(18+, Simon Riley ร fem!Reader)
cw: male masturbation; sex toy; established relationship
Itโs your ideaโa joke wrapped in red ribbon under the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree, nestled among the practical gifts (new designer cap for Kyle, expensive whiskey for Price, rugby match tickets for Johnny).
For Simon, youโd chosen something ridiculous: a high-end automatic sex toy/masturbator. Sleek black, textured sleeve, suction settings, the works. You hand it to him with a straight face.
โMerry Christmas, Lieutenant. For those long deployments when you miss me.โ
The others howl. Johnny nearly falls off the couch. Price coughs into his whiskey. Kyle gives you a slow clap. Simon just stares at the box, blinking slowly, then at youโdark eyes unreadable behind the mask.
And then he mutters a quiet โThanks,โ tucks the box away, and changes the subject.
You donโt think heโll actually use it.
But three weeks later, youโre away on a short administrative trip to Londonโpaperwork hell that canโt wait while Simon is stuck on base, night shift rotation. The quarters feel too empty without you.
He tries to sleep. Canโt. Your scent lingers on the pillows and duvet, and he has gotten too used sleeping with you curled up in his arms. He thinks about your laugh when you gave him the gift. Thinks about your bodyโsoft curves, the way you always moan his name when he makes love to you.
Naturally, his cock hardens under the sheets.
Simon tells himself he wonโt.
Twelve whole seconds pass, then heโs up and at the drawer, pulling out the box you wrapped so carefully.
He sets it up on the bedside tableโlube warmed in his palm, sleeve slick and ready. Half-hard already from mere anticipation before he slides in slow.
The first suction setting is gentleโtight, warm, pulling him deeper with every programmed stroke. He groans low, head falling back against the pillow with a dull thud. It feels goodโtoo goodโbut itโs not you. He misses your heat, your weight, the way you look at him whenever he is buried inside you.
He turns it up with soft clicks; too loud in the quiet room while his breathing deepens, strong heart thudding against his ribcage.
The machine speedsโrhythmic, relentless, twisting and sucking just right. His hips buck involuntarily. Simon closes his eyes, imagines itโs your mouthโyour pretty lips stretched around him, your tongue swirling.
He cranks the suction higher with a shuddered groan and the cock sleeve milks him harder, twisting at the head, pulling deep. His breath stutters, the muscles in his thighs tense, flared tip leaking a steady dribble of pre now, the wet sounds causing his pale cheeks to burn crimson.
But Simon doesnโt touch himselfโlets the machine work him instead, hands fisted in the sheets. Itโs the best kind of torture and denial. The build is slow, intense, overwhelming. His abs clench under his shirt; a low growl rumbles in his chest.
When he comes, itโs sudden and shattering; hips jerking, cock pulsing hard inside the sleeve as he spills in thick, seemingly endless ropes, letting out the filthiest moan. The machine doesnโt stopโkeeps stroking through it, drawing out every shudder, every aftershock until heโs gasping, oversensitive, reaching blindly while cursing to turn it off.
And Simon lies there in the aftermath, chest heaving, staring at the dark ceiling before he grabs his phone, thumbs a quick text to you:
You win. Fucking thingโs dangerous.
He attaches an obscene, blurry picture of the sex toyโits used hole leaking with his cum. You know itโs his way of saying I miss you.
Should be you instead.
Your reply comes fast: Told you it was a good gift. Canโt wait to watch you use it in person. ๐คญ
He groans againโfor entirely different reasons this timeโaccepting defeat, knowing heโs keeping it.
