#yeah........

You were never much of a crier, biter, or anything in bed, really.

Men were never really able to draw out your innermost pleasures — the noises you made, often being performative and knowing exactly just what fragile male egos needed to feel validated.

That all changes when you meet Clark Kent.

For one, he's a giver.

Clark gets off to knowing how good he makes you feel. He loves the way your voice cracks, breath quickens, and heart rate ticks when he touches you.

He's aware of the influence he has over you. Knows how much you like the fact that he's so much bigger than you. So he's always squeezing, dragging heavy palms down your body, kneading the fat beneath his fingers.

When you attempt to squirm from him, hips edging away from the way his thick cock bullies into your pussy, he's holding your wrists, pulling you to drape them over the broad expanse of his shoulders. You can't do anything but drag your nails over the muscles.

Whining and crying at the way he fucks into you deep, hips snapping into you in heavy thrusts. He loves the stinging pleasure that pricks at him, because it always accompanies the sweet moans you offer him.

Clark's always looking at you in awe, kissing over the darkened, angry purple marks on your body from his handprints and desperate jockeys he loves leaving on you, particularly between your thighs and around your chest.