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The neon sign above Mabel’s Diner flickered softly against the dark stretch of highway, casting a warm pinkish glow over the cracked asphalt parking lot. It was just past 9 PM on a quiet Thursday, the kind of night where the big rigs hummed in the distance like distant thunder and the only real sounds inside were the clink of silverware and the low murmur of the jukebox playing old country tunes.

Clark Kent had been coming here for months now. He wasn’t the kind of man who blended into small-town scenery. Tall, broad-shouldered, and built like the trucks he drove, Clark had that weathered, working-man look—salt-and-pepper stubble on a strong jaw, calloused hands that could bend steel, and deep lines around his eyes from years squinting into sunsets on long hauls. He carried the quiet confidence of a man who’d seen too many lonely roads. But those same eyes softened sweetly whenever they landed on you.

You were the night-shift waitress, pouring coffee in your classic Mabel’s uniform: a soft blue dress with a crisp white apron tied tight around your waist, the hem skimming just above your knees. It hugged your curves in all the right places, especially when you moved. Clark always took the same booth in the back corner, the one that gave him a perfect view of the whole diner—and of you. Tonight was no different.

“Evenin’, darlin’,” Clark rumbled as you approached with a menu he didn’t need. His voice was gravelly, low, the kind that vibrated through your chest. He wore his usual faded flannel over a worn black t-shirt that stretched across his powerful chest, sleeves rolled up to show thick forearms corded with muscle.

“Clark,” you said with a playful smile, setting down a glass of sweet tea without asking. “You’re gonna wear out that booth if you keep sittin’ here every night till close.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and rough. “Can’t help it. Best coffee in three states. And the company ain’t bad either.”

You felt his gaze follow you as you moved through the diner, bussing tables, wiping counters, refilling mugs for the few lingering truckers and locals. Every time you bent over to clear a booth, you made sure to arch your back just a little more than necessary, letting the short skirt of your dress ride up the backs of your thighs. You knew he was watching. You wanted him to watch.

When you straightened and glanced back, Clark’s eyes were dark, fixed on the curve of your ass. He didn’t look away. Instead, a slow, appreciative smile tugged at his lips. That mix of gentleman and wolf always made heat pool low in your belly.

The hours ticked by. The diner emptied out. By 10:45, it was just the two of you and the soft hum of the fluorescent lights. You locked the front door, flipped the sign to CLOSED, and started the final cleanup. Clark stayed right where he was, nursing the last of his coffee, his big frame relaxed but alert.

“You don’t have to wait every night, you know,” you called over your shoulder as you wiped down the counter. You bent low to reach the far side, giving him another deliberate view. “I can handle myself.”

“I know you can,” he replied, voice quieter now. “But there’s plenty of creeps out there after dark. I sleep better knowin’ I walked you to your car. Besides…” He paused, eyes tracing the way your dress clung to your hips. “I like watchin’ you work. You move like you own the place. It’s somethin’ else.”

Your heart fluttered at the sweetness beneath the rough tone. Clark Kent might look like a man who could throw someone through a wall, but he’d never once made you feel anything but safe, protected, and wanted. You finished mopping the floor and turned off the main lights, leaving only the warm glow above the counter and booths. The diner felt intimate now, like it belonged only to the two of you.

“Come here, sweetheart,” Clark said, pushing his mug aside. You walked over slowly, hips swaying in that little blue dress. When you reached his booth, he slid out and stood, towering over you. One large, rough hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip with gentleness.

“You’ve been teasin’ me all night,” he murmured, leaning down so his breath ghosted your ear. “Bending over like that in this little dress. You tryin’ to drive an old man crazy?”

“Maybe,” you whispered, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. “Is it working?”

Clark’s answer was a low growl. He pulled you against him, kissing you deeply. His mouth was firm, insistent, tasting of coffee and the mint he always chewed after dinner. Those big hands slid down your back, palming your ass through the thin fabric and squeezing possessively. You moaned into his mouth, fingers curling into his flannel.

He lifted you effortlessly onto the edge of the nearest table, the one he’d been sitting at all night. The wood creaked under your weight as he stepped between your thighs, pushing the dress up to your hips.

“Been thinkin’ about this for weeks,” he admitted, voice husky. His hands were rough but careful as he unbuttoned the front of your dress, exposing your bra and the soft swell of your breasts. He kissed down your neck, sucking lightly at your pulse point while his fingers worked the clasp of your bra. “You’re too good for a man like me, but damn if I can stay away.”

“You’re exactly what I want,” you breathed, tugging his flannel open. His chest was solid, dusted with dark hair, warm under your palms. You traced the lines of old scars and the hard ridges of muscle earned from years of loading freight and long drives.

Clark groaned at your touch. He shoved your dress higher, dragging your panties down your legs in one smooth motion. The cool air hit your slick folds, making you shiver. He dropped to his knees right there on the diner floor, broad shoulders spreading your thighs wider. “Look at you,” he murmured reverently, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “So wet already. All for me?”

“Yes— Clark, please…”

He didn’t make you beg long. His mouth descended on you, tongue licking a slow, broad stripe up your center before circling your clit. The stubble on his jaw scraped deliciously against your sensitive skin as he ate you out with focused hunger, long, deep strokes of his tongue, two thick fingers sliding into your pussy and curling just right. You cried out, fingers threading through his hair, hips rocking against his face.

He growled against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. “That’s it, darlin’. Let me hear you.” You came hard on his tongue, thighs trembling around his head. Clark kept licking you through it, gentling his touch until you were panting and boneless.

He rose, towering over you again, and kissed you so you could taste yourself on his lips. You reached for his belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle. Clark helped you, shoving his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It was thick, heavy, the flushed head already glistening. He was big—older, experienced, and clearly aching for you. “Need you,” you whispered, wrapping your hand around him and stroking.

Clark hissed, hips jerking. “Gonna fuck you right here on this table, sweetheart. Been dreamin’ about it.”

He lined himself up and pushed in slowly, stretching you open inch by thick inch. You gasped at the fullness, nails digging into his shoulders. He was careful at first, letting you adjust, murmuring sweet praises against your neck—“So tight… so perfect… takin’ me so well.”

Then the rough trucker side took over. He gripped your hips with those strong hands and started thrusting harder, deeper, the table creaking loudly beneath you with every powerful snap of his hips. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he fucked you, the wet sound of skin on skin filling the empty diner. His flannel hung open, brushing against your bare breasts with every movement.

“Clark- oh god, harder,” you moaned. He gave it to you, everything you wanted and needed from him. Rough, relentless strokes that hit that perfect spot inside you over and over. One hand slid between you, thumb rubbing tight circles on your clit. His other hand braced on the table, muscles flexing as he drove into you.

“Come on, baby. Come on me,” he growled, voice strained with pleasure. You shattered again, clenching hard around him. Clark followed right after with a deep, guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled inside you, hips stuttering through his release.

For a moment, the only sounds were your ragged breathing. Clark stayed buried deep, forehead pressed to yours, kissing you softly between breaths. Then he carefully pulled out, tucked himself away, and lifted you into his arms like you weighed nothing.

He sat back in the booth with you in his lap, your dress still bunched around your waist, legs straddling him. His big arms wrapped around you protectively, one hand stroking down your back while the other slipped between your thighs again.

“Still so wet,” he murmured tenderly, thick fingers gliding through the mess of your combined release. He gently rubbed your sensitive pussy, spreading his cum over your folds and clit in slow, soothing circles. “My sweet girl. You did so good for me.”

You sighed contentedly, nuzzling into his neck, feeling safe and thoroughly claimed in the circle of his strong arms. Clark kissed the top of your head, his rough exterior melting completely into the gentle giant you’d come to love.

“Next time,” he whispered against your hair, still lazily petting your slick, puffy pussy, “I’m takin’ you in my rig. But for now… I ain’t lettin’ you go just yet.”

Outside, the highway stretched on into the night, but inside Mabel’s Diner, the trucker and the waitress had all the time in the world.