Chapter 16: sleepy caitlyn
The silence after Anxin left her room was a physical presence, a thick, humming void that settled in the hollow of Caitlyn’s bones. For three weeks, it lingered. The vivid purple blossoms on her neck, her hips, the inside of her thighs, had faded through a sickly spectrum of yellow and green before disappearing entirely. The skin was unmarked again, smooth and pale. But the memory of his teeth, his belt, the brutal fullness of his possession, refused to fade. It lived in the twinge of a muscle when she shifted in her chair, in the way her own hands felt useless between her legs at night, in the treacherous, liquid heat that pooled whenever she caught the sound of his voice through the wall.
She took to sleeping in just his shirt and a thong, the thin cotton sheets a direct whisper against her skin. A part of her, a shameful, hungry part, hoped the rustle of fabric might draw him back. It was a silent plea her conscious mind would never voice.
Anxin heard it anyway.
He came home late, the scent of whiskey and night air clinging to his leather jacket. The apartment was dark, save for the faint blue glow of the cable box from the living room. He stood in the hallway, listening. Hao’s room was silent. From behind Caitlyn’s door, the soft, regular rhythm of sleep-breathing.
He’d replayed her begged fantasy in his head for days. Fuck me in my sleep. The utter vulnerability of it, the complete surrender, had sparked a dark, possessive fire in his gut. Tonight, the whiskey made the embers glow hot.
He turned her doorknob slowly. It was unlocked. The door opened without a sound.
She was curled on her side, one arm tucked under her pillow, the other resting on the slope of her waist. The streetlight from the window cut a pale bar across the bed, illuminating the elegant line of her spine, the swell of her hip sheathed in lavender cotton, the tantalizing strip of skin between her bra and the waistband of her thong. She looked peaceful. Innocent. A stark contrast to the sobbing, marked creature he’d left in this same bed weeks before.
The filth of the act—taking her while she was helpless, unknowing—thickened his blood. It was a different kind of ownership. Not wrested through screams, but stolen in silence.
He moved like smoke, settling on the edge of the mattress. The springs sighed faintly. She didn’t stir. He watched her face for a long moment, her lips slightly parted, her long lashes fanned against her cheeks. Then his gaze travelled down.
His hand, still cool from the night outside, lifted the hem of her shirt. He bunched the fabric up slowly, revealing the lace cup of her bra, the gentle rise of her stomach. He palm smoothed over her ribs, feeling the heartbeat beneath, steady and untroubled by his presence. He cupped her tit through the lace, his thumb finding her nipple. Even in sleep, it hardened under his touch. A soft, sighing breath escaped her lips, but her eyes remained closed.
He leaned down, his mouth hovering just above her ear. “Such a good little sleeper,” he murmured, his voice a low, whiskey-roughened vibration. He doubted she heard it, not on the surface. But perhaps some deeper part of her did.
His other hand slid down the plane of her stomach, over the lace of her thong, and settled on her inner thigh. He applied the gentlest pressure, coaxing her legs apart. She complied with a drowsy, unconscious shift, murmuring something unintelligible into the pillow.
He hooked a finger into the side of her thong, pulling the fragile fabric aside. The scent of her, warm and subtly musky with sleep, hit him. He pressed the pad of his middle finger against her folds. She was wet. Not the soaked, desperate slickness of her arousal when awake, but a natural, sleeping humidity. The proof of her body’s ignorant readiness was profoundly erotic.
He rubbed his finger in a slow, circular motion over her clit.
A sharper breath. A subtle tensing in her thighs. Her hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk.
“That’s it,” he whispered, continuing the lazy, teasing circles. “Just sleep. Let me have this.”
He worked her like this for minutes, his touch a consistent, rhythmic pressure, just on the pleasurable side of waking. Her breathing deepened, hitched. Small sounds, soft whimpers, began to dust the air. Her back arched slightly, pushing her cunt more firmly against his hand. He slid a finger inside her, just to the first knuckle. The heat was breathtaking, a slick, snug glove. Her inner muscles fluttered in a sleepy, involuntary clench around the intrusion.
The filth of it roared in his ears. She was being pleasured by a ghost, her body responding to a phantom touch, while her mind drifted in some innocent dream. He was a thief in the temple of her subconscious.
He was a thief in the temple of her subconscious, and the altar was dripping for him. He added a second finger, stretching her sleeping entrance with a slow, insidious push. Her hips rocked back, a deeper, more deliberate motion, and a sigh so lush it sounded conscious drifted from her lips. He crooked his fingers, seeking the spongy wall inside her, and rubbed. making her sleepily moan his name
He heard it. A raw, gratified sound escaped him. “Yeah,” he breathed against her shoulder, his fingers still working inside her. “You dream About me using you while the world’s dark?” He pumped his fingers, the wet sounds obscenely loud in the quiet room. Her body was pliant, accepting, her inner muscles fluttering in gentle, rhythmic clutches around his thrusting digits. It was a compliance more absolute than any sober submission. It bypassed her sharp wit, her challenging pride, and went straight to the animal core of her.
It bypassed her sharp wit, her challenging pride, and went straight to the animal core of her. Her body arced again, a silent plea written in the tension of her muscles and the slick evidence on his fingers. He withdrew them slowly, watching her entrance glisten in the low light, puckered and empty.
He brought his soaked fingers to his own mouth, tasting her sleep-warm flavor, a primal satisfaction tightening his jaw. “All mine,” he muttered, the words dissolving into the dark. The possessive fever from weeks prior, the need to brand her inside and out, reignited with a quieter, more insidious burn.
He shifted on the bed, his movements deliberate and soundless. He peeled the thin sheet completely away, baring her to the waist. The streetlight now painted her entire back in monochrome, highlighting the delicate knobs of her spine, the two dimples at the base, the inviting swell of her ass barely contained by the lavender lace. He placed a large, warm hand on the small of her back, feeling the rise and fall of her breathing.
He applied gentle pressure, guiding her onto her back. She went without resistance, her head lolling to the side, her arm falling open above her head. The position was one of total surrender. Her breasts rose and fell in the lace cups of her bra, her stomach a flat plane descending to the wisp of her thong.
He loomed over her, blocking the light, his shadow engulfing her. He studied her sleeping face, the parted lips, the calm eyelids.
He didn’t fuck her. Not just yet.
He wanted her begging for his dick even in her sleep. He wanted the plea to be autonomic, wrung from her sleeping nervous system. His hands went to the clasp of her bra, the sound of the hooks separating unnaturally loud. He peeled the lace away, baring her tits to the cool air. Her nipples tightened instantly. He palmed them, weighing their softness, rolling the pebbled tips between his thumb and forefinger.
She sighed, a contented, dreamy sound that was somehow more corrupting than a moan.
“Yeah, you like that, don’t you?” he whispered, his voice a dry crackle. “Even when you’re gone. Your body knows its purpose.” He bent his head, taking one nipple into his mouth. He didn’t bite, not now. He suckled, slowly, deeply, his tongue laving the stiff peak. His other hand roamed down her side, over the curve of her hip, gripping the flesh there as if testing its ripeness.
He groped her unconscious body like it was his. Because it was. Every sigh, every twitch, every drop of wetness was a title deed signed in the dark. His hand slid between her thighs again, pushing them wider. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her thong and, with a slow, steady pull, dragged it down her legs. He tossed the tiny scrap of fabric into the shadows.
Now she was fully exposed to him, naked and vulnerable under his hungering gaze. The thatch of dark curls was damp. Her folds glistened, beckoning. The urge to sheathe himself in that helpless heat was a physical ache, a pounding demand in his blood. He denied it. He focused on the slow, thorough claiming.
He moved down her body, his knees settling on the floor beside the bed, his shoulders pushing her thighs apart. The scent of her, richer now, filled his head. He leaned in, his breath ghosting over her most intimate skin. She instinctively tremored, a delicate shiver that danced across her inner thighs.
He didn’t wait. He didn’t tease. He buried his face between her legs.
His tongue was flat and demanding, a single, long, wet stroke from her entrance to her clit. The taste of her, musky and sweet, exploded on his tongue. A choked, guttural sound came from her throat, half-snore, half-sob. Her hips lifted an inch off the mattress, seeking the contact.
“That’s it,” he murmured against her wet flesh, his words vibrating into her. “Give it up. Even in your dreams, you give it to me.”
He sucked on her clit. Not a gentle pull, but a firm, rhythmic suction, his lips sealing around the swollen bud while the tip of his tongue flicked rapidly against its peak. Her body bowed, a tense, beautiful arc. Her hands, lying limp at her sides, clenched into fists. A stream of gasps, soft and desperate, began to fall from her lips.
He fucked her with his tongue, plunging it deep inside her, lapping at her inner walls, then retreating to torture her clit again. The sounds were obscenely wet, punctuated by his low grunts and her fractured, sleeping breaths. He slid two fingers back inside her, crooking them as his mouth worked, creating a relentless, corkscrewing pressure.
“‘Xin…” she whimpered. It was a slurred, dream-logged syllable, but it was his name.
Hearing it, a savage triumph roared through him. “Say it again,” he ordered, his voice muffled by her cunt. “Beg for it in your sleep, you perfect fucking thing.”
As he made his way down and sucked on her clit, her back was arching off the bed in silent, sustained tension. Her legs trembled around his head. He felt the telltale clenching of her inner muscles around his fingers, the rapid, frantic pulsing of her clit under his tongue. She was hurtling toward a peak, completely unconscious, piloted solely by his mouth and hands.
He pulled his mouth away, leaving her clit exposed and throbbing in the cold air. A ragged, needy cry of protest tore from her. Her hips jerked mindlessly, searching for the lost contact. He blew on her wetness, making her whole body convulse.
“Not yet,” he growled. “You don’t come until I say. You don’t do anything until I say.” He said it knowing she couldn’t hear, not truly, but believing her deepest, most obedient self could. He resumed his work, his tongue more precise, more brutal. Each stroke was a question, and her body’s shuddering, escalating response was the answer he craved.
Each stroke was a question, and her body’s shuddering, escalating response was the answer he craved. He worked her like that until the vibrations under his tongue became a constant, desperate hum, until her heels dug into his back, until her breath was a ragged, panting thread. He could taste the edge of her climax, a sharpening electricity in the air, the salt on his tongue deepening. He pulled his mouth away completely, leaving her hovering.
A full-body tremor wracked her. A keening, frustrated sound, thin and high, broke from her lips. Her eyelids fluttered, but didn’t open. He watched her struggle in the limbo between sleep and sensation, her body begging for a finish her mind couldn’t consciously request.
“Shhh,” he whispered, smoothing a hand up her trembling belly. “Good girl. So fucking good for me.” His voice was sandpaper rough, layered with a genuine, dark awe. “Sleeping through this. Letting me take advantage of ur little body .” He leaned close, his lips brushing her ear. “You have no idea, do you? How perfect you are like this.”
Her only reply was another whimper, her head turning restlessly on the pillow. He shifted his weight, rising from his knees to lay beside her on the narrow bed. The mattress groaned. He propped himself on one elbow, looking down at her ravished body, glistening in the low light, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
With deliberate, slow movements, he tugged at the waistband of his sweats. He freed his dick, which was achingly hard, a thick, flushed weight in his hand. The air felt cool against his heated skin. He hissed, smearing the bead of moisture at the tip.
“Gonna ruin you now,” he murmured, though the words held a twisted reverence. “Gonna fill up that sleeping pussy.”
He nudged her shoulder gently until she rolled onto her back again, compliant as a doll. He hooked a hand behind her right knee. He lifted her leg, the limb heavy with sleep, and draped it over his shoulder. The position opened her to him completely, a vulnerable and profound offering. The sight stole his breath. Her slick folds glistened, swollen from his mouth, inviting devastation.
This was so wrong. The wrongness of it was a drug, firing his synapses, making his heart hammer against his ribs. That she trusted her sleeping self so completely in this space they shared, and he was using that trust to violate her every boundary, made him needier. It sharpened the hunger to a fine, desperate point.
He guided himself to her entrance, the broad head nudging against her soaked slit. He applied pressure, just the slightest breach. Her warmth enveloped the very tip, a staggering, tight heat. He paused, jaw clenched, savoring the impossible clench of her. Even relaxed in sleep, she was exquisitely tight for him, a velvet fist resisting then accepting his intrusion millimeter by millimeter.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word trembling. He pushed forward, a slow, inexorable invasion. Her body stretched to accommodate him, a breathtaking, burning friction. He watched, mesmerized, as he disappeared inside her. Her inner muscles fluttered in a sleepy, involuntary spasm, a ripple of protest and welcome that travelled the entire length of his shaft.
He sunk deeper, the sheer snugness making his vision blur at the edges. He buried himself to the hilt, his hips finally meeting the backs of her thighs. He was fully sheathed in her unconscious heat. A groan was torn from deep in his chest, guttural and raw. He held there, immobile, feeling her pulse around him, the faint, dream-driven contractions of her cunt massaging his throbbing dick.
He lowered his head, pressing his forehead to her thigh hooked over his shoulder. He could smell her skin, her arousal, his own whiskey-scented sweat. The cocktail was heady, morally bankrupt, and utterly consuming. He began to move.
His first deliberate withdrawal was agony, a delicious torture of suction and friction. He pushed back in, a shade faster, sinking into that devastating warmth once more. He set a slow, deep, rhythmic pace. Each thrust was a protracted, grinding possession. The wet sounds were lewd in the quiet room, a filthy soundtrack to the theft.
Her breathing changed. It hitched in time with his strokes, losing the smooth cadence of sleep. Small, fragmented sounds accompanied each exhale: soft “uh” sounds, little catches in her throat. Her fingers, which had been lax on the sheets, slowly curled, clutching at the cotton.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, his own voice strained with the effort of his control. “Feel that. Even in your dreams, you feel me splitting you open.” He drove in harder, angling his hips to go deeper. Her leg over his shoulder tightened, a faint muscular response. “You know it’s me. Some part of you knows.”
He leaned down, his mouth finding the soft skin of her inner thigh, near the place his teeth had marked her weeks before. He didn’t bite, but kissed it, a perverse gesture of affection. “My good girl,” he muttered against her skin. “Taking my dick like a champion while you’re out cold. fucking perfect.”
His pace began to fray, the slow, deep rolls shortening into harder, more urgent snaps of his hips. The need to claim, to imprint himself, overrode the poetic cruelty of the slow violation. He wanted her to feel it in her bones when she woke. He wanted the phantom ache of him to be her first conscious sensation.
The phantom ache. He wanted it etched into her sinew, a deep, possessive soreness that would whisper to her with every step she took into the blinding ordinary of tomorrow. His control shattered. The slow, grinding possession became a driving, pounding rhythm. The bedframe, a cheap, rattling thing, began a frantic percussion against the wall. Each thrust was a wet, solid slap of skin, a noise so indecent he was grateful for the whiskey-thick silence of the building at this hour.
"Gonna fuck this dream right," he grunted, the words gravel in his throat. His hands tightened on her hips, his fingers surely leaving their own constellation of bruises to join the faded ghosts on her skin. He watched her face. Her brow furrowed, not in waking, but in deep, somatic distress. Her plush lips parted on silent, drawn-out exhales that matched the tempo of his hips.
Even asleep, her body was learning him. Her inner muscles, once fluttering in sleepy surprise, now coiled and clenched in a slick, rhythmic vise around his dick. It was an unconscious milking, a primal recognition she’d never admit awake. "Yeah, squeeze me," he urged, his breath hot. "Take every fucking inch." He drove deeper, harder, chasing his own climax now, feeling it coil like a spring at the base of his spine.
The angle shifted. He leaned over her, bracing a hand by her head, her leg still hooked over his shoulder, stretching her impossibly open. This close, he could see the rapid flutter of her eyelids beneath their lids, could study the faint sheen of sweat on her upper lip. The scent of her—warmed perfume, salt, and the unmistakable musk of their joining—filled the space between their faces.
"Know who this is?" he whispered, his lips almost touching her ear. He punctuated the question with a particularly brutal thrust that jolted her whole body up the mattress. A sound escaped her, a choked, guttural uhnnn that was pure physical feedback, devoid of conscious thought. "It's me. Filling up that pretty, sleeping cunt." He said it to make it real, to brand the act with his voice if she couldn’t see him.
His other hand slid from her hip, over the quivering plane of her stomach, and found her breast. He palmed it roughly, his thumb rasping over her nipple. The dual assault—the deep, punishing penetration and the rough attention on her breast—seemed to trigger a deeper awakening in her nervous system. Her back arched sharply, pressing her torso into his hand. A moan, long and low and throaty, unraveled from her.
It was the most coherent sound she’d made. It tipped him over the edge. The tight heat of her, the complete, trustful vulnerability, the sheer fucking wrongness of it all, coalesced into a blinding surge of need. His rhythm dissolved into frantic, shallow slams. "Gonna come," he warned, a hoarse growl against her neck. "Gonna pump this cunt full. You're gonna wake up leaking me."
The climax ripped through him, violent and total. With a shattered groan, he buried himself as deep as he could and pulsed. Hot, frantic bursts erupted from him, flooding her, each jet aclaim staked in the dark. He ground his hips against her, ensuring every last drop was spent inside her, marking her inner walls as thoroughly as his teeth had marked her skin weeks before. The spasms seemed to go on forever, a draining, euphoric release that left him trembling, his weight heavy on her.
As the last waves subsided, he became aware of her body again. It was tense, strung tight. A different tension. Not the laxness of sleep, but the coiled readiness of a precipice. Her hips made a tiny, frantic circle against his, which were still flush against her. A thin, desperate whine seeped from her clenched teeth.
She was there. Hovering on the cliff edge of an orgasm he’d ruthlessly built but hadn't let her fall over. Her body, used and filled, was now petitioning for its own conclusion. “please…”
, spent and sensitive, gave a treacherous twitch. "Please what, princess?" he murmured, trailing a finger through the slick mess on her inner thigh, mixing her arousal with his cum. "Use your words. Even asleep, you gotta use your words."
She tossed her head, a mane of brown hair sticking to her damp temples. Her breath came in ragged hitches. She was fighting it, the dream logic warring with the overwhelming physical imperative he’d wired into her. Her hips lifted again, seeking friction, finding only empty air. A tear escaped the corner of her eye, tracing a path into her hairline.
The sight of it, that single, silent tear of frustration, unmoored something in him. It wasn't pity. It was a darker, more possessive satisfaction. He had reduced her to this, a weeping, begging thing in a dream, and she didn't even know it was him. She just knew the need.
"Shhh," he said, his voice unexpectedly soft. He lowered himself, lying beside her on his side, propped on an elbow. He looked at her ravished face, the parted, swollen lips, the tear track. With his clean hand, he brushed the hair from her forehead. His other hand, wet and filthy, slid back between her legs.
She jolted at the contact, a full-body spasm. "I know," he soothed, his mouth by her ear. "I know what you need." He began to touch her clit again, not with the teasing laziness of before, but with a focused, relentless purpose. Two fingers slid inside her easily, slick with their combined fluids, and curled. His thumb worked tight, exacting circles on her swollen nub.
Her response was instantaneous and volcanic. A shattered cry tore from her throat, loud enough this time to worry about the thin walls. Her body bowed into a rigid arc, every muscle locking. He felt her inner walls clamp down viscously on his fingers, a pulsating, rhythmic seizure of pure release. The pleasure, happening to her sleeping self without the guardrails of consciousness, was catastrophic. It wracked her with continuous, silent tremors, her mouth open in a soundless scream.
He held her through it, his fingers working her gently, prolonging the waves until they subsided into weak, aftershock shudders. She went utterly boneless, a puppet with cut strings, her breathing a strained, wet sound in the quiet room.
"...need Daddy..."
"So bad..." she murmured, the words dissolving into a sigh as she nuzzled the pillow.
A chill, electric and profound, shot down his spine. It wasn't "Anxin." It was Daddy. The word he'd never demanded, that belonged to some other, darker chamber of her fantasy life. She’d given it to him in the most vulnerable state imaginable. She had needed something so visceral, so fundamentally degrading, that only that word could hold it, and she had called for it in the void, believing she was alone.