Work Text:
penisinparis: im homesick
colin: that cannot be your new screen name
penisinparis: why
penisinparis: oh
colin: yeah
hugeuncutfrenchpenisinparis: better?
colin: much
hugeuncutfrenchpenisinparis: thank you
pen: okay i'll just be pen
colin: you okay? homesick?
pen: yeah. but i feel kind of stupid about it because i'm not even far from home or anything and i'll be home soon. i just miss everyone
colin: we miss you too. come back?
Penelope swallows and watches her reflection frown back at her in the screen of her computer.
We miss you, he says. We. Not I miss you.
She makes a hmph sort of noise and shuffles down in her single dorm bed in her strange, sterile student digs. Her laptop rests precariously on her tits and she knows trying to sleep like this, the grey glare of the computer blasting blue light at her retinas, is probably not helping her insomnia, but she can't look away when Colin's online.
pen: just got to get through the summer and then i'll be home
colin: hurry up september
pen: i can't sleep.
colin: you need fort colin
It's stupid but she smiles at that. It feels like he's reached across the Channel and put his hand in her belly; like he's squeezing her insides. Not exactly a nice sensation but it makes her feel closer to him, kind of.
Fort Colin is their thing (or at least, Penelope calls it their thing in her head, like they are a real couple with things. Instead of… well. Friends, on his part at least. He doesn't know about her massive, debilitating crush).
Penelope can't sleep. Like, chronically. She's been this way since she was a kid. Night-times are scary for Pen, and she thinks sometimes that the nights are longer for her than other people. Darker. They feel sort of endless, pits of nothingness that might swallow her up — kind of like dying, maybe.
When she got the scary swallowy pit feeling on sleepovers with El, she would get out of bed and wander around the big, Georgian house, her heart pattering stupidly as she took herself to Colin's room. There would always be this soft glowing light under his door, this flickering beacon, and even the sight of it — that glowing bar — would help calm her. He would set up a big pile of cushions and pillows and blankets for her on his floor and she would sit there quietly and watch him game until sleep snuck up on her. That was Fort Colin; her bastion against night-time terror. Colin, her knight in shining grey joggers, his sword a PS5 controller.
But now she is in Paris on this summer creative writing course before she starts uni properly, and her only weapons against the creeping darkness is her laptop screen and Colin's words caterpillaring across the page.
She misses the staccato rhythm of his breath, the little muttered fucks as he got killed for the seventieth time. She misses the warmth of his presence, the smell of his pillows surrounding her. In those moments she sometimes felt like he was holding her.
colin: you wanna watch me play? i just got the new zelda game so i'm going to be up for hours
Her tummy does that flipping thing it does whenever Colin is kind to her — which means it happens a lot, practically every time they talk. Her fingers shake a little as she types her reply, champagne popping in her chest.
pen: yes please
colin: game or face?
pen: both
Two screens pop up on Penelope's laptop right away and she suppresses her smile. One is the game, a rolling field of swaying grass that his character is cantering around on a horse.
The other is his face.
Both. Both.
She tries not to read into this sort of stuff, that she asks for things and he gives her both; that he made that little nest on his floor every night for three weeks when Penelope's mum went on holiday and left her with the Bridgertons. That she would wake up in the morning with a blanket over her and one of Colin's old teddies stuffed in beside her.
Champagne and butterflies — cliches, but she can't help that that's what it feels like. She wonders if she'll learn some better metaphors in this writing course; if she'll find new words for how he makes her feel.
With the position of his camera she can see that he's shirtless, which makes her sort of want to throw up from excitement. She can see his nipples — which she's seen before, of course, at the beach and things, but somehow on a screen they seem almost pornographic. Her eyes drift over the long line of his throat rippling as he swallows, the planes of his shoulders. His attention is on the game, his eyes focused somewhere off camera. The light from the laptop — or maybe it's the game — reflects back in his pupils and they twinkle like starlight. Like he's the love interest in those anime shows Frannie is obsessed with (and Eloise pretends to hate).
"What's with the face?" he asks softly, distractedly, and Pen realises that of course her camera is on too. She catches sight of the little box in the corner of the screen that shows her from the chin upwards, a cartoonishly excited expression on her face — eyes wide, mouth open.
"Nothing," she says quickly, mouth snapping shut. She shifts the laptop to the side and curls around it, laying her cheek upon her hands. This is better anyhow, she reasons; feels like she's lying next to him. "Just happy to see you."
"Sorry I've got my tits out," he says, one side of his mouth twitching upwards. "It's been boiling here."
Penelope swallows and doesn't speak, turning her attention to the game screen to distract herself from the thought of Colin Bridgerton's tits.
It's amazing how it settles her. The soft sound of the controller buttons clicking — she imagines his lovely, sensitive hands, how small the controller looks in them — the delicate sound of his breathing, and the lines of his collar-bones — she wants to kiss him there, maybe bite him, once each side so he has little matching marks. The dim orange glow of Colin's lamplight and the calming green of the digital grass on the screen; the pale curve of his cheek and how his messy curls fall into his eyes —
Penelope must fall asleep because she wakes up — but she doesn't really register the falling-asleep part, her mind melting into her pillow and all that green grass on screen and the slope of Colin's neck. When she wakes up it's still dark in her room — dark everywhere except the screen. The light bends and blurs in her achy eyes; she blinks and sees the grass has turned into sand, some new desert landscape. Her mind works slowly, fuzzily, and she buries herself down in her covers. It's three thirty four a.m. and Colin is still playing, she registers dimly, and then her eyes scrape across her laptop to the other screen.
And she sees Colin's cock.
Not just his cock — his belly and his thighs, too, one knee hitched and the other leg stretched out straight, covers tossed to the side. The picture is at a weird, canted angle, and Penelope realises his computer must have slipped off his lap and he has been too engrossed in his game to notice.
She takes in a slow breath, warmth spreading through her like sinking into a hot bath. Colin can't have realised she's awake because his hands — propped on his belly — are still toying with the controller. She should say something — look away — but she has this strange, dopey feeling. Like when you're in a dream and you can't speak or run, her limbs heavy and drowsing. She can't tear her eyes away.
He's beautiful.
It's not the first time Penelope has seen a cock before. She's nineteen years old; she has, in fact, touched them (well, one).
But looking at a cock has never made her feel like this before. Kind of like she is dissolving, melting into her mattress, like all the bits that make her Penelope have disintegrated and now she's just this liquid, a puddle spilling across her bedroom floor. She feels sort of golden, the laptop light smearing across her vision until everything turns sparkling and bright, the darkness banished. She muffles a sigh into her pillow and lets her body float into the gold.
He's big. Even soft, his cock lolls heavily against his thigh, his balls nestled below and the dark trail of his belly hair melding into his pubes. Penelope's hands curl and uncurl in her duvet as she imagines how velvety he would feel under her fingers, her lips rubbing together as she imagines holding him in her mouth. There's something about the softness that is making her feel extra nice — none of the urgency or performance of a hard dick. It feels sort of… gentle. Intimate. She wants to cradle him soft and rub her thumb over the silk.
She feels wonderful. Her mind drifts into fantasies where she rests her head on his thigh and he strokes her hair slowly, and she feels dreams encroach upon her, fogging over the edges of her conscious mind. Sleep kisses at the corners of her eyes, her cheeks, its soft breath upon her lips. She realises vaguely that one of her hands is between her legs but it hardly registers as she dreams of pressing her cheek to the screen until she sinks through it, a portal to him. She would rub her mouth back and forth over his soft tip; suckle on it slowly, sweetly, so gently that he wouldn't mind it at all. Her fingers are wet and her pussy feels swollen, tender with need as she rubs her fingers back and forth slowly over herself. She feels her tongue working at the roof of her mouth, her lips open as she imagines how weighty he would feel if she held him there.
"Pen? Fuck."
A soft hiss and then Colin's screen goes black.
Penelope raises her befuddled head from the pillow. On the game screen, Colin's character gets brutally killed and she flinches.
"Colin?" she murmurs, her brow furrowing. She doesn't like the black box where his picture should be — she feels it echoed in her chest, a swallowing hole of darkness that threatens to eat her up, engulf all of the soft gold.
"I'm so sorry." His voice wobbles through her laptop speaker. "I didn't realise I was — God, Pen. I'm sorry. I swear, that wasn't on purpose."
"It's okay," she drowses, her head falling back to the pillow. She knows she should be embarrassed about this but maybe she's too tired to feel it.
"It's not," Colin says fiercely, miserably. "It's — it's just so hot and I didn't notice the laptop had —"
"I liked it."
There is such a long pause that Penelope wonders if he's hung up.
"Yeah?"
She lets out a long breath, her heart sliding around in her ribcage.
"Yeah. It — it helped me feel calm. I think it might — it might help me sleep."
"Really?" His voice is quiet, low. He always speaks like that with her at night-time, as though he might chase away her sleep if he spoke any louder.
"Yeah. Yes."
Another long pause.
The camera flickers back on, and there he is. There it is, still soft and still against his thigh. As if it's been waiting for her. Penelope feels her body flood gold and she turns her cheek against the pillow, settling herself into the feeling. Her fingers start to move slow, slow against herself, sweetness dripping through her.
Colin picks up his controller again. Are his hands shaking? She can't tell, too drugged by this sugary sleepiness to focus. She runs her tongue over her lower lip and sighs as he starts playing his game.
She doesn't know how long, how late. All she knows is at some point she comes — teeth digging into her lower lip, her moans swallowed down — and then she falls into the deepest sleep she has ever known.
When Penelope wakes up, her laptop is dead.
She searches blearily, blindly for her phone, her heart thumping in her throat.
colin: i was going to wake you up to say goodnight but you looked so sweet i didn't want to disturb you
Then there's a picture of her, a screenshot of her webcam image. She's on her side, her cheek pressed against her hands and her lips pouting. She looks sort of cherubic, she thinks, her hair clouding around her face and her cheeks pink.
Her tummy flips over and over and over — she feels sort of like she's been put through a spin cycle. She reads the last message, her skin fizzing.
colin: sweet dreams, pen.
Don't read into it, she tells herself as she hauls herself out of bed for class. Something between shame and excitement swirls in her belly, a heady mix that makes the room spin as she yanks on clothes and almost sticks her mascara wand directly in her eye.
She spends her morning classes trying to think of how to reply to him, how to make things normal again (even though she isn't precisely sure she wants normal). She wavers between feeling mortified over the fact that she asked to see her friend's soft cock and blushing at the fact that he agreed to show it to her. Surely that means something — it must — but Colin Bridgerton is kind, kind to everyone — he does not show everyone his flaccid dick, does he? The thoughts chase around each other endlessly, pointlessly, and Penelope's body vibrates with the force of keeping them contained.
He beats her to it. Mid-morning, she gets this text:
colin: i'm sorry for last night. i should have been more careful with my computer camera.
Her stomach drops. She types quickly.
pen: i'm sorry for asking
colin: don't apologise
pen: you apologised first
colin: true
colin: still, i didn't mean to make you uncomfortable
Penelope takes a deep, steadying breath and writes her reply before she can overthink it.
pen: you didn't. the opposite, actually. i don't think i've ever slept so deeply
colin: really?
pen: yeah. it was sort of magic. i think maybe we found the cure to my insomnia
colinsgotamagiccock: you know i always knew it was special
colinsgotamagiccock: my penis, i mean
Penelope laughs into her cupped hand, a shaky sort of relief going through her. How does he do that, make all the tangled scary things feel sort of… like nothing? Like they don't matter when she's talking to him.
pen: i'm a freak probably
colinsgotamagiccock: nah
colinsgotamagiccock: you want to try again tonight? repeat the experiment?
She almost throws her phone across the classroom in her excitement and wonders if her classmates can see how red she is.
pen: if you're sure?
colinsgotamagiccock: i'm sure
And for the first time in her life, Penelope is excited for bedtime.
That night when Penelope calls Colin, he's still got his joggers on. She doesn't know what she was expecting exactly — maybe bracing for cock and balls like last time — but honestly the joggers are just about as erotic. Her eyes trace over the outline of his dick and she swallows, her throat thick.
"Is the camera good there?" he asks softly and Penelope starts, her heart in her mouth.
"Um." She assesses the position of the laptop camera; he seems to have propped it up on some pillows or something because it's much more stable this time, catching him from the waist down with his crotch centre-screen. "Yeah."
"Nice." He clears his throat and Penelope watches his pretty fingers toy with the ties on his joggers. "Do you want me to take them off completely, or —"
"Uh." She thinks she might stop breathing entirely. "Not if you don't want."
"Cool." His fingers slide under the waist band. Tenderly, hesitantly, he pulls his cock out, shimmying the waist of the joggers down his hips. Penelope feels her stomach swoop and her brain shut off as she watches him handle himself. He cradles his balls so gently, and she wonders if they're sensitive, if he would shiver when she stroked them. He's just as pretty as she remembered, heavy and soft and lolling, and she feels her eyes practically roll back into her head, her lashes fluttering — except she wants to keep looking.
"That alright?" he asks. When she says yes, thanks, he just hums a little and picks up his controller; the game screen flickers to life and Penelope shuffles down in her bed, her eyes glued to her laptop and her friend's flaccid cock.
She imagines sweetly cupping his dick while she kisses his neck, letting her teeth graze his throat so she can feel his breathing hitch. She imagines kissing the head, fitting his tip in her mouth so she can suck him until he's hard. It'd feel so nice to have him harden against her tongue. She's sure of it — even though she's enacted exactly one and a half blow-jobs in her life and she didn't much enjoy them, somehow she knows she would with him. Because it's Colin, isn't it?
Her orgasm catches her off-guard. She drifts off and plays with herself aimlessly, dreamily, her body shimmering with pleasurable drowsiness. Her mind rolls between dreams and waking, her eyes fighting to stay open. When she comes it's all at once, a big wave that swells over her. She tries to keep her face still as it happens — although she's pretty sure Colin's attention is on the game — but still, a little sigh comes out of her. Almost a whimper, huffed against her lower lip.
"You alright, Pen?" Colin asks softly. His voice is low, hardly more than a whisper, as though he's afraid to disturb her. The gentleness makes her tummy swoop.
Penelope is still blinking through the orgasm, her body throbbing nicely and her mind hazy. "Y-yeah," she murmurs blearily, her cheeks reddening. "Almost — almost asleep."
"Good."
That's the last thing she hears before she falls asleep.
They do this every night for two weeks. Penelope thinks it might be the most consistent rest she's ever gotten, actually. Her brain feels clearer, somehow, the world brighter and easier.
She's not reading into it — she isn't — but she feels like she's walking around with this secret, like she's swallowed something precious and glowing. Every time she opens her mouth she feels like she might puke it up, like sunlight might come pouring helplessly out of her. All day she vibrates with excitement waiting for the evening, replaying the previous night in her head.
But she's not reading into it.
Because he's helping her out as a friend, right? She knows he's not, like, getting off on it (not like she is, anyway — desperately, continually, face mashed into her pillow and fingers almost numb from the constant motion). She's been watching him closely (so fucking closely, practically cross-eyed as she scoots closer to the screen) and he's never once gotten hard. Her favourite moments are when he adjusts himself — moving his balls or arranging his dick against his stomach. Sometimes she catches him kind of idly playing with himself when he thinks she's asleep, holding the shaft and rubbing the tip a little. She likes how his hands look when he does that and she longs to see him touch himself properly, stroke himself til he's hard and pink and leaking. Sometimes in class she'll look at pictures of hard cocks on the internet and wonder if Colin's would look like any of them, but none of them are ever quite right. Too… demanding. Angry-looking. She imagines he'll be prettier, silky and shiny with cum (and ideally her spit). She imagines him getting hard over her and it makes her feel dizzy and fizzy and thrumming all over.
But he never does, does he? He doesn't feel that way about her. Which is fine, of course, because they're friends, and Penelope thinks if being friends with Colin means getting all his sweetness and kindness during the day and then getting to look at his cock all night, then she'll take it. That's plenty, actually.
Still, there's no harm in fantasising. It's nice to imagine when she's gazing open-mouthed at his cock and the muffled sounds of Zelda hum in the background. In those moments Penelope's imagination unfurls and unfurls and unfurls, swaying between dreams and wakefulness. She even feels it spilling into her daytimes, that unfurling. She thinks her writing is getting better because of it. More creative, certainly. A bit more horny; more grown-up. And Penelope starts to get this feeling like her life is unfurling too — that the world is laid out before her, that all she needs to do is reach out and take it; that she can spend a summer in Paris writing a novel and she can ask her best friend to see his cock and she can do anything she wants, in fact. She is nineteen and this is just the beginning.
She starts to think about what might happen when she comes home. She imagines seeing him for the first time in person; giving him a shy, warm hug just to feel his body pressed against hers. Maybe he'll hold her a second too long and she'll turn pink; El will ask her why she's blushing and she won't have an answer. Maybe that night he'll make her up a pillow fort — but this time it'll be on his bed, curled up by his side so he can keep her close. Maybe he won't say anything, just get his cock out automatically and Penelope will have to curl her hands into fists to stop herself reaching out to touch him. Maybe this time he'll coax her closer — stroke her cheek or run his thumb over her lip, open up her mouth so he can press himself inside. Maybe this time he'll stroke her hair and tell her how pretty she looks sucking his cock; how perfect her mouth feels; how much he loves her —
She cannot contain the little whimper, because she's close, so so close, teetering on the edge while her fingers move quickly back and forth over herself, dreams spilling out of her ears onto the pillow, Colin's cock on the screen in front of her eyes. She bites her lip, her face drawn tight as she fights to keep the noises in, her body singing and thrumming and —
"Are you gonna come, baby?"
For the past two weeks Colin has tried really, really hard not to get an erection.
Ironically it's been the hardest thing he's ever had to do in his life.
And that is just the sort of joke he'd like to tell Penelope — except he can't, for obvious reasons. He doesn't want to ruin this, doesn't want to spoil the sweet peace of their nights together. For the first time since he's known her, the dark little circles under her eyes have started to lighten and fade away, and he would do literally anything to keep her feeling rested and good.
She hasn't made it easy on him. She tries to hide that she's touching herself but she's not very good at it. She makes these huffed, breathy little noises into the pillow and sometimes she's so wet that her laptop microphone picks up the noise, the slick sounds of her fingers playing with her little pussy. Those nights are the hardest; it feels like actual Gitmo-level torture to try not to imagine sucking her pretty fingers into his mouth to taste the mess she's made, to focus on his game and not the twitching of his cock.
It's hard not to feel a little bit like a sex offender — because, like, it's Pen and he's known her forever and yeah, she's nineteen but she looks younger. He has to remind himself that she asked to see his cock and anyway, it's her whacking off secretly, isn't it? (Colin has the good grace to wait to whack off until after she's asleep and he's hung up, thank you very much). She's such a little weirdo, actually, and maybe he should be freaked out by it but it just makes him feel incredibly fond.
He's always felt protective of her. Hard not to. She's had it rough — her dad died a few years ago and her mum's kind of a cunt (not that he'd ever say that to Pen, but…). No wonder she struggles to sleep. He always loved it when she snuck into his room late at night — it felt like having a baby deer approach him or something. He'd have to tread so carefully, quietly, never quite looking her in the eye so he didn't scare her off. He'd lay out the blankets and teddies and pillows and watch her, trembly-legged and big-eyed, make herself cosy. Once she was asleep he would sometimes cup her soft cheek or tuck her in and it felt like stroking the soft, velvet ears of a little fawn. Something massive and tender would yawn in his chest and he felt the same when she said to him in that soft, sleepy voice that she liked looking at his dick. It took everything in him not to say whatever you want, baby, and he had realised then that oh, he likes Penelope. Like, likes her.
He should say something probably. The grown-up thing to do would be to tell her, but he really, really doesn't want to spoil this for her. It's like Fort Colin, isn't it — this soft little cocoon he's made for her where she can really be at peace. He loves how unguarded her face gets; her slack, open mouth and the way her eyes go kind of crossed when she's staring at the screen. He doesn't want to go barging around in there with his hard cock and declarations of love and ruin it all.
He should tell her. He will. He writes messages in their chat and deletes them:
i think i'm falling for you
and
i know we're friends and i don't want to ruin things but when you get back to london i want to take you on a date
and
i come every night thinking about you
i know you're touching yourself
do you like me, pen?
do you want me too?
He doesn't send any of them — because what does he have to offer her, actually?
Pen fucking glows with promise. Purpose practically shines out of her pores. It's amazing that all that determination and grit is held inside such a sweet, soft little container. He has no doubt that she'll finish this course in Paris and then get her degree and after that she'll be a published author one day.
And Colin is … Well. He's twenty-four and still living at his mum's house with his kid siblings; a university dropout with no prospects beyond the vague notion that he wants to travel; a loser who sleeps all day and plays video games all night. He has nothing to give her.
Except when Penelope looks at him he feels like he does. She makes him feel like he has the world in his hands.
So the very least he can do is give her this: this quiet, this rest. A little sliver of peace for her to slip into her pocket, to carry around with her when she's out in the world being big and brave.
He knows he has to tell her. It's not fair of him to keep her in the dark. So he makes up his mind two weeks into their… whatever it is they're doing. He'll allow himself one last night of this — one last secret, aching moment where he gets to watch her come, his head swimming and his heart pounding and his entire being focused on not getting hard — and then he'll tell her.
Pen, he'll say, and he'll keep his voice low so he doesn't startle his little fawn. I have to tell you something.
Except.
He didn't factor in the fucking tank top.
Usually Pen's camera is pointed directly to her face. He loves it — makes it full screen on his laptop while he half-heartedly plays Zelda on the big TV he got for gaming.
But tonight it's at a new angle. There's more of her on screen— so much more, actually, the camera tilted so he can see from her forehead down to her ribs. She's on her side and she's wearing this tiny, pointless little tank top. The spaghetti straps are fighting for their lives, and Colin can't help how his eyes fall directly to the creamy, perfect tops of her tits that spill over the frilly white lace stretched taut over them. His mouth starts to water — actually water, like he's a cartoon character salivating over a freshly baked pie — and he feels blood rush to his cock. He bites his lip and through extreme force of will drags his attention back to his gaming screen, breathing slowly through his nose to keep himself calm, to keep his cock from hardening.
It doesn't last long, but it's not his fault. Because she's obviously touching herself just out of frame, and the motion of her hand is making her tits jiggle. They're so plump and ripe and spilling, like they're going to jiggle right out of her tank top, and he's sure he can see the hardened bumps of her nipples beneath the cotton. Her mouth is open, her cheeks pink and her lashes fluttering as she pretends to be drifting to sleep. Fucking hypnotising. How could he not look?
There's this little pink bow in the middle, right by her cleavage, and he imagines tucking his finger in just above it and tugging the top down. Down, down, until the lace trim grazes her nipples. He wonders what colour they are — pink, like the soft circle of her mouth? Darker? His mouth runs dry and his hands grip the controller so hard he thinks he might dent the plastic.
After a while he stops playing, his eyes on the laptop screen and Penelope's perfect tits, watching as she gets herself closer and closer. She's worse than usual at hiding it tonight, panting audibly and her teeth digging hard into her lower lip. Time starts to swim and drip around him as he watches, watches, his head full of what he wants to say to her; what he wants to do to her. She's so locked in on his cock that she doesn't seem to notice he's not playing the game — his cock which is, miraculously, still soft. But only just; it keeps twitching and throbbing against his thigh.
He doesn't mean to say it. It's just she's so close, and she's so pretty, and he thinks he might sort of be in love with her, and it just —
He grabs the laptop; brings it to his face.
"Are you gonna come, baby?"
Her eyes fly open, and Penelope looks Colin dead in the eye as she comes.
She gets this furrow between her brows as it happens. He hasn't seen that before, and he thinks it's because she's trying to stop herself. That she knows she's been caught, knows how wrong this all is, but it's too late, her body already tumbling from the cliff. Her mouth opens and this breathy, desperate moan comes out of her, half-shock and half-pleasure — and then her face melts into helpless sweetness, her tits jiggling faster as she touches herself through it, totally lost in her orgasm.
Colin can't look away. Can't help his erection now, either. He grips his cock with one hand and holds the laptop with the other, entranced by the image on screen.
"Pen," he rasps, and his voice is so deep it sounds like it might be actually coming directly from his balls. Jesus. "I need to touch. Can I — can I — fuck — I have to, please —"
Her lashes flutter hazily, frowning as she comes back into her body. "Wh-what?" she stutters, her chest heaving as she breathes heavily. Fuck, he wants to kiss her tits so badly, wants to cup them softly and lift them to his open mouth. Kiss and bite and suck little hickeys all over til she's panting his name, pulling on his hair —
Fuck. His hand is already moving. He loosens his grip and swallows, trying to slow his breathing. Not yet.
"I need to touch myself. Ma— masturbate." Why did he say that? "Can I? You look so pretty when you come, Pen."
"Oh my god," she whispers, her eyes wide, and Colin feels sick — but then she shifts and nods so hard she looks like her head is going to fall off. "Yep. Yes. Yes."
"God," he breathes through gritted teeth, and then starts to play with his dick again, his eyes glued to her creamy-white tits.
"Can I — can I watch?"
Colin drops his laptop on his bent knee, narrowly missing his cock.
"Ow," he hisses, then hurries to prop it up on a pillow so Pen can see him. All of him this time, because he has this feeling that he wants her to see his face. So he's not just a disembodied cock; so she can't forget he's there. It feels weirdly pathetic and yearny, like he's holding himself out for her inspection, somehow; that he might yet be found wanting.
"Oh my god," she whispers again, her mouth open and her eyes dreamy, a little crossed (God, she's cute). The pathetic feelings melt away, and now Colin just feels good. Kind of bursting and warm and glowy, and he didn't really know he was an exhibitionist until Penelope looked at him like that.
Colin stretches his legs out and leans back into the pillows so he can drift into the feeling of his hand running up and down his length. Usually he'd need lotion but he's already leaking — he twists his fist over the head of his cock to lube up his palm and smears it down his shaft. Penelope's breathing hitches and he watches as her hand disappears back below frame. She's touching again, which makes him feel feral, and she looks sort of guilty about it which makes him feel so fond that he might die. He breathes hard and watches how her tits move, watches them strain against the fabric of her shirt.
He's thought about them a lot. Hard not to — they're so big and soft-looking, and even when she wears her old ratty T-shirts he can't help watching how they move beneath the fabric. He swallows, his hand moving faster, and says in a gravelly voice:
"Will you — fuck —" his head is so sensitive, every time his palm grazes it he feels like he might come — "get them out for me?" He sips in air, trying to make his tongue work properly and fight the voice in his head that's telling him he's being a massive, unforgivable pervert. "Your tits — can I see them, Pen?"
Her eyes go round for a moment and then she nods, and her sweet, soft little hand (not the one currently between her legs) begins to tug down her top, just like he dreamed of.
"Fuck," he groans. Because God, they're pretty. Round and full, pillowy-looking. Her nipples are lighter than he expected, kiss-pink rather than deep magenta, and he begins to suck helplessly on his tongue as she arranges herself, imagining holding them in his mouth. Because she's on her side they're sort of squashed together and Colin imagines sliding his cock between them, how satiny and enveloping they would feel. Will she let him do that one day?
"They're so pretty," he breathes shakily, squeezing his cock to stop the pleasure building so rapidly. "Perfect. God."
"Colin," she whines, her lashes fluttering and her free hand plucking at her nipple.
"Yeah," he murmurs, stroking faster. "Are you gonna let me suck them, baby? Bet you taste so nice."
Insane, but he's fully lost it now.
She whimpers and squeezes her tit. Her hand is so small it barely covers it, the flesh spilling obscenely. "Yeah," she whispers. "Yeah, you can suck them."
"Bet they're big enough for you to suck on, aren't they?" He's on the edge now, dancing dangerously close to his finish.
She pauses for a moment and then she shuffles down, arranging herself and lifting her tit up to her mouth. And fuck, he was right, they are big enough — it's a strain, her face all red and her cheeks squashed and her body contorting, but her perfect little mouth engulfs her nipple and she moans as she starts to suck.
"God, baby, you're so good," Colin blurts out, precum leaking so profusely from his cock that he sort of thinks it might just be cum at this point. "Look at you. Christ." The sight of it is so drugging he wishes he was screen recording, because he's not sure his memory will be able to hold onto the perfection of this sight: sweet little Penelope Featherington on her back for him, eyes closed and her tit in her perfect mouth. She looks so debauched, so wicked and sweet all at once, that his hips start to hump upwards helplessly. As though he might fuck his fist and then through the screen and then find her plump mouth to thrust into.
"Feel good, baby?" he croons, his voice unrecognisable.
"Yeah," she says, her teeth worrying her nipple. "Wish it was you."
God! Colin groans, pausing his stroking to squeeze his balls gently. "Show me," he gasps. "Show me how much you wish it was me."
She's so fucking obedient. Shimmies the laptop down and then — fuck — there she is.
Penelope's pussy, so wet and pink that Colin whines. With the laptop down there he can hear how wet she is as she plays with her clit — her arousal shines glossy over her red curls and her inner thighs. She's perfect and plump and he feels his brain shutting off entirely, the throbbing of his cock taking over all executive function.
"Fuck, baby," he grunts, and he returns to jacking off the head of his cock, focusing on his sensitive tip. "Fuck, you're so pretty. Gonna put my face right there and watch you touch. Bet you taste so good, Pen. I'm gonna lick you til you're begging me, sweetheart. Til you can't take anymore, and then I'm going to slide my cock into you slowly, so slowly you cry and squirm and cling to me. Fuck, such a good girl, bet you feel so warm and tight and perfect, don't you? Is that what you've been thinking about when you touch yourself, hm? Imagining how your sweet little pussy is going to take my cock, how I'm going to stretch you open and fill you up, make you mine? I've been thinking about it, Pen — thinking about it when you sleep. Do you know how pretty you look when you come? I've been touching myself every night thinking about how good you'll feel coming on my cock, when I've got you all soft and pliant under me, my tongue in your mouth. I've never jerked off this much in my life, Pen; you make me fucking crazy. I know your tits are going to feel so good in my mouth — gonna push them together and fuck them. Fuck every inch of you, baby, every part of you I can til you're begging me to put it in your pussy. God, baby, I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm —"
Colin's eyes are locked onto the screen, watching Pen's fingers move faster and her pretty little hole clench and quiver, a sweet, guttural moan emanating from his laptop as she comes again. Fuck, she's perfect, fuck fuck fuck —
He comes copiously. He can't believe he even has that much in him, given how much he's already been leaking, but it spurts all over his hand and thigh while he strokes fast and his hips jerk upwards. And just when he thinks he's done he looks at her fluttering pussy again and there's another little burst.
He is flooded with instant panic and lunges for his laptop. Grabbing tissues from his bedside table with his cum-hand, he tries desperately to remember what he just said (did an I love you slip out?) because his mind is all fuzzy from the orgasm. He hopes fervently that it fell on the right side of the horny/creepy spectrum.
"Pen?" he croaks, his heart in his mouth. "Are you — was that okay?"
Her bemused face appears on screen, haloed by frizzy, damp curls. God, she always looks so pretty after she comes, pink-cheeked and dreamy-eyed, and if he didn't just say I love you while ejaculating then he thinks he might now, actually.
"You're mine?" she squeaks, her lashes fluttering rapidly.
Colin thinks his heart might jump out of his chest and roll away across his bedroom floor. Fuck.
"Um." Fuck. "I shouldn't have said that."
She looks so crestfallen that he wants to shove the words back into his mouth.
"I mean —" he goes on hurriedly. "Not that I didn't mean it. Just that — I didn't want to say it… like that."
"Oh." She bites her lower lip and he wants to sort of punch himself in the face and book a ticket to Paris and start jerking off again all at once. "But you… you did want to say it?"
"Yes," he almost shouts, and he wonders if he's ever been normal in his life. "A lot. I've been —" don't fucking say it, you loser — "practicing."
She covers her mouth with her hand but he can see her eyes crease up at the corners with her smile. "You're mine," she whispers, and her voice is hazy, dreamy. Pleased.
Relief floods him and he can't help his stupid grin. "I am, yeah."
He wonders if it's the glare of the laptop screen or if she's actually just glowing. She snuggles down in her little single bed, her eyes closing and her mouth curled up at the corners.
"Sleepy?" he asks, the fondness in his chest big enough to swallow the world.
"Mhm," she murmurs, her orange lashes shivering against her cheek. She yawns. "But I want to hear more."
"Well," Colin says, "I'll play my game, and you can sleep, and I'll tell you all about it in the morning. We've got a lot to talk about." Understatement of the millenium, maybe.
"You're mine," she breathes, the words thick as sleep starts to settle over her.
"Yeah," he nods. He puts the laptop down so she can see his whole body and picks up the controller with hands that shake. "I — I love you, Pen."
When he looks back at the screen, she's asleep.