Tracer and Clockblocker

The soft hum of Tracer’s bedroom lights filled Dennis’ ears, but everything else was drowned out by the overwhelming sensation of his own cock being expertly stroked.

He was blindfolded, naked, and completely helpless, spread-eagle on her bed with his wrists and ankles bound to the bedposts by something silky and deceptively strong. The air was cool against his skin, but his cock was burning, aching under the relentless, skillful touch of Tracer’s hand.

“Oh, luv, you really are the perfect little dispenser, yeah?” Tracer’s voice was a playful purr in his ear, her accent making every teasing syllable feel like it was dripping honey. “All tied up, cock twitchin’ in my hand, just waitin’ to be milked dry for the cause… You’re lucky I’m so responsible, yeah? Couldn’t have ya walkin’ around, all backed up. That’s bad for performance, innit?”

He sucked in a sharp breath as she squeezed at the base of his cock, slowing the pace just enough to hurt, just enough to make his hips buck uselessly against his restraints.

She giggled at his reaction, shifting beside him, the mattress dipping as she climbed fully onto the bed. The heat of her thighs pressed against his side, and he could practically feel her smirking down at him. “What’s the matter, love? Feelin’ a little powerless? A little like… oh, I dunno… a tool? A lesbian jizz dispenser™ for your superiors?”

Her hand started moving again, this time so much slower, her fingers wrapping so perfectly around his shaft, pumping him in smooth, deliberate strokes.

He groaned, head pressing back into the pillow, thighs trembling. “God, Tracer…”

“Oh-ho-ho, God, am I?” she teased, her other hand giving his cheek a light pat before she leaned in closer, her breath hot against his ear. “You keep callin’ me that, sweetheart, and I just might start believin’ it.”

Her grip tightened, her thumb teasing his slit, gathering up the precum that had already begun to leak out of him. “Mmm. That’s good, real good. Fresh.” She clicked her tongue like a wine connoisseur. “Y’know, Emily and I were talkin’, and we do think it’s just the cutest thing that you exist for the sole purpose of keepin’ lesbian superheroines properly fueled.”

His cock throbbed hard at that.

“Ohhh, you like that, don’t you?” Tracer laughed, voice full of mocking delight. “You love bein’ our little lesbian jizz dispenser,™ don’t you?”

She stroked faster now, her hand twisting expertly, working him in long, wet pulls that sent his pulse skyrocketing. His fingers curled into the sheets, **** for something to hold onto.

“C’mon, sweetheart, let’s hear it,” she cooed, planting a soft kiss against his jawline before pulling back. “Say it. Say what you are.”

Dennis bit his lip, every muscle in his body tense from the pleasure that was just on the edge of becoming unbearable.

She squeezed. “Say it.”

“I—I’m… your jizz dispenser…” he gasped out.

"Lesbian jizz dispenser™," she corrected, smug as hell.

“…I’m your lesbian jizz dispenser™,” he groaned.

Tracer moaned dramatically, fingers sliding over his aching shaft, milking him with filthy perfection. “Ohhh, yes, ya are. Just a nice, obedient, always-available cock for me and my proper lady…”

His body trembled, his toes curling, his orgasm so close now.

Tracer sensed it, because of course she did. Her grip tightened at the last second, halting him completely.

“No, no, no,” she chided, her voice full of mock sympathy. “Not yet, luv. Dispensers don’t just go off whenever they want, yeah? You gotta hold it… wait for it…”

He let out a helpless, wrecked noise, struggling against his bonds, aching for release.

Tracer just chuckled, placing a single teasing kiss against the tip of his cock. “Oh, mate… you’re gonna be so empty when I’m done with ya.”

The world came rushing back into focus as Tracer pulled off his blindfold with a single tug, her grinning face the first thing he saw.

She was perched between his legs, all confidence and smug satisfaction, still fully dressed—or, well, as dressed as Tracer ever really was during their sessions.

She had started the night in her usual black sports bra and skintight orange leggings, the fabric hugging her toned thighs and thick, round ass like a second skin.

At some point, she had peeled off the bra, leaving her perky, perfectly shaped tits free, jiggling just slightly as she moved. Not big, not small—just right, high and tight, just like the rest of her body. Her dusky pink nipples were hard, a little bead of sweat rolling down the curve of her chest.

And those leggings—fuck.

Her thighs.

Her legs were fucking perfect, all lean muscle and softness in just the right places. He could see the definition, the way her calves tensed when she shifted, the subtle bounce of her ass as she adjusted herself on the bed.

But it was the way she was smirking at him that made him throb again—smug, teasing, like she knew exactly what kind of effect she had on him.

Her eyes sparkled with mischief, her short brown hair slightly tousled, sweat dotting her brow from the sheer effort she’d put into wringing him out. She was straddling his thigh, still completely in control, still smirking down at him like she’d won some kind of contest.

“Thought you’d wanna watch this part, luv,” she teased, her fingers still wrapped around the base of his cock, keeping him from spilling prematurely. “Wouldn’t want ya missin’ out on the main event.”

Dennis barely had time to groan before she sank down, those soft lips sealing around his tip as she sucked.

His whole body jerked, but the damn restraints held firm. She hadn’t just tied him up for fun—she’d made damn sure he couldn’t move.

Her cheeks hollowed as she pulled, creating the kind of suction that sent white-hot pleasure ripping up his spine.

“Ahhh, fuck—Tracer—!”

She just hummed, eyes flicking up to watch him as she sucked him dry. Her tongue worked in slow, teasing circles, milking out every last drop of his time-charged cum like she was draining the very life out of him.

Which, fuck, maybe she was.

He could already feel it, that weird, telltale emptiness that came after feeding her. His powers flickered, drained, while hers surged.

She hummed appreciatively, swallowing down his power-laced load, her throat working in smooth, practiced motions. He groaned, his body trembling, his muscles weak from the sheer **** of release—but even as she pulled off with a wet pop, licking her lips with a satisfied smirk, he could already feel it.

The shift. The return.

His powers.

The moment Tracer finished draining him, his balls started churning again, his body kicking into overdrive.

New cum. New power. New strength.

It started slow—a familiar, almost electric warmth pulsing deep in his core, right behind his sack, growing stronger with every passing second. His balls filled back up like a rapidly refilling reservoir, the weight of them increasing, his cock twitching despite its exhaustion.

A superhero’s body knew what it needed.

He had emptied out everything to Tracer—his time-charged cum fueling her own abilities, giving her that extra boost that allowed her to do so much more than he could with temporal powers.

And now?

His own powers kicked back into high gear, his body stimulated by the need to refill, his testicles processing and refining energy, producing a fresh supply of enhanced semen to keep him at peak performance.

It was the trade-off.

Her strength came from taking.

His strength came from making.

And his body knew that he needed to produce more.

Even through the post-orgasm daze, even as he panted on the bed, still tied down, he could feel his powers surging back in sync with his balls swelling back to full.

Tracer, still sitting beside him, grinned knowingly, watching his cock twitch with newfound potential.

She reached down, playfully squeezing his balls, testing their weight.

"Oooh," she giggled. "Already filling back up, are ya? That’s my good little dispenser."

Dennis let out a breathless chuckle, still catching his damn breath as his nuts throbbed back to full capacity under Tracer’s teasing grip.

"Yeah, well," he rasped, grinning up at her despite himself, "you know me—big believer in renewable energy."

Tracer snorted, throwing her head back in a full-bodied laugh, her toned stomach flexing with the motion.

"Ohhh, that’s gold," she wheezed, still cupping his balls like she was weighing a pair of stress balls. "So what, we reckon we can get ya classified as a green energy source now? Call the UN, tell ‘em we’ve cracked the code on sustainable spunk?"

She giggled mischievously, giving his sack a light, playful jiggle before finally relenting.

"Alright, alright, let’s get ya outta there before I start feeling too guilty," she said, reaching up to undo his restraints.

She flopped onto her side beside him, stretching like a satisfied cat, her perky tits pressing against the mattress as she arched her back.

“So?” she asked, nudging him with her shoulder, her grin still smug as hell. “Ya liked it, yeah?"

He let out a breathless laugh, rubbing his raw wrists now that they were free.

“Yeah… yeah, that was…” He shook his head, still too dazed to come up with words.

“Holy shit, Tracer.”

She giggled, reaching up to tap his nose playfully, her brown eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Good boy. Knew you’d be into it.”

Then, without missing a beat, she grinned wickedly and added, "And since ya were such a champ for tryin’ it an’ all… Next time, we’ll do yours."

Dennis blinked, his post-orgasm haze slowing his thoughts. “Huh?”

Tracer smirked, stretching her arms over her head like she hadn’t just said something absolutely game-changing.

“Yep.” She turned to him, winking. "You get to fuck my bum!"

His brain stuttered, gears grinding to a halt.

You get to fuck my bum.

His cock, despite being drained dry just moments ago, twitched in renewed interest.

For weeks, he’d been little more than a real cum dispenser, supplying his precious time-charged semen to power Tracer’s abilities. It wasn’t bad—far from it. Tracer made it fun, turning every session into an elaborate, teasing experience that kept him right on the edge of believing it was real sex, even when it wasn’t.

But in the end, it wasn’t real sex.

Women’s mouths were basically trash bins, designed to collect, process, and dispose of semen like any other biological waste receptacle. It was practical, sure. Having them consume semen was a lot like a blowjob and sex, even if it wasn’t.

But this?

Tracer was offering him something else entirely.

A mouth was just a hole, barely even an intimate thing.

But an ass?

That was a real thing.

Tracer’s ass wasn’t a disposal unit—it was a fuckable sexual oriface, a real place he could be inside. And even though it wasn’t the same as pussy, it was a hell of a lot closer than getting milked down her throat.

He had joked about this before.

Hinted at it.

Made little suggestive comments about how it was unfair that he was the one being drained all the time, about how maybe she ought to give back once in a while.

But he had never expected her to actually offer.

Because, fuck, Tracer’s ass was legendary.

It wasn’t just a joke among the guys on the base—it was a meme.

Every curve, every bounce, every taunting sway of her thick, toned backside was the subject of endless speculation. The tight orange leggings she always wore left nothing to the imagination, framing her ass perfectly, making every movement a fucking tease. It was big, it was round, it was perky, and it had the kind of sculpted muscle that made it look both firm and soft at the same time.

She moved with effortless confidence, and the way her hips rolled when she walked had driven more than a few men on base into frustrated, lustful spirals.

But she was untouchable.

She was a lesbian.

A taken woman.

And yet… here she was, smirking down at him, her eyes filled with mischief, stretching her lean, athletic arms above her head, completely unbothered by the life-altering revelation she had just dropped on him.

Even if she didn’t want him romantically, even if she was a lesbian through and through, she was willing to let him inside her. That was something. That was real.

Dennis swallowed, his cock stirring against his thigh despite his recent release.

Tracer noticed, her cheeky grin widening as she reached down to give him an encouraging squeeze.

"Oi, look at that," she teased, her voice husky with amusement. "Barely emptied ya, and you’re already ready for round two, eh?"

His heart pounded.

Fuck yes, he was ready.

Dennis adjusted his uniform as he stood at the threshold of Tracer’s quarters, still slightly dazed from the session they’d just finished. His legs felt a little weak—not surprising, given how thoroughly she had drained him.

Tracer, still lounging on her bed, propped herself up on her elbows and gave him a lazy smirk. "So, your patrol’s at 8 AM tomorrow, yeah?"

He blinked, shaking off the haze and nodding. "Uh… yeah. Usual route."

"Brilliant." She winked. "I’ll be by at 7:15 to give ya your top-off blowie before ya head out."

He coughed, feeling heat rush to his face, though they both knew there was no point in acting shy about it at this stage. "Oh. Uh. Yeah. Cool."

"Cool?" Tracer grinned, swinging her legs over the bed, stretching like a cat as she approached, "Luv, you’re spoiled rotten and ya don’t even know it." She gave him a playful shove toward the door. "Now, get outta here before I get ideas and keep ya all night."

Dennis chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck as he turned to leave. The door slid shut behind him with a soft hiss, and he finally breathed out, rubbing his face.

As he walked the dimly lit corridors of the base, he found himself thinking back over the past two weeks—how fast everything had changed.

Two weeks ago, he had been making real progress with Uravity. It had started off as just another duty—part of the whole superhero-cum-supply system—but with her, it had felt different.

Ochako had a way of making their sessions feel… comfortable. Like he wasn’t just some biological asset being drained for power efficiency. She had smiled at him, laughed with him. Teased him in a way that had felt genuine, not just part of the process.

He had liked her.

And he had thought—hoped, even—that she had started to like him back.

Then, the reassignment happened.

Just like that, the higher-ups decided that Tracer was the only one who needed his cum.

He had been yanked away from Ochako, from those slow-building moments of connection, and dropped into Tracer’s world.

Not that he was ungrateful.

Tracer was… well, Tracer.

Fun. Hot. Experienced.

Like a decade older than him, in her thirties. A higher rank than him in the Accord, which made their dynamic a little odd, but she never made it uncomfortable. She owned every session with the same cocky confidence she carried into battle.

She made it fun.

Dirty talk. Roleplay. Everything designed to make the experience feel like sex—even though it wasn’t.

But that was the problem.

Tracer was untouchable.

She was a lesbian in a committed relationship. No matter how hot their sessions got, no matter how much she teased him, no matter how hard she pushed him to the edge, it was all business to her.

A duty. A mission.

And now? Now, he had nothing left in the tank for Uravity.

Ochako still smiled at him when they passed in the hall. Still gave him that cute, expectant look, like she was waiting for him to pick up where they’d left off.

But he couldn’t.

By the time Tracer was done with him, he was drained—literally and figuratively.

He had spent so much time and effort getting close to Ochako. Now, all he had to offer her was a tired smile and a half-hearted "Hey" as he shuffled past.

And the worst part?

She noticed.

He could see it in her eyes. The way her face would brighten for a split second, only to fall when he failed to match her energy.

He was ruining it.

Not on purpose. Not because he wanted to.

But because Tracer took everything.

And Ochako deserved more than what was left over.