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“No.”
Caleb’s voice was a low, flat stone dropped into the quiet of your living room. He didn’t look at you, his gaze fixed on the holographic news feed flickering above the coffee table, his jaw set in a hard line. He’d been home from Skyhaven for three days, and the easy warmth you’d shared since childhood had curdled into a tense, electric silence.
You swallowed, your fingers twisting in the soft fabric of your lounge pants. “Caleb, please. Just hear me out.”
“I said no, pipsqueak.” He finally turned his head, and those striking purple eyes, usually so warm and playful, were shuttered. “We’re not having this conversation again.”
“But we are,” you insisted, your voice gaining a little strength. You shifted on the plush sofa, tucking your legs beneath you. The soft lamplight caught the rich, deep brown of your skin, and you knew he was watching, even if he pretended not to. “You’ve noticed I’ve been… off. You asked what was on my mind. This is it.”
He let out a slow, controlled breath, running a hand through his dark hair. The casual black pants and white top he wore did nothing to hide the lean, powerful build of a Farspace Fleet colonel. “Wanting to… to play with my… Y/N, it’s insane. It’s not happening.”
“Why?” you pressed, leaning forward. The neckline of your loose tank top gaped slightly, and you saw his gaze flicker down for a fraction of a second before snapping back to your face. “You trust me, don’t you?”
“It’s not about trust,” he growled, the sound vibrating in his chest. “It’s about… it’s wrong. I’m not… built for that.”
“Everyone’s built for it,” you said softly, a hint of a smile touching your lips. “It’s just a part of you. A part that feels incredible if someone knows how to touch it.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “And you’re an expert all of a sudden?”
“I’ve done my research,” you said, your tone dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “For you.”
That got him. His eyes widened, just a hair, and a flush crept up his neck. The “good boy” facade was cracking, and you could see the darker, more intense curiosity swirling beneath. The Caleb who would orchestrate entire battles to keep you safe, the one who blurred lines between love and possession… that Caleb was intrigued.
“You’ve been thinking about this,” he stated, his voice dangerously quiet.
“Day and night,” you admitted, holding his gaze. “Since the moment you walked through the door. Watching you move, all that controlled strength… I just want to see you lose control. Just once. For me.”
He was silent for a long minute, the only sound the low hum of the city beyond your apartment window in Linkon. The tension between you wasn’t just sexual; it was a thick rope of history, trauma, and a love so deep it had twisted into something fiercely protective and now, potentially, deviant.
“You won’t stop,” he finally said, not a question.
“No.”
“You’ll keep begging. Every day I’m here.”
“Yes.”
He closed his eyes, his long lashes fanning against his cheeks. When he opened them, the purple was stormy, resigned. “Once. This happens once. To get it out of your system. And you never speak of it again. Do you understand?”
A thrill, hot and sharp, shot straight to your core. “I understand.”
“And I…” He hesitated, the vulnerability shocking in its rawness. “I probably won’t like it. So don’t expect… don’t expect a performance.”
You just smiled, sliding off the couch and padding on bare feet to stand before him. “Okay. Let’s go to the bedroom.”
He followed you, his movements stiff, like a man walking to his own execution. Your room was softly lit, the bed large and inviting. You turned to face him, your heart hammering against your ribs.
“Take off your pants,” you said, your voice surprisingly steady.
He stared at you, a war raging behind his eyes. Then, with a sharp, jerky nod, he undid the button and fly of his black pants, pushing them and his boxer-briefs down his muscular thighs in one motion. He kicked them aside, standing naked from the waist down before you.
Your mouth went dry.
He was huge. Fully erect, his cock stood thick and heavy against his lower abdomen, the head a dark, flushed purple, beaded with a single pearl of precum. Veins snaked along the impressive length, and the sheer size of him made your own body clench with empty need. But that wasn’t your target. Not tonight.
“On the bed,” you instructed softly. “On your back. Legs up.”
He obeyed, lying back against your pillows, the picture of tense reluctance. He drew his knees up, planting his boots on the mattress, exposing himself completely to you. The sight was intensely intimate—the powerful curve of his ass, the tight furl of his anus nestled between, and beneath, the heavy weight of his balls and that magnificent, ignored cock.
You climbed onto the bed between his legs, the heat of his body washing over you. You reached for the bottle of lubricant on your nightstand, pouring a generous, cool pool into your palm.
“This might be cold,” you warned.
He just grunted, his head turned to the side, eyes fixed on the wall. But you saw his abdomen flutter with a quick, tight breath.
You warmed the lube between your fingers, then gently, so gently, placed your slick hand against his perineum, the firm space between his balls and his entrance. He jolted at the touch, a sharp inhale hissing through his teeth.
“Shhh,” you soothed, massaging the area in slow circles. “Just relax. It’s just me.”
“It’s not just you,” he muttered, but his hips gave a tiny, involuntary push against your hand.
You smiled, continuing the gentle pressure. You traced lower, through the coarse hair, until the pad of your middle finger was resting directly against his tight, clenched hole. You applied the faintest pressure.
Caleb tensed, every muscle in his thighs and stomach going rigid. “Fuck,” he breathed, the word ragged.
“I need you to relax this for me, Caleb,” you whispered, leaning close so your breath ghosted over his inner thigh. “Push out, just a little. Like you’re trying to…”
“I know how it works,” he snapped, but then you saw the concentration on his face, the slight strain. The tight ring of muscle under your finger softened, yielding.
You pressed forward.
The resistance was incredible, a hot, gripping tightness that seemed to suck the very tip of your finger inside. Caleb made a choked sound, a mix of shock and something else, as the first knuckle breached him.
“Oh god,” he gasped, his head falling back against the pillows.
“That’s it,” you cooed, working your finger in a slow, tiny circle, letting him adjust. His inner walls were scorching hot, silky-soft and unbelievably tight around your single digit. You pushed deeper, slowly, until your finger was buried to the hilt inside him. He was panting now, short, sharp breaths, his cock jumping against his stomach, utterly hard and neglected.
“You feel that?” you asked, beginning a slow, shallow pumping motion. The slick, tight heat was incredible around your finger. Schlick. Schlick.
“I feel it,” he gritted out, his voice strained. His hands were fisted in the sheets.
“Good.” You crooked your finger slightly, searching. You knew the anatomy. You’d studied it. You pressed upward, toward the front of his body.
The effect was instantaneous.
Caleb’s whole body bowed off the bed, a raw, shattered cry tearing from his throat. “FUCK!”
You’d found it. The prostate. A small, walnut-shaped bundle of nerves that, when stimulated, could make a giant of a man weep. You pressed against it again, a firm, deliberate rub.
“Nnngghhh! Oh, fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!” he chanted, his hips bucking wildly, trying to escape and seek the pressure at the same time. His cock leaked a thick stream of precum that painted a wet line up his abdomen.
“You like that,” you stated, your own arousal a throbbing, wet ache between your legs. You began a rhythm, rubbing that magical spot with each inward stroke of your finger. Press. Circle. Pull back. Press. The filthy, wet sounds of your finger moving in his ass filled the room. Squish. Slurp.
“I don’t,” he moaned, but it was a lie so transparent it made you laugh breathlessly. His body was telling the truth. His thighs were trembling, his toes curled, and his cock was so hard it looked painful, the head swollen and dark. “Ah! Ah! Right there! Fuck, right fucking there!”
“You’re so tight around my finger, Caleb,” you whispered, leaning down to watch your hand work. “You’re sucking me in. It’s so hot. You’re taking it so well.”
“Shut up,” he begged, but it was a plea, not a command. “Just… don’t talk…”
You added a second finger.
The stretch was significant. You saw his hole flutter, struggling to accommodate the new intrusion. He cried out, a guttural, broken sound. “Too much! Shit, too much!”
“You can take it,” you murmured, scissoring your fingers gently, stretching him. More lube dripped down, easing the way. “You’re doing so good for me. So good.” You resumed your rhythm, two fingers now massaging his prostate with deeper, broader pressure.
The change in him was profound. The pretense of dislike evaporated. His resistance melted into a puddle of raw, desperate sensation. His moans became continuous, a low, wrecked soundtrack to the slick sounds of penetration.
“Uhn! Uhn! Y/N! Fuck!” His back was arched, his magnificent chest heaving. “It’s… it’s too good… I can’t…”
“You can,” you said, your own breath coming fast. You watched, mesmerized, as his cock twitched violently. “You’re gonna come, aren’t you? Just from my fingers in your ass.”
“No… yes… I don’t know… fuck!” He was sobbing now, tears leaking from the corners of his clenched-shut eyes. The over-the-top, pornographic moans were utterly real, torn from a place of complete surrender. “Please… please…”
“Please what?” you teased, rubbing his prostate in a fast, firm circle.
“I’m gonna come!” he screamed, the sound raw and ragged. “Oh god, I’m gonna… it’s gonna…”
You didn’t let up. You drove your fingers into him, focusing all your attention on that sweet, swollen gland. “Come on, Caleb. Come for me. Let me see it.”
With a final, shattered wail, his body convulsed. His cock, utterly untouched, erupted. Thick, white ropes of cum shot into the air, splattering across his chest and stomach with forceful splurts. The orgasm wracked him, wave after wave, his ass clamping down viscously on your fingers, milking them as he emptied himself. His hips pistoned against nothing, his whole body shaking through the most intense climax of his life.
You worked him through it, gentling your movements as the pulses subsided into weak twitches. Finally, you slowly, carefully, withdrew your fingers. The sight of his used, slackened hole, glistening with lube, was impossibly erotic.
He collapsed, boneless, into the mattress, breathing in ragged, heaving gulps. Cum coated his torso, a stark white against his skin. He looked utterly ruined, beautiful in his devastation.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of his struggling breaths. Then, he turned his head, his purple eyes, hazy and unfocused, finding yours. A slow, deep blush spread across his cheeks.
You wiped your fingers on a towel, a smug, satisfied smile playing on your lips. You leaned over him, bracing your hands on either side of his head. “See?” you whispered. “I told you you’d like it.”
He just stared up at you, his expression a complex mix of shame, awe, and sated exhaustion. He couldn’t even form words.
You kissed his sweaty forehead, then trailed your lips down to his ear. “Next time,” you breathed, your voice a husky promise, “I’m going to peg you.”
His eyes flew wide open. A fresh, shocked tremor went through his spent body. He opened his mouth, to protest, to refuse, to tell you no again.
But the word that came out, weak and wrecked and utterly surrendered, was: “…Pipsqueak.”