious stare as your hand began to work him faster. Your whole body was on fire, getting off on the mere power you had over the man, as he begged you for release.

You waited until you felt him throb in your grasp before stilling your hand, doey gaze cast up to him to watch him squeeze his eyes shut and calm himself down before painting your face as he so desperately wanted to. ‘Good boy, just like that,’ you cooed, watching the veins protrude in his neck, droplets from his wet hair dancing around your frame. You leaned forward to kiss his thigh as he groaned.

Episodes of the same vulgarity blossomed between the two of you whenever you could fit them in; from heated makeout sessions while you attempted to make dinner to a slow handjob while the two of you were watching a movie neither of you could understand. Clay had broken his record after four days; passing with flying colors even.

And God, were you going to reward him.

It was a game for yourself as well, finding it harder and harder to keep your hands off of him the more you knew he wanted nothing more than for you to fuck him until he cried. It was evident in the way that one look from him---one snide comment or subtle touch---would get you knotting your fingers into Clay’s dirty blond hair and tugging him to his knees or pressing your lips to the sensitive marks littering his neck.

That was another aspect of your fast: hickeys.

You both hated them, finding them almost immature in a way, but it was second nature in times like these. You almost couldn’t help but mark Clay as your obedient plaything, knowing he could crack for you with just one word. He was completely whipped for you---shamelessly under your spell---and it was difficult for you not to show the world with a nip of your teeth.

After the week was nearly up, you could practically smell the orgasm brewing beneath Clay’s surface; his desperation coming out each time you toyed with him, every passing touch and lingering kiss. He needed to cum, badly, and you couldn’t deny how much he deserved it.

Clay groaned, burying himself in the crook of your neck as you sank onto his cock, kneading your hips against his body as his hands gripped onto the flesh of your thighs. His cheeks were flushed pink from already being brought to the edge twice before finally being able to sheath himself inside you. His teeth printed your skin, muffling the whining scratching from within his throat as you rocked yourself against him, praising his every touch as if it were the first time he had.

His tongue lapped at the joining of your clavicle, rutting his hips up to match your thrusts against him, hungry for you and the sweet feeling of finally being inside of you. “That feels so good, my sweet boy,” you moaned softly, pressing your words to his ear as your fingers curled into his hair. “You’ve been doing so well,” you affirmed, nipping at the skin behind his ear as he groaned. “So good for me.”

Clay’s blunt nails raked down your back, driving himself deeper into you as you swirled your heat in time with him. The tension you had been feeling the duration of edging him was nearly overpowering, but you had always promised yourself you would get him off first. It was nearly a manifesto.

You tightened your hold in his hair, tugging him back against the couch to look him in the eye as you pressed downward, trapping him under your legs as you took control. His gaze was clouded and slack as if he were already fucked out from the week of restraint, but his tense expression and fluttering eyelids pushed you to quicken your rhythm. You loved watching him get so worked up so easily, sweat dotting his hairline as you pushed him into a further submissive state as he drew back the urge to buckle beneath you.

You couldn’t help the grin wanting to quip at your lips as your mind became drunk off the power he was giving you as he looked at you with stars in his eyes and a sense of divine worship. Your other hand moved, wrapping around his throat and the corner of his mouth threatened to turn up in unadulterated bliss. You were the sky above him as your fingers tightened around his airway.

Before you knew it, his weak smile broke with a single word you hadn’t predicted: “Mommy.”

It was a whine, a coaxing, a plea. His gravelly voice and the whimper of the call name sent a flush of heat to your cheeks, almost startling you enough to make you stop, but instead, you pushed him deeper inside of you. “Say it again, sweet boy,” you challenged.

Your fingers were ready to print into his skin as his eyes fluttered shut in bliss once again. “Mommy,” he moaned once more, the grating in his throat sounding like gospel to your ears, reaching a deep fire within you that made you clench around him. “I wanna cum inside you,” he groaned, begging for you.

You leaned forward, pressing your lips together and pushing your tongue into his mouth, wanting to taste the vulgarity of his plea as you thrust against him faster. The static tingling in your fingers seemed to be vibrating through him as well as you pulled again, exhaling as you caught your lip between your teeth. His flushed features were driving you crazy. “Cum inside me. I want you to fuck a baby into me,” you groaned, tugging on his hair again.

Clay moaned again at your actions, digging his fingers into your hips and thrusting up into you once again, only a few strokes until hot, sticky ropes of pleasure coated your insides. The feeling of him finishing inside of you, finally itching a scratch he had been battling with under your hand, set you off as you rutted against him, meeting your lips together once again as he gritted your name as if he wanted it to be his final word.

He laced his arms around you, tugging you to his chest as your hearts hammered against your rib cages, the heat in the room finally becoming apparent to the both of you as it felt like you were finally brought back to reality. Clay’s lips trailed a pattern of brief kisses along your collarbone, breathing in quietly to bask in your smell.

Clay was the first to speak as the pair of you struggled to recover. “I think I can make it two weeks next time,” he stated, voice barely coming out as a whisper.

“And I don't think aliens are real,” you responded, sitting up and stretching your back as his hands rubbed at the marks in your thighs from his fingers. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

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