hi... long time no see. schooling got insane, but hello, summer is here- pervert summer.
no shame | clark kent x reader p.3
co-worker!clark, perv!clark, femdom!reader || multi chapter fic, so if u haven't go read p. 1-2
cwā light smut (ik finally), m masturbation, guided masturbation if u squint, dom!reader, sub!clark,
the droll sound of copy machines and the beeps and rings of phones was humming in your ears, and you were all too aware of it. clark hadn't made a move, not one. it was so pathetic that even jimmy stopped teasing him about it, halting all useless jabs at how much of a pussy clark was, because now it was too real. clark was a pussy, you thought. you gave him an invitation to say something--do something! and he didn't, you started to doubt if he even felt a certain way about you, maybe he was like that with everyone. maybe his dimple popped through flushed cheeks, and maybe he stammered all over his words, and maybe just maybe, he did this with every girl. you spent too many nights mulling over the idea of clark being a virgin. was he? he fucking acted like it. you had never been the type of girl who wanted some super experienced guy to come and tell you what to do, you liked the aspect of having to guide, having to initiate but he had to give you something--anything. and clark? he had given you flustered grins and muttered sweet compliments. but you knew, deep down, no matter how much you over thought this, that he had to feel something for you. you knew clark well enough to know that he speaks without a stammer when he talks to cat, or lois, or every other woman in the daily planet. so it was you, and the ball had been in his court for way too fucking long. let's call it a foul, my ball, you thought.
clark was across the building typing away, writing some article about superman again, and you watched him through the clean glass of the copy room. cat watched you watch him. "stare any longer you'll burn a hole through that glass." she muttered as she sorted through her own stack of papers. you scoff, scrunching up your face. "i'm not staring." you defend yourself and cat hums, pleased with your answer. "honey, he clearly has a thing for you, but guys like clark? that shy, goofy type? they aren't gonna make a move on you. he's waiting for the go ahead like the good little boy he is. mama raised him right and all that jazz, you have to show him that you want him." and with that, cat struts out of the copy room.
she was right. you knew she was. he had waited with bated breath on your every word, he was waiting for the command. and if there was one thing you could give, it was a god damn command.
that night, after everyone fled their cubicles, and went on their merry ways home--you stopped by clark's cubicle. he was hunched over his desk typing quickly, eyes blinking slowly behind his wide framed glasses. he barely noticed you. "clark." you clear your throat and his mouth goes dry. your voice, he hadn't heard this up close in weeks. he felt humiliated after that party for perry, the way you got under his skin. he didn't want--no, he couldn't make a habit of touching himself on the rooftop of his place of employment and he decided he had stronger willpower than that...as long as he kept a safe distance from you. so he tried. and it had worked for nearly two weeks, but here you were, ready to confront him for all he knows. clark's eyes whip to yours. your name falls from his lips loosely and he his brows knit together. "do you need help with anything?" he asks gently. he was nervous, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up and you shake your head. you walk closer, sitting down on his desk, his eyes flit to your knees, and back to your face. "can i ask you something, clark?" your voice is smooth, slow and controlled. it was making his heart race. he rolled his lips into his mouth, dimple popping as he did. "of course," he mutters.
you nod, "over a month ago, i gave you my expose on arkham, you remember that, don't you?" your voice is low, slow like honey. and it feels all too similar to his very fantasy that night. the night you walked in on him kneading himself through his gray slacks. clark's face flushes, his lips parting slightly. this could go, so, so, so badly. he nods childishly, absentmindedly as his mind races to come up with an excuse. "i came by your office, and--" before the words can even leave your mouth clark is standing, his hands cupping his mouth as he breathes out. he looks on the verge of a panic attack. "i can't express how-- just how humiliated, and disappointed--utterly disgusted i am with myself--" he begins his rambling as he looks down at you. his eyes are sincere, and full, a dark navy blue in the dim lights of the city seeping in through the office windows. you reach up and clasp his wrists, pulling them down from his face. he nearly whimpers at the contact. "how long have you been touching yourself while thinking about me?" the question is abrasive to his ears, and his body rejects it. his pulse hammering against your thumb on the underbelly of his soft wrists. he swallows thickly. "i-is that a serious question?" his eyes bounce around your face. "do you want me to guess?" your head tilts as you look up at him.
he looks helpless. you almost feel bad. almost. clark's brows knit together, shaking his head softly. he wants to curl up into a ball and die. yet a very large part of him, the part that rests between his thighs, is feeling the opposite. he looks like kicked puppy when your eyes follow his fleeting gaze to his black slacks. you cock a brow. "you're getting off on this?" your voice washes over him and it does not help his situation, you give him a playful shove into his seat, where he spreads out, almost too big for the office chair. his thighs strain against the fabric of the slacks, and his cock grinds against the seam. he lets out a pained sigh. you take a moment raking your eyes over him. "go on then," you mutter and he furrows his brows. "wh-what?" his voice is soft, shaky. "you want it so bad, take it." you whisper and his lips part. "don't be a little pussy, make yourself cum. right here, show me." your words are so callous, but the way you say them, the way his cheeks flush, you'd think you sugar talking him.
he didn't feel real. his hands felt like they were on the brink of going numb as he digested your words. he stills. you scoff, "do i need to do everything for you?" your words have a bite to them. you were used to being mean when it came to sex, it got you off. you could only assume it got clark off too, with the way there was a small wet spot forming on the inseam of his slacks. a soft whimper as his fists clench nervously before they move towards his belt buckle. he undid it slowly, unzipping his pants as his eyes stayed glued to you; like if he looked away, he'd be left in the room with just him and his hand again. you could ignore the throbbing between your thighs for now, but he palmed himself over the slacks, his face pinching up as a soft whine left his lips? your thighs clenched, and he saw it. he smirked to himself. cocky son of a bitch. his palm grinds down against his cock one more time before he tugs his slacks down just enough. he looks at you, waiting for approval. waiting for his command. your bottom lips curls up in between your teeth and he takes it. pulling his cock out, the swollen pink tip leaking pre cum as he graciously rubs his thumb over himself.
a throaty sigh for him as his hips buck. he had pictured cumming all over those tights of yours; it had been a recurring theme in his fantasies. the idea of you never being able to get him all the way off of you. his lips parted as he wrapped his hand around his cock, squeezing at the base before he starts stroking himself and your lips parted at the sound that left his mouth. a cry, a sort of erotic sob. he is a mess, and his tip was leaking all down his hand. "please," clark whines. "p-please," he repeats as he strokes. "please what?" you hum. his eyes knit shut. "touch me?" he is begging now, not by his words, but with his tone. his throaty whines and panted sighs. "i can't- it's not gonna be enough for me," he rushes out as he whimpers. "you think you've earned my touch? through what?" you tease in a low whisper, "think you fucked your hand enough times that now you've won mine?" you taunt, and as you do his hips begin to buck, meeting his every stroke. he shakes his head, "i don't- i don't deserve it. i just--" he's moaning now, pathetically like its his first time touching himself. "want it? want me? you think because you've suffered, played this little game in silence that you've worked hard? you think you deserve it after all you've been through, huh?" you fake pout, "poor baby, it must be so hard feeling your own hand against your cock, what do you picture?" you take a step closer now. "is it my hand?" another step, your hand falling on the back of his chair, leaning over him. "is it my mouth?" your voice is slow as your breath hits his ear, and he whines like a little bitch underneath you. his breathing shaky and erratic, whimpering. "is it my cunt?" you whisper, your fingers dragging up the back of his neck and into his hair. you tug. roughly. his head flies back and looks at you. "you're gonna have to be a very good boy for me if you ever want me to touch you. you think you can do that for me, clark?"
and without a doubt, without a second to contemplate the consequences. he nods, flushed cheeks, as he pants. "yes, i can, i can do that. i'll be that, i can be a good boy."
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