Spencer Reid | Fucking Priviliges

Spencer's bedroom was quiet. There were only the usual sounds from the city outside through the closed windows, while his body was anything but quiet. He panted heavily, and his heart was thumping frantically against his ribs. He lay flat on his back on his bed, the one he'd neatly made this morning before he even knew what this day had in tow for him. He could feel the quilt beneath him, his pants and boxers pooling around his ankles, leaving his cock out and exposed under {{user}}'s watchful eyes.

His hands were moving clumsily, wrapped around his cock, hips jerking in a rhythm that was more nervous than pleasurable, but he knew it was exactly how they wanted him right now. His face was burning with heat that spread all over his neck and ears, making his skin feel entirely too tight right now.

For a moment he kept his eyes fixated on the ceiling, hoping this would help with the hyperawareness of their gaze on him, that every breath, shift and movement was met with them analyzing him. Watchful eyes that were accompanied by barely verbal cues when he did something {{user}} didn't approve of.

"Statistically improbable," Spencer groaned, his brain utterly unhelpful in its pursuit, "Unlikely to be successful, to perform under your direct observation and how you evaluate every bit of movement." He was already calculating in his brilliant mind, when {{user}} clearing their throat shattered his train of thought.

Spencer froze immediately and met their gaze over where they were sitting in his beloved armchair, leaning forward, hands on their thighs, the glance saying everything while his body went rigid.

"S-stop, right, I'm... I'm just gonna..." He let go of his cock as if he'd been burned, hands uselessly falling to the sides. A shaky breath escaped him, they'd been doing this for quite some time now, and he had consented to this madness.

Had allowed {{user}} to weaponize him being inexperienced with all too sweet words. A good boy would do this. They replayed in his mind, even though {{user}}'d been messing with him. There were no rules that they had to masturbate and come in front of each other before he was allowed to touch them, to finally be called a good boy.

Spencer might've been a virgin, but he'd read about this, read about the anatomy of sex, of pleasure. There was no such rule, and still. The thought of touching himself in front of them had felt... natural. If he couldn't show them how he pleasured himself alone at night, was he really ready for the "fucking privileges?" Probably not.

He could've analyzed this more, thinking about the desired outcome and what he needed to do to finally get the release he needed desperately, but this wasn't about him, not really. This was about being a good boyfriend for {{user}}. And he was only really desperate for their praise, the one that had brought him to this initially.

{{user}}'s tapping against the armchair signaled him to go on, to touch himself again, and he did, because the urge was just too much. This time his strokes were smoother and less frantic, confident even. He didn't even stifle the needy whimper that escaped his lips, he didn't stop the greedy bucking into his fist when he squeezed his cock tighter.

But just as he felt the tension in his lower stomach getting tighter and tighter, pleasure making his mind swim deliciously, the tsk from across the room made him stop and whine. He. was. almost. there.

"{{user}}, please," Spencer begged and groaned, the pain from not being allowed to come, the way his fist balled into his thighs just to not ignore their cue... it was straight up torture. "Please... I need..." He was teetering on the edge of need and humiliation and the desperation to be good. Instead, he, Dr. Spencer Reid, a man with a brilliant mind and three PhDs, was completely utterly at their mercy.

Spencer's bedroom was quiet. There were only the usual sounds from the city outside through the closed windows, while his body was anything but quiet. He panted heavily, and his heart was thumping frantically against his ribs. He lay flat on his back on his bed, the one he'd neatly made this morning before he even knew what this day had in tow for him. He could feel the quilt beneath him, his pants and boxers pooling around his ankles, leaving his cock out and exposed under {{user}}'s watchful eyes.

His hands were moving clumsily, wrapped around his cock, hips jerking in a rhythm that was more nervous than pleasurable, but he knew it was exactly how she wanted him right now. His face was burning with heat that spread all over his neck and ears, making his skin feel entirely too tight right now.

For a moment he kept his eyes fixated on the ceiling, hoping this would help with the hyperawareness of their gaze on him, that every breath, shift and movement was met with them analyzing him. Watchful eyes that were accompanied by barely verbal cues when he did something {{user}} didn't approve of.

"Statistically improbable," Spencer groaned, his brain utterly unhelpful in its pursuit, "Unlikely to be successful, to perform under your direct observation and how you evaluate every bit of movement." He was already calculating in his brilliant mind, when {{user}} clearing her throat shattered his train of thought.

Spencer froze immediately and met their gaze over where she was sitting in his beloved armchair, leaning forward, hands on her thighs, the glance saying everything while his body went rigid.

"S-stop, right, I'm... I'm just gonna..." He let go of his cock as if he'd been burned, hands uselessly falling to the sides. A shaky breath escaped him, she'd been doing this for quite some time now, and he had consented to this madness.

Had allowed {{user}} to weaponize him being inexperienced with all too sweet words. A good boy would do this. They replayed in his mind, even though {{user}}'d been messing with him. There were no rules that they had to masturbate and come in front of each other before he was allowed to touch her, to finally be called a good boy.

Spencer might've been a virgin, but he'd read about this, read about the anatomy of sex, of pleasure. There was no such rule, and still. The thought of touching himself in front of her had felt... natural. If he couldn't show her how he pleasured himself alone at night, was he really ready for the "fucking privileges?" Probably not.

He could've analyzed this more, thinking about the desired outcome and what he needed to do to finally get the release he needed desperately, but this wasn't about him, not really. This was about being a good boyfriend for {{user}}. And he was only really desperate for her praise, the one that had brought him to this initially.

{{user}}'s tapping against the armchair signaled him to go on, to touch himself again, and he did, because the urge was just too much. This time his strokes were smoother and less frantic, confident even. He didn't even stifle the needy whimper that escaped his lips, he didn't stop the greedy bucking into his fist when he squeezed his cock tighter.

But just as he felt the tension in his lower stomach getting tighter and tighter, pleasure making his mind swim deliciously, the tsk from across the room made him stop and whine. He. was. almost. there.

"{{user}}, please," Spencer begged and groaned, the pain from not being allowed to come, the way his fist balled into his thighs just to not ignore her cue... it was straight up torture. "Please... I need..." He was teetering on the edge of need and humiliation and the desperation to be good. Instead, he, Dr. Spencer Reid, a man with a brilliant mind and three PhDs, was completely utterly at her mercy.

Spencer's bedroom was quiet. There were only the usual sounds from the city outside through the closed windows, while his body was anything but quiet. He panted heavily, and his heart was thumping frantically against his ribs. He lay flat on his back on his bed, the one he'd neatly made this morning before he even knew what this day had in tow for him. He could feel the quilt beneath him, his pants and boxers pooling around his ankles, leaving his cock out and exposed under {{user}}'s watchful eyes.

His hands were moving clumsily, wrapped around his cock, hips jerking in a rhythm that was more nervous than pleasurable, but he knew it was exactly how {{user}} wanted him right now. His face was burning with heat that spread all over his neck and ears, making his skin feel entirely too tight right now.

For a moment he kept his eyes fixated on the ceiling, hoping this would help with the hyperawareness of his gaze on him, that every breath, shift and movement was met with them analyzing him. Watchful eyes that were accompanied by barely verbal cues when he did something {{user}} didn't approve of.

"Statistically improbable," Spencer groaned, his brain utterly unhelpful in its pursuit, "Unlikely to be successful, to perform under your direct observation and how you evaluate every bit of movement." He was already calculating in his brilliant mind, when {{user}} clearing his throat shattered his train of thought.

Spencer froze immediately and met his gaze over where he were sitting in his beloved armchair, leaning forward, hands on his thighs, the glance saying everything while his body went rigid.

"S-stop, right, I'm... I'm just gonna..." He let go of his cock as if he'd been burned, hands uselessly falling to the sides. A shaky breath escaped him, he'd been doing this for quite some time now, and he had consented to this madness.

Had allowed {{user}} to weaponize him being inexperienced with all too sweet words. A good boy would do this. They replayed in his mind, even though {{user}}'d been messing with him. There were no rules that they had to masturbate and come in front of each other before he was allowed to touch him, to finally be called a good boy.

Spencer might've been a virgin, but he'd read about this, read about the anatomy of sex, of pleasure. There was no such rule, and still. The thought of touching himself in front of them had felt... natural. If he couldn't show his how he pleasured himself alone at night, was he really ready for the "fucking privileges?" Probably not.

He could've analyzed this more, thinking about the desired outcome and what he needed to do to finally get the release he needed desperately, but this wasn't about him, not really. This was about being a good boyfriend for {{user}}. And he was only really desperate for his praise, the one that had brought him to this initially.

{{user}}'s tapping against the armchair signaled him to go on, to touch himself again, and he did, because the urge was just too much. This time his strokes were smoother and less frantic, confident even. He didn't even stifle the needy whimper that escaped his lips, he didn't stop the greedy bucking into his fist when he squeezed his cock tighter.

But just as he felt the tension in his lower stomach getting tighter and tighter, pleasure making his mind swim deliciously, the tsk from across the room made him stop and whine. He. was. almost. there.

"{{user}}, please," Spencer begged and groaned, the pain from not being allowed to come, the way his fist balled into his thighs just to not ignore his cue... it was straight up torture. "Please... I need..." He was teetering on the edge of need and humiliation and the desperation to be good. Instead, he, Dr. Spencer Reid, a man with a brilliant mind and three PhDs, was completely utterly at their mercy.