This evening had started like many others since Peter had proved the validity of [Jerking Off + Fantasies of Mr. Stark = Lower Stress Levels]: alone in his bedroom, touching himself to fantasies of his mentor.
"Mister- God, Mister Stark..." He threw his head back and thumbed the tip of his cock.
Climaxing would be a relief. Between his schoolwork, his too-frequent patrols and other adrenaline-driven adventures as Spiderman and his training with the other Avengers, he was lucky if he got eight hours of sleep in three days. As if that kind of schedule wasn't enough to drive any eighteen-year-old to a premature burnout, he also had a very healthy libido, which was... unfortunate. His spidey senses, as he'd discovered very early with keen disappointment, kept him from blocking off the surrounding noises and scents, which in turn made it challenging to achieve orgasm. And god, did he ever need that orgasm today...
His acknowledgement (to himself, and only to himself) that Mr. Stark played a vital role in his fantasies had been both his salvation and his one-way ticket to hell. Really, the older man had but to brush his shoulder, smile that crooked smile of his or ask Peter to assist him in an experiment for him to add to his mental catalog of wanking material. Peter had always admired Mr. Stark for his intelligence and dedication, but it was the realization that the man was handsome and seductive (on top of being exactly his type) that had pushed him over the edge many months ago.
Of course, now that he was aware of the effect a simple smile had on him, Peter spent most of his time avoiding any kind of physical contact Mr. Stark. They still worked well together, trained together like they were two halves of the same person, but it was a constant challenge to keep his cool and not simply spread his legs and beg for Mr. Stark’s cock. It didn’t help that most of his fantasies involved him being fucked hard either on the training mat or on one of the worktables. He was fingering himself so often that they probably wouldn't need lube by this point.
If Mr. Stark noticed all those blushes, he didn’t remark on them, and Peter liked him even more for that small mercy. And the fact that he liked, liked him, was why he was currently standing with his back to his bedroom door, pants pooling at his ankles, a hand on his balls, caressing and teasing, as his cock swelled to full hardness between his trembling thighs. His other hand was busy with his phone, which served both to distract himself from the surrounding noises and scents, but also to stimulate himself further. A few weeks ago, he’d created an imaginary phone contact which he’d labelled (quite predictably) Tony. A little tinkering had made it possible for him to write both as himself and as Tony, which might be a tad pathetic, but his eager body sure liked the imaginary exchanges.
The first time he’d spilled himself all over the screen (accidentally, of course) had been the enactment of a tradition. It had taken Peter a couple of days to admit to himself that he couldn’t help it because he owned a Starkphone, and another few days to recover from seeing Mr. Stark handling that very phone with those clever, calloused fingers, unaware that Peter covered it in cum daily (and washed it afterwards, because there were limits to even his depravity).
He put his hand back on his cock, pulling hard and fast. God, he needed that man like he needed oxygen.
Tony: Are you touching yourself?
Me: I am now.
Tony: I wish I wasn’t stuck in that board meeting. Perhaps I could excuse myself for fifteen minutes and fly over to give you what you need. Wouldn’t you like that, baby?
Me: Please, Mr. Stark.
"Please, please, I n-need you, need to come..."
Peter gathered the precum leaking at his slit and caressed his glans, his ass clenching and unclenching in anticipation.
Me: Do you want me to suck you first? I miss your cock so much. Want you in my mouth, want you so much.
Tony: I believe I could accommodate you, if you let me lick your ass afterwards.
Balls tightening and cock leaking heavily, Peter started to pant. He was close; it was always over awfully fast whenever he let himself pretend that Mr. Stark wanted him just as much as he wanted him.
Me: I’d do everything you want. Let me be a good boy for you, Mr. Stark.
TS: I’m leaving that soporific meeting now, want me to stop by your favorite restaurant?
Peter mewled as the tip of his index finger got past the tight ring of muscles. It sank to the last knuckle easily, and was soon joined by another. Licking his lips and wishing he could convince Mr. Stark that he was a quick study worth his time in a bedroom, too, he reread the last message. Mr. Stark would come for him, yes. He would want to make good on his promise and fuck him into the squeaky mattress of his single bed. If Peter asked nicely, perhaps he would be allowed to suck his calloused fingers while the older man pounded into him, crooning obscenities in his ear, slapping his ass and-
Me: The only thing I want to eat right now is your cum, Mr. Stark. I’m up to two fingers now. Burns a bit, but I like it. I know you’re so much bigger, so you would take your time prepping me, won’t you? Just a bit? After I sucked you off to make you feel better for attending that boring meeting, of course. Should I put the plug in while I wait for you?
He let a soft moan as he sent the message.
Then three things happened simultaneously:
1) He realized that the last text addressed to him came from the real Mr. Stark, which he would have realized had he not been so caught up in his little fantasy;
2) He wondered if shame was an acceptable cause of death, and if his Aunt would write it on his tombstone to punish him for leaving her so soon;
3) His cock jerked one last time at the thought that Mr. Stark, the real Mr. Stark, got to know how much Peter wanted him, and then he came, biting his lower lip and tasting blood as the world around him exploded in a curtain of stars.
His knees wobbled. Hand still gripping the phone, which he hadn’t painted white for a change, he let himself sink to the ground.
He reread his last message. Yep, he was certainly going to die of embarrassment. And shame. And arousal.
The phone broke in his hand. Peter gasped as shards of metal penetrated the skin of his palm. With a whine, he brought his hand to his mouth, licking the blood as his heart started another round of somersaults. He was so screwed. His sex life was over. Every time he would try and touch himself from now on, he would have Mr. Stark’s disappointed, uneasy expression stamped all over his usual fantasies, as it very well should. How could Mr. Stark ever want a scrawny eighteen-year-old like him? He could have literally anyone in the world; he certainly wouldn't settle for a witty boy who wanted nothing more than to serve himself on a silver plater (and rock his world).
Peter wiped his cum-coated wrist on his shirt and kicked off his pants. Would time accept to run backwards just this once, if he pinched himself hard enough?
Yep, that pretty much summed it up.