>>> || @acrossxthexclasses​
     Who could’ve thought that the Kryptonian muscle-god’s own virility turned out to be his greatest betrayer? It was one downside to having a big juicy cock, really. Somehow manage to free that fat fuck meat of his out into the open mid-battle and work him up a little, Superman would have no choice but to start leaking precum———and it was all the villain needed to push on with his nefarious plan. Sure, the warlock was thwarted and was forced to retreat, but not before managing to force Superman’s cock into a vessel that successfully managed to suckle out a good drop of precum. Superman managed to take it off of his cock too, but that singular drop was all he needed to complete the ritual that was now haunting the muscle-bound yet halpless hero.
It came in waves—albeit no rhyme or reason that the mighty hero was subject to the dread of it happening to him in the most inopportune of moments. It was cruel in how it began too, after all. It started as a playful taunt at him as it felt like a single finger tracing the smooth contours of his big beefy body. Along his spine. Around his large puffy areole. In between his big juicy fat ass cheeks—right at his shy little muscle pucker. It was almost as if whatever curse that clung onto Clark was taking perverse glee in, not only seeing him get spooked, but especially with how it was making his body swell and jiggle every time he gets startled by it… or with how he tries to struggle against the sensations that he couldn’t just explain. And it only got worse from there. Night after night—even in the days where he worked… and all the time that he is in patrol as the mighty Man of Steel—it felt like gropes. Squeezes. Kneads. Plucks. It was pushing Clark into this cruel torture of working him up. Keeping him on edge. Keeping him helplessly hard and embarrassingly horny as the episodes would surely make sure something was being done to his erogenous zones. How Clark tried to deal with it—whether he tries to endure or give in—was just as part of the game.
This night wasn’t different. Well, not yet. Earlier in the day, the fingers played with Clark Kent’s large nipples underneath his crisp work clothes in yet another bout of a mean torture. But beyond that, there was nothing. It was probably the reason why he was right there in that scene; Superman in a rooftop late at night———and a robber that is clearly pissed yet scared.
“—fucking come on…” Cliff hissed to himself; his arm curling tighter around a bag that he held firmer against his chest as he eyed the big beefy hero that was now before him. In some other day, Cliff would have admired him… all hot and handsome, really. But between the two of them, he is fucking human. He clearly has no fucking match and he sure as hell wouldn’t want to go to jail.
     “———don’t have a bigger fish to fry, Superchump?”