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Convincing Clark wasn't an easy thing to do.
He would protest at your comments about your wanting to sleep alone on certain days. Not out of selfishness, never that—but because he genuinely believed you slept better with his arms around you.
Which, to be fair, was true most nights.
He'd pout and mumble something like, “But I like holding you…” as if that alone should change your mind. And sometimes, it did.
That was the thing about Clark. He wasn’t difficult in the traditional sense. He didn’t stomp or argue or raise his voice. He was sweet and caring. Like if he shouted at you, you’d break into a million pieces. He just had this way of looking at you, all puppy-eyed and earnest, like whatever you were asking him to consider might ruin him a little bit.
So, when you first mentioned wanting to be tied up—trying to play it off as a flirty joke—you watched the gears in his mind grind to a halt. “Tying you up?” he asked, as if you'd suggested kryptonite cuffs and a five-day sentence.
You shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Could be fun.”
His brow furrowed in that adorable, overthinking way. “But… are you sure? What if you don’t like it? What if something goes wrong? What if I do it too tight, or not tight enough, or—”
All you heard was that he wasn't against the idea. You quickly shut him up with a peck before he could spiral more.
“Clark,” you murmured, lips just brushing his, “you tie your shoelaces with precision. I trust you.”
“But that’s—baby, this is different,” he insisted, even as his hands instinctively came to rest on your cheek. “You’d be vulnerable.”
“Exactly,” you grinned. “That’s the point. I want to feel a little helpless. Safe, but... helpless. And no one makes me feel safer than you.”
That got him quiet. Thinking. Brows still knit, but the hesitation softened.
“And,” you added, voice dropping to a teasing murmur, “I like the idea of being at your mercy. Doesn’t that sound kind of hot?”
His breath caught. You saw the flicker behind his eyes—the mental image forming despite himself. He bit his bottom lip, and you could practically hear the gears shifting.
“Maybe… just light stuff at first,” he said, like he wasn’t already halfway convinced.
You grinned, triumphant.
A few days go by as you both go through some conditions and try to find the perfect time. Clark, being Clark, took it seriously in the way only he could—googling safe restraint materials, making a note in his phone about circulation and pressure points, and even briefly entertaining the idea of taking a class. You had to stop him there.
“I love you,” you said, tugging him down for a kiss, “but if you show up with a color-coded PowerPoint, I’m calling it off.”
He laughed sheepishly. “I just want to get it right.”
And you knew he would. That was never the problem.
Finally, one quiet evening rolls in—rain tapping gently at the windows, your apartment wrapped in the kind of stillness that feels made for secrets. Clark had made dinner, washed the dishes, and was now pacing just a little, pretending he wasn’t nervous.
You were already on the bed, robe loosely tied, watching him with a mix of affection and heat.
“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” you said gently, even though you could already tell he would.
“I want to,” he answered. Then, after a pause, “I think I just needed to see you like this.”
“Like what?”
“Open. Trusting me.” His voice dipped a little. “Wanting me.”
The words made your stomach flutter.
He stepped closer, one hand running through his hair as he looked down at the silk ties you’d left out. His fingers brushed over them carefully, as if they were somehow alive. When he met your gaze again, something in his expression had shifted—less worry, more intent.
“Okay,” he murmured, “tell me what to do.”
You sat up straighter, heart quickening. “You sure?”
He nodded. “Just walk me through it.”
And so you did—slowly, gently, watching the way his hands trembled just a little as he followed your guidance, tying your wrists together with the soft fabric, securing them to the headboard with practiced tenderness.
“You good?” he asked, kneeling beside you, eyes flicking between your bound hands and your face.
You smiled, breathless already. “I’m perfect.”
His jaw tightened slightly, a flush creeping up his neck. You could tell—this was doing something to him. The control, the reverence, the fact that you trusted him with this. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your cheek, then your neck, then your collarbone, like he was grounding himself with every inch of you.
And when his hands finally slid down your sides, deliberate and slow, you realized you weren’t the only one feeling helpless tonight.
He gently took the next silk tie, wrapping it around your eyes.
“Good? Not too tight?” He asked ever so gently, keeping his hands on your face as if grounding you.
“This is good,” you smiled with a soft breath.
The moment lingered in the stillness between you. With your vision gone, everything else is heightened. You felt the weight of the bed shift as he moved, the faint rustle of his shirt brushing your knee, and the warm exhale near your ear a second before he pressed a kiss just beneath it.
“You look…” he hesitated, breath catching. “You look incredible like this.”
You let out a quiet, pleased sigh, your body already humming with anticipation. “You’re doing great.”
He let out a nervous chuckle, and you could tell—he was still finding his footing, still wrapping his mind around this version of you, of him, of the power you’d placed so willingly in his hands.
His hand slid down your arm, slow and steady, tracing every inch like he was memorizing you. Then another kiss—lower, this time, just above your collarbone. His fingers danced over your ribs, hesitant for only a second before they flattened against your stomach, grounding both of you.
“Remember our safe word?” he murmured.
“Yup, pineapples,” you smiled softly.
He nodded. “Good. Stop me at any point.”
“I will,” you promised.
And he believed you. That’s what made him bold enough to go further—his touch growing firmer, more curious. His hand skimmed over the curve of your hip, his lips brushing against your skin in a slow trail that made you arch into him without thinking.
You couldn’t see him, but you could feel the shift in his energy. The way the nerves melted into something heavier, darker. The way his breath started to hitch like he was realizing he liked this.
Liked the control. Liked the way your body responded to every move he made. Liked knowing you wanted this, wanted him this way.
“Clark…” You breathed, half a moan, half a warning.
He paused, hands freezing on your waist. “Too much?”
“No,” you said quickly, lips parting as your heart thudded against your ribs. “Not enough.”
That pulled a low, stunned laugh from him. “God, you’re going to kill me.”
Then his mouth was on yours again—more possessive this time—while his hands slid lower, gripping, exploring, and learning.
Fingertips skimmed over your ribs, dipped into the hollow just below your breasts. The silk at your wrists tightened with the slight movement of your arms, but you didn’t pull away—you arched toward him, chasing more.
He exhaled slowly, as if the sight of you like this had knocked the air out of him. His lips followed his hands—pressing into your sternum, your shoulder, and the soft underside of your breast. No rush. Just reverence.
You whimpered when his tongue flicked against your nipple, your body jerking in surprise. Without sight, it was too much—sharp and hot and intimate. Your hips lifted off the bed on instinct.
“Sensitive,” he murmured against your skin, voice tinged with wonder.
You could only nod, breath catching as his teeth grazed lightly, then soothed with another kiss.
His hands kept moving, down the line of your sides, tracing the curve of your hips with a possessive grip that made your thighs clench. His thumbs pressed into your inner thighs, and you gasped at the pressure—like it sent a current straight through you.
“What do you want me to do, baby?” he asked, half wanting to make sure you're comfortable and just wanting to hear you ask for him.
Your cheeks burned pink. “I—everywhere, I want you everywhere…” You squeaked out.
He chuckled darkly somewhere far from you. “You can be more specific, honey.”
You bit your lips, letting out a soft whine, “God—I don’t know. It’s all too much and then not enough at the same time.”
That seemed to do something to him. You felt the mattress shift as he hovered over you again, body close but not touching yet. His breath ghosted over your cheek, his voice a low rasp near your ear.
“I want to ruin you so gently you beg me not to stop.”
You shivered, head pressing back into the pillows, chest heaving.
He dragged his mouth down your stomach, teeth grazing lightly. Hands everywhere, gripping, spreading, grounding. You couldn't see him, but you felt him—all of him. And when his hand slid between your legs at last, you gasped like it was the first time you’d ever been touched.
You were already dizzy with it—the weight of every moment, every breath, every inch of his skin on yours magnified by the darkness behind the silk over your eyes.
Your world had narrowed to nothing but the heat of his mouth and the deliberate way he moved, touching you like he was writing a language across your skin.
You could feel him between your thighs now—his chest against the inside of one knee, his breath ghosting over your folds. Kissing your inner thighs tenderly, making you jump at each one. The fact you couldn't see. Couldn't anticipate. And that made every second stretch, unbearable and addictive all at once.
Then he licked you.
You cried out, hips jolting, wrists tugging instinctively at the silk restraints. The sound you made was raw and startled—it was too sudden. His tongue was warm and slow, unrelenting in its drag, teasing over your clit in a lazy, confident stroke that had your back arching off the bed.
“Clark—” you gasped, voice breaking as your thighs tried to close around him.
He held them open easily, firmly, his strength never rough but impossible to ignore.
“Don’t run from it,” he murmured against your skin, mouth hot and slick. “Feel it. Let me give this to you.”
Another lick. A swirl. A kiss that was too soft for the mess it left in its wake. You whimpered, head tipping back, your mind spiraling because you couldn’t see where he was or what he’d do next. All you had was sensation.
His tongue pressed flat against your clit, slow pressure that had your toes curling. Then a flick—just one, fast and precise—and your whole body jerked.
You didn’t even hear him move before you felt his fingers slide inside you, one at first, then two, filling you in a way that made your eyes flutter behind the blindfold. His mouth didn’t leave you—his tongue and fingers working in tandem, building you too fast and too slow at the same time.
You couldn’t predict him. Couldn’t brace. Couldn’t see the warning signs. You were just a body and a heartbeat and a need, strung tight under his hands.
“Please—Clark, please—”
He groaned at the sound of your voice, the pitch of your desperation. “You’re shaking.”
“I can’t—” You gasped, thighs trembling around his shoulders. “I can’t think—”
“I know.” He sounded proud of it. “That’s the point.”
And then he sucked your clit into his mouth.
You shattered.
It hit in waves—deep and rolling, your body seizing and then trembling as your orgasm tore through you. You cried out, raw and unfiltered, head tossing against the pillows, arms pulling fruitlessly at the silk. You couldn’t see anything. Couldn’t control a damn thing. But God, you felt it. Every nerve lit up like fire.
You were undone.
He didn’t stop right away. Just eased you through it, fingers slow inside you, tongue gentle now, coaxing every last tremble from your thighs.
When he finally pulled back, you were shaking—half sobbing, half laughing, wrecked and breathless.
You felt the bed dip beside you, the warmth of his body crawling up over yours. He cupped your face again, thumb brushing your cheek.
“You okay?” he whispered.
You nodded, then managed, voice hoarse, “I think I left my body.”
Clark chuckled, brushing kisses over your jaw. “I’ll go find it.”
You're still floating when he loosens the silk from the bedpost, his fingers gentle. But he doesn’t remove the blindfold.
“You’re not done,” he says, voice lower than before—still Clark, still warm, but with an edge that wasn’t there earlier.
Your breath catches. “No?”
He pulls you upright, guiding you until you’re straddling his lap. Your body is limp with the aftermath of your release, but your skin sparks with anticipation. His hands rest heavy on your hips, holding you in place.
“You came without permission,” he says simply.
Your mouth opens—part shock, part arousal. “I didn’t know I needed it.”
“I should’ve said something,” he admits quietly, and you can hear it—that little tremor, that flicker of doubt. But then his fingers flex against your skin. “Still. Maybe I should remind you who’s in charge.”
You shiver. You can’t see him, but you can feel the shift in his posture, the tension in his thighs under yours.
“What are you going to do about it?” You tease, your voice a little breathless, trying to ground him in your shared play.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then his voice, low and focused: “Hands and knees. Now.”
It’s not a yell. Not even a bark. But it’s commanding enough to make you obey without thinking, heat surging through your already-sensitive body.
He guides you carefully—still a little cautious, making sure you're steady, but there’s purpose in the way he pushes you forward, your knees digging into the sheets as your chest presses down and your ass arches up.
You feel the bed shift behind you. His hand ghosts over the curve of your backside.
Then, a sharp slap.
You gasp—more from the sound than the sting. It’s not hard. He held back. But it surprises you and sends a jolt straight through your core.
“Too much?” he asks quickly, already rubbing over the spot like an apology.
“No,” you manage, breath trembling. “You can do more.”
Another pause. Then a second slap, this one a little firmer, followed by his palm smoothing over the heat of your skin. You moan, instinctively pushing back against him.
“You liked that,” he says, and this time, there’s pride in it. Curiosity. Hunger.
“I liked you doing that,” you breathe. “You don’t have to be perfect. Just keep going.”
That does something to him.
His next slap lands confidently, the sound echoing louder, making you jolt forward with a soft cry. His other hand holds your hip now, keeping you steady, grounding you even as he pushes you further.
“Next time,” he murmurs, voice darker now, “you ask before you come.”
The words flood through you, your breath catching on them. The Clark you knew was still in there—but now there was something else, something growing.
He leans forward, mouth against your ear as his fingers slip back between your legs, already slick and pulsing.
“Think you can follow the rules now?” he asks, teasing as he circles your clit.
“I’ll try,” you whimper, hips rolling shamelessly.
He chuckles against your skin, low and pleased.
“We’ll see.”
And then he starts again—fingers thrusting, mouth on your neck, and you’re already climbing, already falling apart all over again... this time, holding on desperately for permission.
You’re panting already, thighs shaking as his fingers work into you again—slow at first, then deeper, firmer, curling just right. He had three fingers in you at this point. Working you open just right—His palm presses against your ass, keeping you steady, and you’re so wet, so open, that the sound of it makes you blush.
Every time the heat builds—your body clenching, hips grinding back for more—he slows. Pauses. Withdraws just enough to let it all slip from your grasp.
“Not yet,” he murmurs. “You know better.”
His tone is firmer now. Confident. And it wrecks you.
You try to grind down on his hand, desperate for friction, but he’s quicker. He pulls his fingers out entirely and lands another sharp slap to your ass, making you yelp.
“Behave.”
You breathe hard through your nose, muscles trembling, the ache in your core deepening with every denial.
“You’re doing so good,” he says, softer now, brushing his fingers down your spine. “But I’m not done playing with you yet.”
He leans in—close enough that you feel the heat of his chest against your back, his breath against your ear. One hand slips around your waist to your clit again, fingers circling lightly. The other reaches up to tug gently on the tie around your eyes, adjusting it just slightly, but still not removing it.
"You said you wanted to feel helpless," he whispers. "This is what it means."
Then his fingers slide back inside you—slick and strong and unfair—and your entire body arches as you moan into the mattress. The pressure builds fast. Too fast. You’re ready again, already teetering—
And again, he pulls away.
You choke on the frustration, a sound caught between a sob and a growl. “Please, please, Clark—”
“You’re close,” he hums, lips brushing your shoulder. “I can feel it. You pulse around me like you’re begging.”
You nod frantically, writhing now, helpless beneath him.
“But you don’t get to come until I say so.”
You whimper, forehead pressed to the sheets. You’re trembling so hard now your knees slip slightly, and he catches you, adjusting your legs back into place.
“Hold it for me,” he murmurs. “You can do that, can’t you?”
You nod again, broken. “Yes. Yes.”
He slides two fingers in again, this time curling deep, dragging slowly in and out as he rubs your clit in lazy, tormenting circles. You’re right there, breath caught, thighs shaking uncontrollably—and then he stops again, leaving you empty and drenched and gasping.
You sob into the sheets, hips rutting against nothing.
Clark lets out a shaky breath, clearly trying to keep his composure. You can hear it now—his arousal thick in his voice, the unspoken groan in his throat.
“God,” he whispers, almost to himself. “You’re incredible like this.”
Then his hand settles against your lower back, firm and grounding.
“We’ll try again,” he says. “But this time, you don’t come until I let you.”
You felt something bigger slide between your legs.
“And if you do…” He leans in, voice rougher now. “I’ll make you regret it.”
Then all you feel is him. Thick and hot, stretching you in a way that made your mouth fall open even before he moved. Your nails scraped against the sheets, the blindfold keeping your world dark, your senses tangled in nothing but heat and skin and him.
Then he thrusts forward, slow and deliberate—deep—and you cry out as he practically bottoms out in one long, controlled motion. Your body clenches hard around him, instinctively, involuntarily, already too close from everything he’d done before.
You can’t see him, but you feel him everywhere—his breath against your neck, his hands gripping your hips, his cock pulsing inside you as he holds still for one brutal second, allowing you to adjust.
“You’re so tight,” he groans into your ear. “You’re so soaked.”
Your whole body shudders and burns with humiliation. The pressure is immediate and unbearable. You’re already wound so tight, every nerve exposed. The blindfold makes it worse—better—stripping away everything but the heat in your core and the overwhelming feeling of being filled, held, and controlled.
Then he moves.
The first few thrusts are slow and measured—his hands steady on your hips, guiding you to take him inch by inch. You try to breathe through it, to keep your body from tipping over, but it’s impossible. He’s too deep and too thick, and the slow drag of him pulling out and sliding back in has you gasping and trembling.
“Clark—” you beg, voice cracking.
“Not yet,” he growls, picking up the pace.
His hips slap against yours, steady now, deep strokes that hit exactly where they need to, and your legs nearly give out beneath you. He grabs a handful of your hair and pulls just enough to arch your back, forcing you to take every inch of him as he pounds into you.
“Don’t you dare come,” he bites out, voice wrecked with restraint. “Not until I say.”
It’s too much. You can’t see, you can’t think, and your body is on fire. Every thrust sends shockwaves through your core. Your clit throbs, untouched but aching, and every time your walls flutter around him, he groans—low, guttural, trying so hard not to lose control.
“You’re shaking,” he pants, one hand sliding under your body to hold you up as he drives deeper. “You want to come so bad, don’t you?”
“Yes,” you sob, nodding against the sheets. “Clark, please—please—”
His hips slow. He leans in close again, chest to your back, cock buried deep as his hand slides to your throat—not squeezing, just holding you there, steady and vulnerable.
“Then be a good girl and hold it.”
He starts thrusting again—faster now, harder—and your body is screaming for release. Your legs shake violently, your core spasming around him as you try—desperately—to obey. To be good. To wait.
But you’re right at the edge.
Every thrust pushes you closer. Every word, every groan, every slap of his hips is like a match to dry kindling.
You're falling apart.
And he knows it.
He pulls out halfway just to slam back in again, hard enough to knock the breath out of you. Your cry is muffled into the pillow, but he hears it—feels your body clench down around him like it can’t bear to let go.
“God,” he mutters, laughing under his breath, breath hot against your neck. “You’re clinging to me. Like your body doesn’t want me to stop.”
You whimper—humiliated, turned on beyond belief—and his hand slides down your back, warm and commanding.
“You like this,” he growls, hips snapping against yours. “Don’t you? You like not being able to see. Not knowing what I’m gonna do next.”
Another deep thrust makes you sob.
“You begged for this. You told me you wanted to be helpless, and now look at you. Shaking. Leaking down your thighs. Moaning like a needy slut.”
You let out a strangled gasp at his words—your whole face flushing hot. He never called you that before. But your body responds with a helpless squeeze around him.
He groans, voice ragged now. “God. You liked that?”
You nod, barely able to form a sound.
“Oh, you’re loving this,” he taunts, voice rough but dripping with heat. “You're dripping like you’ve never been touched before. Poor thing can’t even see what’s making her feel this good. Just knows she needs more.”
His hand reaches around and cups your sex, palm grinding against your clit with just enough pressure to make your hips jerk back into him.
“I’m close, baby. Just hold on with me,” he whispered into your ears.
His hands grow tighter on your hips, but his breathing’s uneven now, his movements a little messier; he’s unraveling right alongside you.
“Fuck,” he pants, slowing just enough to catch his breath. “You feel too good—too perfect.”
You whine under him, trembling, aching, barely able to stay up on your elbows. Every nerve in your body is on fire, on edge, desperate to fall over that line you’ve been riding for what feels like forever.
And suddenly his hands are everywhere—roaming, searching. He leans down over your back and kisses you. Not just one, but a trail of kisses down your spine, your shoulder blades, and your neck. Warm, messy, frantic.
“I can’t stop touching you,” he murmurs, voice shaking. “I need you everywhere.”
Your fingers trail down your chest, slow and curious, until they meet his hand—still resting against your sex, protective as ever. You take it in yours, interlacing your fingers, and then—deliberately—you bring his hand up.
Higher.
Over your sternum.
Up your neck.
And finally, you guide it to rest softly against your throat.
His hips slow, but not to a full stop.
His breath catches. “You sure?”
You nod slowly, eyes half-lidded. “I trust you.”
His fingers flex just slightly, curling around your throat—not squeezing, not pressing, just holding. Testing. Feeling your pulse jump beneath his palm. His hand at your throat tightens just slightly—perfectly—pinning you to the moment while his other hand trails down, gripping your ass.
His hips grind against yours with a slower, deeper thrust that makes you cry out, your body arching back into him. He shushes you gently, lips brushing against the shell of your ear.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispers, kissing your temple even as your blindfold stays in place. “Letting me ruin you. Letting me hold you like this. Letting me take my time with you. You make me lose my mind.”
His hand at your neck pulls you up slightly so your back meets his chest. You feel his heartbeat against your spine, rapid and erratic, his lips pressed against your shoulder, kissing, breathing you in like he can’t get enough.
You’re gasping now, clenching around him with every thrust, every kiss. He presses his forehead to your shoulder, groaning helplessly.
“Come for me,” he finally whispers. “Now. I want to feel you.”
It’s all you needed.
Your body breaks open—orgasm ripping through you like it’s been waiting hours to hit. You sob his name, fingers digging into the sheets as you convulse around him, completely overwhelmed. Everything explodes at once—blinding, hot, endless—and you fall forward, boneless and trembling, barely able to process the waves crashing through you.
Clark groans behind you, thrusting harder, needier, until he follows—burying himself deep and gasping your name like a prayer as he spills inside you, shaking.
He collapses over your back, arms wrapping around your middle as he presses breathless, desperate kisses across your shoulders, your neck, and your cheek.
The room is quiet now, except for the ragged sound of both your breathing. You’re both slick with sweat, trembling and undone, but all you can feel is the weight of him holding you—grounding you.
He doesn’t speak right away. Just kisses the top of your shoulder again, then rests his forehead there, catching his breath.
“Are you okay?” He finally murmurs, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.
You nod, eyes still closed beneath the blindfold. “Yeah. Better than okay.”
He exhales in relief and brushes his lips against your shoulder once more. Then, carefully, he shifts off you, his hands slow and steady as he helps you roll onto your back.
“Let me get this,” he says, fingers gently slipping the knot from the silk around your eyes.
The room is dim, soft light glowing on the nightstand, and when your vision adjusts, the first thing you see is him—hair mussed, cheeks flushed, eyes wide and still a little stunned. He looks at you like he’s not entirely convinced he didn’t just dream the whole thing.
You smile lazily. “You look wrecked.”
His ears go pink. “I feel wrecked.”
You both laugh, and the tension breaks like a bubble. He leans down and starts untying your wrists, fingers delicate and deliberate.
“Was I too rough? With—with the choking thing?” He asks, eyes flicking up to meet yours as he loosens the knot.
“No,” you whisper. “You were perfect.”
Once the silk slips free, he takes your wrists in his hands and presses a kiss to each one—soft, reverent, lingering.
You sigh under the attention. “Now that’s boyfriend behavior.”
He huffs a laugh, still holding your hands like they’re something breakable. “Just making sure you know I didn’t mean the slut thing.”
“I liked the slut thing,” you tease, brushing your knuckles against his jaw. “What I want to talk about is you—cussing, moaning, losing your mind.”
His face flushes instantly.
“I did not lose my mind.”
“Oh, baby,” you grin, stretching a little as your muscles start to relax. “You said ‘fuck, you’re clinging to me’ like I was the last glass of water on Earth.”
Clark groans and hides his face against your neck. “I’m never gonna live that down, am I?”
“Not a chance,” you whisper, running your fingers through his hair. “But it was hot. Like, stupidly hot.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes softer now, filled with something warmer than lust. “You’re really okay?”
“I’m perfect,” you murmur. “You took care of me. And then some.”
He lets out a breath, one hand brushing hair from your damp forehead. “I wasn’t sure I could do it.”
“You did more than do it. You nailed it. And then nailed me.”
He laughs again, this time full and loose. Then he pulls you into his chest and wraps you up, like he can finally exhale now that you're safe in his arms.
“I think I’m in trouble,” he murmurs after a moment, fingers trailing lazily up and down your arm.
“Why’s that?”
“Because now I want to do that again.”
You grin, curling into him. “Then it’s a good thing I love being your helpless little problem.”
And with that, you both settle under the covers—sore, sated, and wrapped in something far deeper than silk and sensation.
And in that moment, with his body pressed tightly to yours, his kisses soft and endless, you know no one’s ever going to love you like this again.