cupcake ۶ৎ

He slips into the bedroom late at night, eyes immediately drawn to you lying on your stomach, fast asleep in nothing but his oversized t-shirt. The hem has ridden up, exposing your bare ass and the soft, glistening lips of your pussy. Just the sight of you like this — warm, relaxed, and completely vulnerable — makes him throb.

He quietly undresses and climbs onto the bed. He spreads your legs gently and leans down, dragging his tongue slowly through your folds. You’re already wet. He groans quietly against your pussy, licking deeper, tasting you while you stay lost in sleep.

When he’s nice and hard, he kneels behind you, lines himself up, and slowly pushes inside. Your pussy stretches around him beautifully, hot and silky even while you’re sleeping. You let out a soft, unconscious moan as he bottoms out, clenching around him.

“Fuck, baby… so greedy even when you’re sleeping,” he whispers filthily, starting to thrust slowly. He fucks you with long, lazy strokes, savoring how wet and warm you feel wrapped around him.

Your body reacts on instinct — pussy fluttering and dripping around him with every thrust. He leans over you, pressing his chest to your back as he starts fucking you a little harder, the wet sounds of his entire ltngth sliding in and out of your soaked pussy filling the quiet room.

He reaches around to rub your clit in slow circles while he pounds into you. You whimper and push back against him in your sleep, making him groan. “That’s my good girl,” he rasps, hips snapping faster. “Taking me so well even when you’re out cold.”

When he finally gets close, he buries himself deep and cums hard, flooding your pussy with thick, hot ropes of cum. He stays inside you for a while, gently grinding through the aftershocks, pushing his load deeper.

Only then does he carefully pull out, clean you up, and cuddle up behind you, kissing your shoulder softly. You always sleep better after he fills you up.

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."

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(18+) you just want attention from your big bad boyfriend :(

"C'mere, girl." Frank's low, gravelly voice cut through the room like a command. "S'this what you need, hmm? Answer me. Use your words."

His rough, calloused hand came down on your swollen clit for the third time, sharp and deliberate. A small, broken whimper slipped from your puffy lips. He was right — it was exactly what you needed. But admitting it so easily? Where was the fun in that?

The fourth smack landed harder, paired with a deep snarl as his fingers gripped your jaw, forcing your flushed face toward him. "Damn brat. If you don’t speak up, you’re not getting anything else."

The threat hit exactly where he meant it to. Your pout deepened instantly, a needy little cry tumbling out of you. You’d spent the whole day poking and prodding at him — huffing, sulking, brushing against him just to steal his attention — and now that you finally had it, you didn’t want to lose even a second.

"No, no, no— please don’t stop," you begged, voice shaky and sweet. "Please, I’ll be good…"

Frank let out a deep, sarcastic chuckle that rumbled through his chest. "Atta girl." He sounded almost amused, like he was entertained by how quickly you folded for him. He knew you would. Hell, he knew exactly why you’d been acting out all day — his sweet, ditzy little brat just needed to be put back in her place.

His strong hands gripped the backs of your thighs, spreading them wide and pushing them up toward your chest. He lowered his face between your legs, breath hot against your soaked folds. A single gentle kiss pressed to your sensitive clit, his warm saliva mixing with your slick. You were so worked up, so desperate, that even that soft touch nearly sent you tumbling over the edge.

"More, Frank— please," you whined, hips bucking up toward his mouth. "Need it so bad!"

"Aht aht," he murmured against your pussy, the vibration making you shiver. "I know what you need, sweetheart. Let me do my job."

He sealed his lips around your clit again, alternating between slow, filthy slurps and firm, rhythmic sucking. Deep, hungry grunts rolled from his mouth straight into your core, the sound and sensation pushing you closer and closer. Your fingers twisted into the sheets as your thighs trembled in his iron grip.

When you finally tipped over the edge, it hit you hard — waves of pleasure crashing through your body while your tearful doe eyes locked onto his from between your spread thighs. Frank didn’t stop, licking you through every pulse and aftershock, drawing it out until you were a whimpering, boneless mess.

You looked at him with hazy, adoring eyes, watching him kiss your inner thighs, finally quiet and satisfied now that you had the attention you’d been craving all day.

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 were aching for him. After making out for what felt like forever, you were soaked and desperate, grinding against your boyfriend’s thick dick while he hovered over you. “Please, baby,” you begged, voice needy and breathy. “Just the tip. I need to feel you so bad. Just the tip, I promise.”

He groaned softly, clearly torn, but your desperate little whimpers were too much for him. He wanted to give you what you needed. “Alright, sweet girl,” he murmured, kissing you gently. “Just the tip. I’ve got you.”

He lined himself up and slowly pushed the fat head of his dick inside your soaked pussy. The stretch made you moan loudly, your walls fluttering around him. But the moment he was barely inside, your pussy started pulsing and clenching greedily, pulling him deeper. He tried to stay still, but your body was sucking him in inch by inch.

“Fuck… baby,” he breathed, voice strained as he sank a little deeper. “You’re squeezing me so tight.” You whimpered, hips twitching as more of him slid inside you. He pushed in further, slow and careful, watching your face as your pussy kept drawing him in.

“Is this what you wanted, sweet girl?” he asked softly, voice husky as he gave you another inch. “You said just the tip… but this greedy little pussy keeps pulling me deeper.” You moaned helplessly, nodding even as your legs wrapped around him. He sank in even more, stretching you open until he was buried halfway.

He leaned down, kissing your neck as he rocked his hips, giving you just a little more with every slow thrust. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispered tenderly, even as your cunt continued to pulse and suck him in further. “I’m trying to be good for you… but you feel too fucking perfect.”

Every spring he’d lean over that fence and spend long, lazy minutes sipping the tiny droplets of nectar from the blooms, savoring their light, sugary sweetness on his tongue. Now he spends those same long, lazy minutes between your thighs, burying his face in your soaked cunt and pulling that same sweet nectar from you with slow, hungry licks and deep, greedy sucks—groaning like he’s found something even better than the flowers ever gave him.

He whispers it low and rough while he’s got your legs draped over his broad shoulders, voice muffled against your dripping folds: “Fuck, little honeysuckle… you’re drippin’ so sweet for me tonight.”

He growls it against your clit when he’s teasing you right to the edge, flicking his tongue just how you like it: “C’mon, honeysuckle, give me more of that sugar. Let me drink you up.”

And he rasps it like a prayer when he finally sinks his thick cock into you, forehead pressed to yours, hips rolling deep and steady: “That’s it, my little honeysuckle… soak my dick just like those pretty flowers soaked my tongue.”

He never lets you forget it—every time he eats your pussy, he’s chasing that same addictive, sun-warmed sweetness he remembers from home.

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?”

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.