cupcake ۶ৎ

He tails you for a mile or two, those bright red and blue lights finally flashing in your rearview, painting the dashboard in slow, pulsing color. Your heart kicks up the second you hear the crunch of gravel under his boots as he approaches. When you roll the window down, there he is—hat tipped low, jaw tight, that star pinned to his chest catching the light like a warning.

“Something wrong, Mr. Officer?” you ask, all soft and sweet, batting your lashes like you don’t already know exactly how this ends.

Clark doesn’t smile. He just hooks a thumb in his belt and rumbles, “Step out of the vehicle, ma’am.”

The second your feet hit the dirt he’s on you, spinning you around and pressing you front-first against the warm trunk of your car. His big hands are everywhere—sliding up your thighs, squeezing your hips, palming your breasts through your thin sundress while he leans in close enough for you to feel the heat of his breath on your neck.

“You know how fast you were going?” he growls, voice low and rough like gravel under tires. One hand slips between your legs, cupping you possessively, fingers teasing just enough to make your knees weak. “Reckless driving. Gonna have to write you up for that.”

You bite your lip, arching back into him. “Is there… any other way I can pay for it, Sheriff?” The smirk you feel against your ear is pure sin.

Which sounds crazy considering you’re dating Clark Kent. But you rationalize it like so; Clark Kent and Superman are the same body, but different people. Different personalities. And both make your clit throb. Clark Kent is sweet and kind in a fumbling way. All droopy eyes and shyness and soft tones, pulling his shoulders so he takes up less room. He’s more comfortable in Smallville. Superman is kind and caring in a… different way. His shoulders go back. Eyes switch from kicked puppy to strong and silent. His jaw is tense, smiles become smirks. His voice grows louder, deeper.

Clark is very good at separating work and personal life. He never takes out his frustration from a lost battle onto you. He’ll share emotions but from a distant observation. He won’t even touch you that hard. Which really sucks since you want Superman to fuck you into the mattress.

As you brood over this issue, you pass a street cart. It’s one of those carts with cheap merch, meant to draw in tourists. No self-respecting Metropolitan would stop at one unless something was dire. But this particular cart had some merch that lit an evil fire in your eyes. So you purchase it and speed home. After washing and drying your purchase, you get into it.

“Alright, ok…” You lay across the couch and pick up some book, just in time for Clark to walk in.

Your boyfriend freezes. “Darling, what are you wearing?”

You look down. “Clothes?”

“These aren’t your normal lounge clothes, hun. You wear sweatpants and ratty Tshirts, not… that.”

“Do you not like it?” The crop top barely covered the fat of your tits, and the thigh highs cut just enough into your thighs to show off their plump smoothness. You knew Clark loved leaving a hickey right where the thigh highs cut off. The matching panties were a sheer mesh, some frilly lace on the waistband too. But the kicker was that the set was Superman blue, with the red lace and logo emblazoned across your chest finishing off the racy merch. “I got a set from a street vendor. Support small businesses and all.”

“So you… bought… lingerie?” Clark chokes out. He wanders closer as if he’s hypnotized. “You look… golly darling…”

But right before he gets to you, you plant your foot on his sternum. “Sorry, this set is for Superman, see?” You cup your breasts and press them together, shifting the logo. Clark follows the movement needily. “I don’t see Superman here.”

“But I am Superman!” Clark whines. He doesn’t move. “Baby please! I can see her, she wants me!”

You shake your head. “Nope. Sorry. Tonight I’m Superman’s.”

“I dunno how I feel about my girlfriend wanting Superman and not Clark Kent…” Clark grumbles, walking to the bedroom with a dejected look. He closes the door to the bedroom.

A minute passes. Then five. Suddenly your smirk fades a bit. Maybe you went too far and made him upset. As soon as seven minutes hit, you get up to apologize to your boyfriend with sweet words and some head. But there’s a knock at your balcony door.

“Hello, ma’am. I heard some strange noises, came by to check it out.” Superman is floating right outside, cape and all.

The giddy squeal that left you had Clark trying to suppress a smile. Instead, he schooled it into a serious frown. “May I come in? Investigate the place, make sure it's safe for you?”

“Yes sir!” You squeak happily, pushing open the door. Superman lands.

“You expecting anyone?” He says, voice deep in that tone that has you wetting the mesh gusset. You shake your head.

“No… live alone.” You murmur shyly. “Sorry for the getup… wasn’t expecting company.”

Superman slowly paces around the apartment, his eyes often falling to your body with a lustful look. His gaze traces how your chest heaves with excited pants, how each step has your thighs rubbing together with lust. But he still stays in character, peering into cabinets and even the laundry room. “It’s alright ma’am… didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Maybe the noise came from the bedroom?” You suggest. You lead him there, swaying your hips. Clark suppresses a groan and follows.

He prowls the bedroom, looking at the armoire and closet. You lay across the bed in what looks like a suitably seductive pose, but you know your excited grin isn’t that seductive.

“So… you’re a big fan?” Superman asks, nodding to your getup. His hands clench momentarily.

“Yes, I am. Really, thank you for all you’ve done, and checking up on me too.” You purr softly.

Clark swallows again, jaw working. “It’s nothing I need thanks for, ma’am. Just want to make sure a civilian is safe. Which it appears it is here.” He pauses at the end of the bed, eyes focused on yours.

You crawl slowly towards him. “You’re so kind, not even needing thanks… but still, you’d appreciate it right? Everyone deserves to feel appreciated, especially you.” You kneel in front of Superman, slowly tracing your hands up his torso. “Maybe… I could show you my thanks?”

SUperman’s breath hitches as you gently push the suit bottoms down, just enough to free his cock. You’ve seen in hundreds of times already, but each time you’re still taken aback at just how heavy and thick he was. His cock was flushed an angry red at the tip, precum spurting out in pearly ropes. The veins throbbed against the palm of your hand.

“You’re so big…” You breathe, but your nose scrunches just a tad. Too pornstar-y. And Clark’s little soft grin at you says he agrees. “C’mere-”

He doesn’t have to be told twice, rushing to kiss you. Superman presses you into the mattress as your lips move together, his tongue exploring your mouth while he paws at your body. His hands grasp your tits, squeezing and flicking your nipples until you arch into him. One hand snakes down to your panties, and with no force at all rips the gusset of your panties open. You let out a whimper. Clark had never done anything but undress you like the finest porcelain, and here he was tearing your clothes apart.

“Such a dedicated fan I have.” Superman growls. He kneels on the bed and yanks your legs up and draped over his thighs. One calloused finger dips into your cunt, strings of arousal coming away with it. “All this for me, ma’am?”

“Uh-huh…” You mumble, pussy clenching around his finger. He slides one more inside, crooking them both and grinding the tips against your spongy walls. In time with his fingers thrusting in and out, his other hand flicks at your rapidly hardening nipples. “F-fuc- m’gonna-“

He withdraws his fingers.

“I- Clark!”

Superman just gives you a firm smirk. “This is for me, isn’t it? Thanking the hero of Metropolis?”

He flips you over onto your stomach, groaning at the sight. Your slick drips down your thighs, leaving spots of wetness on the socks. The shirt’s all mussed too, tits spilling out. “What a pretty girl…”

Superman slowly presses the blunt head against your pussy, pushing in. The girth has you twitching and moaning, filling up every crevice and nudging against your soft walls. His chest presses against your back. “Go-golly….” He thrusts forward, seating himself fully. Usually Clark gives you time to adjust, some soft kisses and reassurances.

Superman does none of that, immediately pulling back. Your pussy clings to his length. “Don’t worry girl. M’gonna fill you up.” He growls, and thrusts back in harshly. Superman sets a hard and fast pace, pelvis smacking against your ass. There’s no time to breathe, little wails of pleasure knocked out of you. Your hands scramble for purchase on your sheets. Each movement smushes a pretty kiss against your cervix.

“Fuck- fuck! Cl-Clar!” You babble helplessly. Suddenly, Superman does something Clark’s never done before. His free hand grabs for a fistful of hair and yanks you up. “Agh!”

“Who’s Clark, hm? That’s not me. Who- gosh- who am I? C’mon, darling.” Superman pants into your ear, nipping the earlobe. He releases your hair only to smack one of your tear-streaked cheeks lightly. The motion has your cunt clenching around his cock. “Oho, pretty girl likes being treated like a whore? C’mon then. Say my name.”

“Su-superman, m’gonna- please- m’gonna!” You sob helplessly, limp in his arms. His thrusts somehow get harsher. He’s practically slamming into your poor pussy, free hand tracing circles on your clit.

Your orgasm slams into you, body thrashing in his arms. But all Superman does is hold you tight on his length, grinding up into your g-spot as your cunt chokes his cock.

Barely giving you time to breathe, he lays you onto the bed, face and hips pressed into the sheets. “Gonna collect my thanks now, gosh- your pussy’s so perfect.” Superman moans as he begins to thrust once again. The new position as you screaming into the mattress. Clark had never done pronebone before with you, too worried his cock would be too big in this position. But that concern’s far from his mind.

His hips slam against your ass again and again as he chases his orgasm. He’s almost too big, but the pleasure is mindmelting. Your mouth hangs open, drool spotting the duvet.

“My- perfect- girl, love you so much- gosh- m’gonna cum, oh- golly!” Superman shouts as his hips stutter. His cock twitches and spurts out ropes of hot cum into your folds. Each spurt has you twitching.

As Clark comes down from his high, he blinks away that lust-filled haze. “Oh… oh no…. Darling! I’m so sorry I got carried away! Are you ok?! Do I need to take you to the hospital!?”

Your bed frame from a month ago was the first casualty, splintering like matchsticks under Clark’s grip as you rode him, your thighs clamped around his hips, and your walls fluttering greedily around every thick inch of his dick. The crack of wood had startled you both—until it didn’t. By the third ruined frame, you were laughing mid-moan, forehead pressed to his as he growled apologies between thrusts that still managed to punch the breath from your lungs.

But after the seventh one—some poor reinforced steel thing that had lasted all of nine minutes—you’d barely caught your breath before Clark flipped you beneath him, caging you with his massive body. “No more headboards,” he muttered, voice rough as gravel. One hand slid under your ass, the other wrapped around your back, and he simply held you.

Suspended and completely at his mercy. You felt weightless, yet every brutal snap of his hips drove him impossibly deeper. No creaking wood, no splintering slats, all you could hear was the wet slap of skin, your broken little cries, and the low rumble in his chest as he fucked you like he was trying to imprint himself into your soul.

“Fuck- Clark—” Your nails raked down his invulnerable back, uselessly. He didn’t even flinch. Just tightened his grip, one arm banded across your spine, the other hand splayed between your shoulder blades so you were pressed flush to him, tits crushed against his chest, clit grinding against his pelvis with every devastating stroke.

“You feel so good,” he groaned against your throat, fangs—fangs, because he was losing control—grazing your pulse. “So fucking tight. Milking me. I can feel every pulse, every twitch… I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.” Your legs locked around his waist, heels digging into the perfect curve of his ass as he drove you higher and higher.

No leverage for you to move, no escape. Clark’s impossible strength kept you right where he wanted you while he ruined you from the inside out. When you came, it hit like a supernova—back arching, cunt clamping down so hard he snarled and stuttered, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled deep inside you, hot and endless.

He didn’t let you go even after. Just held you there, still buried inside your twitching heat, rocking slow and lazy while you trembled in his arms. “Next time,” he whispered, kissing the tears from your lashes, “I’m fucking you against the wall. Or in the air. Somewhere I don’t have to worry about breaking anything but you.”

You laughed, breathless and blissed-out, clenching around him again just to hear that wrecked sound he made. “Promise?”

You stop. He stops.

"...Clark Kent."

His ears turn pink beneath his hat. "Honey, I swear that was muscle memory."

You fold your arms, trying very hard not to smile. "Did you just treat me like one of your horses?"

He ducks his head with the sheepish grin that always gets him out of trouble. "Only because you're the prettiest girl on the farm."

.

.

.

Dex’s fingers were precise, always. Even now, as he hooked them into the waistband of your panties and dragged them down your thighs with agonizing slowness. You were already soaked, breath hitching when the cool air hit your bare skin. He didn’t speak much, never did when he got like this—but his eyes said everything. “Hands,” he ordered quietly.

You obeyed, offering your wrists together in front of you. The lace was still warm from your body. Dex looped the delicate fabric around your wrists once, twice, then pulled the knot tight. The panties bit in just enough to remind you who was in control. Soft material, filthy purpose.

“Too tight?” he asked, testing the give with one finger.

You shook your head, pulse hammering. “No. Please—”

He didn’t let you finish. Dex pushed you back onto the bed, cuffed hands landing above your head as he settled between your spread thighs. His mouth found your neck, teeth grazing while his hand slid down to cup your pussy, two fingers pushing in without warning. You arched, a broken moan escaping as the lace restraint tugged against your skin with every shift.

“Mine,” he murmured against your throat, curling his fingers deep, thumb circling your clit. “Look at you. Tied up with your own soaked panties. So fucking pretty when you’re helpless.”

You whimpered, hips rocking desperately into his hand. The knot held firm, lace digging sweetly into your wrists as pleasure coiled tight and fast. Dex watched you the whole time—eyes never leaving your face, drinking in every gasp and tremble like he was lining up the perfect shot.

Your bed frame from a month ago was the first casualty, splintering like matchsticks under Clark’s grip as you rode him, your thighs clamped around his hips, and your walls fluttering greedily around every thick inch of his dick. The crack of wood had startled you both—until it didn’t. By the third ruined frame, you were laughing mid-moan, forehead pressed to his as he growled apologies between thrusts that still managed to punch the breath from your lungs.

But after the seventh one—some poor reinforced steel thing that had lasted all of nine minutes—you’d barely caught your breath before Clark flipped you beneath him, caging you with his massive body. “No more headboards,” he muttered, voice rough as gravel. One hand slid under your ass, the other wrapped around your back, and he simply held you.

Suspended and completely at his mercy. You felt weightless, yet every brutal snap of his hips drove him impossibly deeper. No creaking wood, no splintering slats, all you could hear was the wet slap of skin, your broken little cries, and the low rumble in his chest as he fucked you like he was trying to imprint himself into your soul.

“Fuck- Clark—” Your nails raked down his invulnerable back, uselessly. He didn’t even flinch. Just tightened his grip, one arm banded across your spine, the other hand splayed between your shoulder blades so you were pressed flush to him, tits crushed against his chest, clit grinding against his pelvis with every devastating stroke.

“You feel so good,” he groaned against your throat, fangs—fangs, because he was losing control—grazing your pulse. “So fucking tight. Milking me. I can feel every pulse, every twitch… I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.” Your legs locked around his waist, heels digging into the perfect curve of his ass as he drove you higher and higher.

No leverage for you to move, no escape. Clark’s impossible strength kept you right where he wanted you while he ruined you from the inside out. When you came, it hit like a supernova—back arching, cunt clamping down so hard he snarled and stuttered, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled deep inside you, hot and endless.

He didn’t let you go even after. Just held you there, still buried inside your twitching heat, rocking slow and lazy while you trembled in his arms. “Next time,” he whispered, kissing the tears from your lashes, “I’m fucking you against the wall. Or in the air. Somewhere I don’t have to worry about breaking anything but you.”

You laughed, breathless and blissed-out, clenching around him again just to hear that wrecked sound he made. “Promise?”

Dex’s fingers were precise, always. Even now, as he hooked them into the waistband of your panties and dragged them down your thighs with agonizing slowness. You were already soaked, breath hitching when the cool air hit your bare skin. He didn’t speak much, never did when he got like this—but his eyes said everything. “Hands,” he ordered quietly.

You obeyed, offering your wrists together in front of you. The lace was still warm from your body. Dex looped the delicate fabric around your wrists once, twice, then pulled the knot tight. The panties bit in just enough to remind you who was in control. Soft material, filthy purpose.

“Too tight?” he asked, testing the give with one finger.

You shook your head, pulse hammering. “No. Please—”

He didn’t let you finish. Dex pushed you back onto the bed, cuffed hands landing above your head as he settled between your spread thighs. His mouth found your neck, teeth grazing while his hand slid down to cup your pussy, two fingers pushing in without warning. You arched, a broken moan escaping as the lace restraint tugged against your skin with every shift.

“Mine,” he murmured against your throat, curling his fingers deep, thumb circling your clit. “Look at you. Tied up with your own soaked panties. So fucking pretty when you’re helpless.”

You whimpered, hips rocking desperately into his hand. The knot held firm, lace digging sweetly into your wrists as pleasure coiled tight and fast. Dex watched you the whole time—eyes never leaving your face, drinking in every gasp and tremble like he was lining up the perfect shot.

Dex’s fingers were precise, always. Even now, as he hooked them into the waistband of your panties and dragged them down your thighs with agonizing slowness. You were already soaked, breath hitching when the cool air hit your bare skin. He didn’t speak much, never did when he got like this—but his eyes said everything. “Hands,” he ordered quietly.

You obeyed, offering your wrists together in front of you. The lace was still warm from your body. Dex looped the delicate fabric around your wrists once, twice, then pulled the knot tight. The panties bit in just enough to remind you who was in control. Soft material, filthy purpose.

“Too tight?” he asked, testing the give with one finger.

You shook your head, pulse hammering. “No. Please—”

He didn’t let you finish. Dex pushed you back onto the bed, cuffed hands landing above your head as he settled between your spread thighs. His mouth found your neck, teeth grazing while his hand slid down to cup your pussy, two fingers pushing in without warning. You arched, a broken moan escaping as the lace restraint tugged against your skin with every shift.

“Mine,” he murmured against your throat, curling his fingers deep, thumb circling your clit. “Look at you. Tied up with your own soaked panties. So fucking pretty when you’re helpless.”

You whimpered, hips rocking desperately into his hand. The knot held firm, lace digging sweetly into your wrists as pleasure coiled tight and fast. Dex watched you the whole time—eyes never leaving your face, drinking in every gasp and tremble like he was lining up the perfect shot.

Need that yesterday 🥵