Chapter Text
Since Caleb left a month prior for another Deepspace Tunnel mission (and losing all contact with the outside world), you haven't been able to cum once.
To be fair, it wasn't your fault.
Not that you knew that.
You—on the precipice of an orgasm-deprived total sanity breakdown—was genuinely beginning to believe the world was out to stop you from cumming.
It began two days after Caleb left.
Right before Caleb left, he’d spent several hours with you, satiating your greed—a goodbye, a good luck. It was only two days later that you began to feel the side effects of the lack of your usual daily trysts with Caleb. The times he’d usually get off work, go home right to you and fuck you into oblivion were instead spent feeling oddly empty.
It was day four that you actually attempted to masturbate.
Fingering yourself slowly on a lazy Sunday—the exact type of Sunday Caleb would sleepily nuzzle up to your neck, measuring it with open-mouth kisses; no matter the day, he’d count up to, multiply with, and factor your favorite number, and then add one more below your ear.
The fingering was barely even subpar, and only made you irritated as you continued to climb, fall, and climb, and fall again to your peak. And all the while, you were whining Caleb’s name, wet with a drooling cunt with no dog to clean you up.
Then, of course, almost right before you gave in and called Caleb home—which, to be fair, he would've come—your colleague called; she wanted you to pick up her shift.
Frustrated, you gave up that day.
The next time you attempted to masturbate was day five, around the same time Caleb would usually fuck you.
Instead of riding his cock, you ground your hips into a corner of your table—every nick of the edge pressing wonderfully sharply onto your twitching clit. It felt especially good, considering Caleb had eaten you out here in this exact spot.
And yet, as you were finally approaching your high—the doorbell rang. New neighbor. Brought cookies.
You gave up that day, too. Sulking, eating cookies.
Day six—with a shower nozzle before the water suddenly dropped to the sort of temperature teenage Caleb would routinely shower in; in other words, fucking subarctic. And literally and figuratively, killing the heat inside you. You just went to sleep, cuddling and comforting yourself.
Day seven—desperate, you took out an old vibrator (less used since Caleb). It died a minute in, and you found no batteries. You went to go buy some, and you found no batteries. You asked your friends, still no batteries. You gave up, telling yourself you’ll buy another.
Day eight—you buy another, this time using an ice cube on your clit. Again, it wasn't Caleb, and you were painfully aware of what your body really wanted, but you were making do. Were. The fire alarm goes off and will not stop.
Day nine—Back at it again with a new fire alarm, and this time? A dildo. Again, it’s no Caleb, but you're just so desperate, and a baseball flies through your window.
Day ten—dildo, vibrator, an old voice message from Caleb; before you get interrupted by a power outage.
Day eleven—same thing, a bomb threat occurs nearby.
Day twelve—oh, God, you’re losing it.
You tried more times than that, but those were the closest. Most of the time—like late nights where Caleb would be there to fulfill your every desire—each attempt at even replicating what he does to you just felt futile.
Now, it was day fourteen; the day you knew Caleb would be able to contact you briefly while restocking supplies before heading back in.
“Hey, p—”
“Caleb,”he stills at your voice. “Where are you?”
You could hear Caleb’s breathing getting heavier, rougher in your ears, and if you thought you were drenched while on sheer unresolved sexual tension; then this was something else entirely.
“Still on the ship, why? Do you need me?” The last question came out like a secret, imploring, running over you like water. “What do you need from me?”
What didn't you need was a better question.
Before you could truly process the question, your filterless orgasm-deprived mind answered.
“I need you here,” the palm of your hand rubbed itself against your clit. “‘Been trying to cum for days… nothing's working. My fingers don't reach, nothing's big enough. I need you.”
Later—maybe in a more sober state of mind—you’d be utterly mortified to recall the whine to your voice, each word punctuated with a desperate little whimper and the vague wet squelches in the back like an encore.
(And you would know how pathetic you sounded because Caleb recorded the entire conversation, and showed you as foreplay at a later date. Recording your conversations was nothing new to him—he does it with every one of your calls.)
But right now, you heard the silence like your own heartbeat which thudded in your head and in your clit.
And you most certainly heard Caleb’s gasp, the distant sound of his thudding footsteps as he bolted to the nearest bathroom, phone glued onto his ear—memorizing every one of your noises—and the faintest cling of a metal zipper.
“I’m here,” he answers, huffing, a tinge of a groan in his voice. “What do you need?”
“You,” and God, does your voice go straight to his cock. It’s all jagged now, tinted with a maddening edge that spelled him a heady dizziness.
“I know, baby. You want me to fuck you?” Your voice whines out a confirmation, and he groans as he settles a gloved hand on his hardened dick. “What are you doing right now? Tell me, sweetheart.”
You groan, head falling back as your fingers increase their flurried pace. “Touching myself,” your voice trails off to a whimper, hips writhing as your cunt flutters around nothing. Oh, what you’d give for him to fuck you, take you until your body conformed to the shape he’d want you in.
Caleb was, if anything, more desperate.
“Your clit? You're touching your clit?” Longing, pleading, begging.
“Yes,” you reply as your eyes squeeze shut, breathing hastening as your nipples hardened—intune to the sound of his voice. “Not enough.”
“I know, I know,” he grunts as his own fist jerks himself off, smearing his pre-cum down and over the veins that bridge along his cock. He curses. “Fuck. How wet are you? Let me hear you.”
With a complying, muffled moan, you place your phone near your wet cunt. Fingers driving in, out—collecting your arousal before you swirled it around your clit; Caleb could hear it all.
His stomach lurched, abdomen tightening, eyes rolling back, mouth agape; he could imagine it so well, and each visual (re)opened an erotic hunger.
It came like an orgasm—the urge to bite you, sinking his teeth deep into your inner thighs, pulling back and lathering the wound with saliva until your cunt watered and each bite was naturally mixed with your desire. Or your ass, littered with reddening marks; a trail to just another part of your body he’d stuff with his cum.
How many other erogenous zones could he make you cum from? Each drop of your pleasure was a reason you belonged to him.
Consumption of your being, the thought was headying and had him nearly moaning to your cunt over the phone; did you like dogs who could bite?
He’d find out.
“Baby, baby,” he calls to you, and through the haze of want, you could make out rapid, sloppy noises—it only made things worse. “Do you hear me? I want you to ride something for me. Anything. Want you to fill up that tight pussy of yours and fuck yourself stupid. Can you do that for me?” He groans, his hand too little and too much—he needs your walls, spasming around his cock like a lifeline. “Fuck. Fuck. Need that, baby. Need you to cum, need that clit twitching,” admittedly, at this point, he was rambling.
Nevertheless, you were also babbling. “Caleb, it's not big enough,” you sob, rocking your hips in a squirming attempt to time your thrusts with Caleb. “I tried, but I need you. Please, please, please fill me up.”
Caleb’s eyes blew wide open.
Should he leave? The thought was more and more present the longer you whined for him. You were begging him to fill you up, like a horny mess—and he certainly never denied any of your requests.
Job as a colonel, or fuck you pregnant?
“Caleb,” ignorant to his internal dilemma, you instead do exactly as he told you to do—riding that dildo (largest one you were willing to buy) you bought. Your moans turn throatier, scraping his heart. “Need you so bad. I just need—so close, so close,” you ramble, eyes rolling back as you roll your hips forward to a grind. “Love you, love you, love you—”
His cum drenched his hands, down his suit pants, and even left a single drop on his shoes.
“I’ll be there soon, sweetheart,” he promises, his voice warbling in need. He was panting, his fragile visage in tatters at the sound of you. “My perfect, greedy girl. Can't take it, calling me while fingering her pretty pussy. Just need something big to stuff you, huh? Give it to me, baby—ride it like you ride my cock.”
And give, you did.
Grappling onto anything you can reach, your moans melt behind the blood in your ears while simultaneously picking up every heady syllable Caleb somehow has the mind to utter.
“That’s it, there you go. God, you sound so wet, all messy Don't worry, I’ll clean you up, baby. When I—fuck—I’ll clean up your mess. I got you, let me take care of it, sweetheart. Let me take care of you,” his voice breaks, rebuilds itself, and breaks again as if breathing without you was a particular torture. “Talk to me, baby. Don't go dumb on me.”
“Caleb—” you gasp, and Caleb groans, fisting his hardening cock; you had his body on strings, an animal at your beck and call. “I’m—it’s not—can’t—”
“C’mon, a little more for me. You can do that, I know you can. And when I get there, I’ll fuck you and give you the proper orgasm you’ve been needing, so keep her wet for me, okay?” At this point, he was panting after every word. “Wanna see your pussy—shit—all ready for me, and—fuck—gonna throw out whatever you're riding on—use me instead. Please, baby, please.”
You were so close; it was painful with every frantic grind, and seismic flutter of your walls in unison with the inebriated tone of Caleb.
Just a bit more—
”Caleb!” There, there!
“P—”
And the phone cuts off.
Huh?
Instead of the orgasm you’ve been waiting for, you received an automated voice message, detailing that the person you were calling was out of distance; and not Caleb’s intoxicating voice cooing at you for an orgasm well done.
Huh?
Caleb pauses, blinking down at his phone as the intercom overhead announces their upcoming arrival at the Deepspace Tunnel.
This… was not how things were supposed to go.
Well, this, but also the last two weeks.
Call it a stroke of genius, or cruelty—he decided to intervene on your (accurately) predicted attempts at self-relieving yourself while he was away.
Sure, yes, contact with civilians or outsiders of his organization was prohibited while on missions through Deepspace—but he had friends in high places, money, skills, and his own determination that was expertly exercised for this goal.
Why, one may ask.
There were a few reasons, each dirtier than the last. He thought it'd be fun (true), or he wanted to spice up the bedroom (unnecessary). Teasingly, he could say he didn't want you to touch what's his. Honestly, he could say he derived a sickening amount of pleasure knowing you’d be left writhing for him.
(He never believed he was a good person, but at the very least after he’d come back he would give you the night—no, week of your life.)
So, yes, he did practically cockblock (mastur-gated?) you for fun, but could you blame him?
Watching you via the cameras he methodically placed in your home left him with endless material he’d tease you over.
He just didn't expect he would be cockblocked too.