Chapter 15: Wet Dream
The white noise machine’s hum faded into the deep, resonant silence of Atlas’s own room. Exhaustion had slammed into him the moment his head hit the pillow, dragging him down into a black, dreamless void. For a while, there was only the profound stillness of utter depletion.
Then, heat bloomed.
It started low in his belly, a slow, insistent thrum that pulsed outward, warming his skin beneath the cool sheets. The darkness behind his eyelids shifted, coalescing into shapes, into her. Addie. Not the shy girl tucked safely in her dorm bed, but a vision conjured from the deepest, most primal part of his longing.
She was beneath him on his own navy comforter, bathed in the soft, golden light filtering through his window. Her long blonde hair fanned out like spilled moonlight across the pillow. Her pale blue eyes were wide, fixed unwaveringly on his, not with fear, but with a desperate, aching need that mirrored the fire consuming him. Her lips, soft and slightly parted, released a soft, breathy moan that vibrated through the dream air, settling low in his groin.
He felt the solid weight of her slender hips beneath his hands, the delicate bones yielding under his grip as he pinned her firmly to the mattress. The scent of her – vanilla and something uniquely Addie – filled his nostrils, thick and intoxicating. He was achingly hard, his cock straining against the confines of his boxers, thick and heavy with need.
In the dream, there were no barriers. His sweatpants vanished. Her borrowed hoodie dissolved. He felt the incredible, searing heat of her bare skin against his thighs, the soft swell of her breasts pressed against his chest. He positioned himself, the broad head of his cock nudging insistently against her entrance. She was so fucking tight, a silken, clenching heat that made him groan aloud in his sleep, a sound lost in the quiet room.
"Daddy, please," she whimpered, her voice trembling, raw with desire. Her small hands flew to his back, her nails digging into his skin, not to push him away, but to pull him closer, deeper. The sting was exquisite, a counterpoint to the overwhelming pleasure.
He thrust.
A single, deep, claiming stroke that buried him to the hilt inside her impossibly tight, wet heat. Her gasp was sharp, a sound of pure, startled ecstasy. He felt her inner muscles flutter and clamp around him, gripping him like a velvet fist. Her eyes rolled back slightly, her head pressing into the pillow.
"Fuck, Addie," he growled, the words rough, guttural. "So fucking tight. Taking Daddy’s cock so good."
He didn’t hold back. Couldn’t. The dream demanded rawness. He pulled back almost entirely, leaving just the swollen tip nestled within her, then slammed forward again, hard and deep. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the dream room, rhythmic and obscene. Her whimpers turned into sharp cries, each thrust wringing a new sound from her throat – "Ah! Daddy! Yes! Please!" Her legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him on, demanding more.
He pistoned into her, setting a brutal, relentless pace. Each deep plunge stretched her delicate little pussy wide around his girth, the friction searingly intense. He could feel every ridge, every clench of her inner walls as she trembled beneath him, her body arching off the bed. Sweat slicked his back where her nails raked. Her moans were constant now, a high, keening melody of pure, unadulterated pleasure. Her pale blue eyes, glazed and unfocused, locked onto his with desperate intensity. "Harder, Daddy," she gasped, her voice breaking. "Fuck me harder!"
He obeyed, driving into her with a primal ferocity that shook the bed frame in his dream. He felt her climax building, her inner muscles convulsing wildly around his cock, milking him. Her cry shattered the air as she came, her body bucking violently beneath him, her fingernails scoring deep lines down his spine. The sight, the feel, the sound of her shattering pushed him over the edge. With a roar that tore from his chest, he buried himself to the root and exploded, hot jets of cum flooding her tight channel, pulsing deep inside her as her trembling body milked him dry.
Atlas woke with a violent jerk, a choked gasp ripping from his throat. Disorientation slammed into him. The soft darkness of his room, the familiar scent of clean linen and wood polish – it was all wrong. The phantom sensations lingered: the crushing tightness of Addie’s cunt, the sting of her nails, the overwhelming heat, the blinding release.
Reality crashed down, cold and jarring. He was alone. In his bed. And his cock was a throbbing, iron-hard rod trapped in his boxers, painfully erect, slick with pre-cum at the tip. The dream’s intensity clung to him, a visceral echo vibrating through every nerve. He could still hear her whimpers, feel the desperate clutch of her body. His own arousal was a physical ache, a demanding pressure that pulsed in time with his racing heart.
"Fuck," he hissed into the darkness, the word raw. He threw back the sheet, the cool air doing nothing to dampen the furnace raging inside him. His hand moved instinctively, shoving down the waistband of his boxers. His cock sprang free, thick and straining, the head swollen and dark in the faint moonlight. The image of Addie beneath him, taking him, begging for it, flooded his mind again, relentless and vivid.
He wrapped his fist around his shaft. The skin was hot, velvety steel. A groan escaped him as he gave a firm stroke, base to tip, his thumb smearing the slickness over the sensitive head. He closed his eyes, but it only made the dream clearer. Addie’s flushed face, her parted lips, the desperate plea in her eyes – "Daddy, please."
He pumped his fist faster, rougher. The friction was delicious agony. He pictured her tight little pussy stretched wide around him, imagined the wet, sucking sounds, the feel of her climax rippling around his cock. His hips bucked involuntarily off the mattress, fucking into his own fist. "God, Addie," he gritted out, his breath coming in harsh pants. "Fuck, baby, so good... taking Daddy... fucking take it..."
The fantasy consumed him. Her soft cries echoed in his ears. The pressure built, coiling tight and urgent in his balls. He stroked harder, faster, his fist a tight, demanding tunnel. He imagined it was her cunt milking him, her body trembling as he filled her. The image of her pale blue eyes locked on his as he came inside her was the final trigger.
With a guttural cry muffled by clenched teeth, Atlas erupted. Thick ropes of cum shot across his abdomen, hot and wet, landing on his skin with soft splatters. His body arched, muscles locking as pulse after pulse of release tore through him, draining the frantic tension, leaving him shuddering and spent.
He lay there, panting, staring blindly at the ceiling. The scent of sex hung heavy in the air. Sticky wetness cooled on his stomach. The frantic pounding of his heart gradually slowed. But the aftermath wasn't peace. It was a cold wave of guilt, sharp and corrosive, washing over the fading heat of pleasure.
He didn't feel guilty for wanting her. God, no. He wanted Addie Bryce with a ferocity that scared him sometimes. He wanted her sweetness, her trust, the way she looked at him like he held the sun. And he wanted her body, wanted to bury himself in her warmth, hear those soft sounds turn desperate and raw for him, only for him.
The guilt came from the how. From the raw, uncontrolled hunger that dream had unleashed. From the way his cock was still twitching, half-hard, just thinking about her. From the fear that this desperate, physical need – this thinking with his dick – could blind him. Could make him push too fast, demand too much, before she was truly ready.
She was so delicate. So new to this world, still wrestling with her mother’s disapproval, still finding her footing in the vulnerability of being a Little. He’d promised himself patience. Protection. A sanctuary. Not this... this primal fucking his subconscious had just vividly scripted.
He pushed himself up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The cooling mess on his skin felt obscene now. He stood, his body heavy with fatigue and shame, and walked stiffly to the en-suite bathroom. The light was harsh, unforgiving. He avoided looking at his reflection as he grabbed a washcloth, ran it under cold water, and scrubbed roughly at his stomach, at his softening cock. The physical evidence vanished, but the feeling lingered – a sticky residue of desire and self-reproach.
He leaned his hands on the cool porcelain sink, head bowed. The phantom sensation of her nails on his back seemed to burn. He wanted her. Desperately. But more than that, he wanted to not fuck this up. He wanted her to feel safe, cherished, not overwhelmed or used. The dream had been a brutal reminder of the beast lurking beneath his careful control, the sheer, terrifying depth of his hunger for her.
He rinsed the cloth again, the cold water biting. Patience. He had to hold onto patience. Even if every fucking instinct screamed to claim her, to make her his in every way possible. He couldn't let the ache in his balls dictate his actions. Addie deserved more. Deserved better.
He turned off the tap. The silence of the predawn house pressed in. Somewhere down the hall, she slept, innocent and trusting. And he stood here, washed clean but feeling filthy with the force of his own desire, the ghost of her dream-whimpers still echoing in his ears. The conflict was a physical weight in his chest. Want warring with caution. Need battling responsibility. He took a deep, shaky breath, the cool air doing little to settle the turmoil inside. The path ahead felt treacherous, paved with his own barely leashed hunger. He had to tread carefully. For her.
The cool water dripped from his chin onto the porcelain sink basin. Plink. Each drop echoed in the sterile quiet of the bathroom, a stark counterpoint to the phantom heat still clinging to his skin, the ghostly ache in his groin. Atlas scrubbed a hand over his face, the stubble rough against his palm. Dawn’s grey light seeped around the edges of the blinds. Time to move. He couldn’t linger in this space smelling faintly of soap and shame. Duty called. Addie needed waking.
He pulled on fresh sweatpants and a clean t-shirt, the fabric feeling alien against his sensitized skin. The walk down the hall to the girls' room felt longer than usual, the silence of the sleeping school amplifying the thud of his own heartbeat. He paused outside their door, taking a steadying breath, pushing the raw images of his dream down deep, locking them away behind the calm facade he wore like armor. Patience. Sanctuary. He turned the knob gently.
The lavender gloom inside was softer now, touched by the creeping dawn. Cammy was a lump under her brightly patterned comforter, one freckled arm flung out, red hair a messy halo on the pillow. Atlas’s gaze slid immediately to the other bed.
Empty.
The sky-blue comforter was thrown back. The pillow lay dented, but vacant. Prickles, her worn stuffed hedgehog, sat abandoned near the foot of the bed. A cold finger traced down Atlas’s spine. His eyes darted around the small room. No Addie in the bathroom doorway. No Addie sitting at her small desk.
"Cammy," he said, his voice sharper than intended, cutting through the white noise hum. "Cammy, wake up."
Cammy groaned, burrowing deeper. "Five more minutes, Owen..."
"Cammy!" The urgency cracked through.
She jolted upright, blinking bleary emerald eyes. "Wha... Atlas? S'wrong?" Her gaze followed his pointing finger to Addie’s empty bed. Confusion knitted her freckled brow. "Huh? She pee?"
Atlas was already moving, scanning the room with frantic intensity. Her neatly folded outfit for the day – the soft pink sweater, the grey skirt – gone from the chair. Her designated hook was bare where her school bag usually hung. The small side table where she kept her water bottle? Empty space.
"She’s gone." The words felt like stones dropping from his mouth. Cold dread pooled in his stomach, icy and sharp. "Her bag… her clothes… water bottle… all gone." He spun, facing Cammy fully, his calm facade crumbling. Panic, raw and overwhelming, surged up his throat, choking him. "She left. She’s gone."
Cammy scrambled out of bed, her own sleepiness evaporating. "What? No! Why would she?" She hurried to Addie’s bedside, touching the empty pillow as if expecting Addie to materialize. "She wouldn’t just leave!"
The dam broke. Atlas’s mind became a frantic slideshow of the past twenty-four hours, each frame scrutinized under a harsh, unforgiving light. "Did I… fuck, did I scare her?" His voice was tight, strained. "Last night… when I kissed her forehead? Was it too much? Too soon? Did I seem… demanding?" He paced the small space between the beds, running a trembling hand through his short dark hair. "Or yesterday morning? When she spilled her juice? I sighed, Cammy. I fucking sighed! Did she think I was angry? Disappointed?" He stopped abruptly, facing Cammy, his hazel eyes wide with desperate fear. "Or… god, did she overhear something? Sense something… wrong?" The dream. The shame. Did she somehow know? Feel the fucking hunger radiating off me?
Cammy stepped into his path, placing her small hands firmly on his chest. "Atlas! Stop! Breathe!" Her green eyes held his, fierce and grounding. "You didn’t scare her off. You sigh when I spill stuff! You’re Atlas! You’re… safe." She squeezed his arms. "Think! Where would she go? She wouldn’t just vanish!"
The word 'safe' echoed hollowly in the cavern of his panic. Safe? After the filth of his dream? The intensity of his waking need? His gaze darted wildly around the room again, landing on the abandoned Prickles. She wouldn’t leave Prickles. Not willingly. Unless… unless she was running from him. The thought was a physical blow. "She doesn’t want me," he choked out, the admission tearing at him. "She realized… she can’t do this. Can’t be a Little. Can’t… have me." His shoulders slumped, the immense strength seeming to leach out of him.
"Bullshit!" Cammy snapped, her voice surprisingly strong. She gave his chest a little shove. "Stop spiraling! Addie adores you! She practically glows when you’re near! Remember yesterday? Singing in the shower? The way she smiled?" She took a deep breath, forcing calm. "Okay. Practical. She woke up early. Maybe she was hungry? Went down to the dining hall for breakfast before anyone else?"
Atlas latched onto the possibility, fragile as it was. "The dining hall…"
"Or," Cammy continued, thinking fast, "she needed quiet? Somewhere peaceful? The garden, maybe? By the willow tree? She loves it there." She grabbed her own robe, shrugging it on. "Come on. We check the dining hall first. Then the garden. She wouldn’t just leave leave, Atlas. Not without telling me. Not without Prickles."
The image of Addie sitting peacefully under the willow tree, waiting, soothed the rawest edge of his terror. Barely. But the icy dread remained, coiled tight in his gut. The empty bed, the missing bag, the abandoned toy – they screamed flight, not a morning stroll. He nodded jerkily, his jaw clenched tight enough to ache. "Okay. Dining hall. Then garden." The words felt thick. He turned towards the door, his movements stiff, driven by a desperate, clawing need to find her, to prove Cammy right, to silence the screaming voice in his head that insisted he’d already failed her. The ghost of her dream-whimpers was drowned out now by the deafening silence of her absence. He pushed the door open, stepping into the hallway, Cammy close behind him, the hunt beginning.