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The first time Clark fucks you, he doesn't actually fuck you. Or rather, he can't. Because Clark is a freak.
Okay, he's not a freak. Sure, he's thought it over and over and over again, but if you heard him say that, you'd probably smother him with a pillow until he takes it back.
He's not a freak. He's just freakishly big.
He's above you, body slotted between your legs as your chest rises and falls with breaths faster than usual. He's pink all over—his cheeks, his ears, his chest, his pretty cock bobbing heavily against your thigh.
God, you think you're going to pass out just looking at him. You try to imagine how big he's going to feel inside of you, and the anticipated pleasure is driving you to madness.
Meanwhile, Clark's looking down at you like he's about to drop down to his knees and apologize. The man is as pathetic as he is huge.
He's got one hand at the side of your head and the other at your hip. He looks so apologetic that you wonder if maybe he will actually split you apart like a fucking watermelon. You're definitely wet enough now—he made sure of that with a mixture of arousal, spit, and lube. If he can't fit, you honestly don't know if he ever will.
“I need you to tell me if it's too much,” he murmurs, though his words are so insistent. He leaves no room for uncertainty as he looks down at you with pleading eyes. “You have to tell me if I'm hurting you. Please. Or, so help me God, we won't do this again.”
His threat has you nodding quickly. When he gives you a sideways look, you amend. “Okay, Clark.” You raise a hand to his cheek, and he melts into your touch like the pathetically-in-love man he is. “I trust you.”
His breath stutters like he's already inside of you. He dips down, captures your lips as a precursor and an apology in advance. “Thank you,” he says.
He peels his hand from your hip and takes his cock in his hand, pumps the length of himself a couple of times when a hesitant groan. He lines himself up with you, but before he does anything else, his eyes find you one more time. It's like he's trying to ask “Are you sure?” You just nod, arms flopped around his neck. “I trust you,” you say again.
He lets out a long breath, pressing the head of his cock against you and already biting back a moan at how wet you are at first contact. He has to drag himself along the seam of you a bit, just some extra slick in case the copious amounts already sticking to you wasn't enough.
With all the control he can muster, he steels his nerves as he focuses on slowly pushing inside of you. Your eyes are already shutting, head tilted up and lips parted at the feeling of the tip of him slowly spreading you open for him. It's such a tight squeeze already he hasn't even managed to get the head of his cock fully inside of you, past that point where you'll suck him in like a greedy thing.
And when you do, he loses his mind. You're so tight, and he's so big, and you don't realize you're already tearing up until you feel the wetness of them rolling down your cheeks.
When he sees them, he stops immediately—not pulling out, just pausing. “Are you okay? Am I hurting you? Do you need a break?” He already sounds devastated, like you're sobbing beneath him in an unintelligible mess. Sure, you are an unintelligible mess but you're not sobbing (yet).
“I'm okay.” You're quick to reassure him, your voice a few pitches higher and your fingers tightening around the hair at the back of his neck. You peel your eyes open to look at him, glassy but so full of love that he thinks he'll explode right there. “I'm okay, I s-swear. Keep going.” The last bit comes out in a breathless sigh.
He raises a hand to your cheek, strokes you like you're so fragile—and to him you are. Compared to Clark, you're a doll made of glass, held together by hopes and dreams and needing the gentlest touch, lest you shatter in his hands.
“Okay,” he breathes, stroking the apple of your cheek with his thumb. Slowly, slowly, he starts to push again. It's a slow splitting that has your fingers grasping and your sounds catching in your throat. You swear you can feel every ridge of the veins decorating him pulsing inside of you. You think you can feel him every time he breathes.
It's a big stretch. It's a little warm, the way it feels to be opened up by him. You focus on looking at him—which might be a mistake because he already looks absolutely wrecked—and match your breathing to his.
“Clark,” you whine as you start to come up on the swell of him. It doesn't hurt necessarily, but it has your thighs shaking as you struggle to accommodate him.
“I know, honey, I know,” he says, his voice as shaky as yours. He dips his head and puffs out a breath of air against your neck, lifting up once more to kiss you quickly. “You're doing so, so good for me, sweetheart. We're almost halfway.”
“Almost?” you whine, looking and sounding every bit as bewildered as you feel.
He pauses again, looking at you with wide, almost scared eyes. “Do you want to stop?” He breathes into the space between you, pushing past the ache and the squeeze and the way he's fucking straining to control himself just to keep from bursting inside you already—or worse, pushing too deep before you're ready.
But you know he would never do that. Clark would fly directly into the sun before he ever hurt you.
You shake your head quickly. Although the corners of your eyes are wet with tears and your breath is so heavy that you think you'll pass out, you slide your hand to his cheek and kiss the corner of his lips. “No, no. Please, keep going.” You take a moment to catch your breath, he lets you. When you look at him again, it's with a smile that makes him dizzy. “I can take it, handsome. I promise, I can take it.”
And he thinks that maybe he's in the wrong here because there is no earthly way that he could ever deserve someone like you. He thinks, briefly, that he has stolen you from someone who deserves you more, swept you away to hoard for his own like a dragon to its treasure (he's definitely the size of one).
“Okay, okay.” He's breathless, glancing down between your bodies where you're joined. Fuck, he can see himself beginning to show through your tummy, and he has to tear his eyes away or he won't last. That would be embarrassing.
You don't think so.
“Doin’ so good,” he whispers against your skin, dipping down to press kisses all over your face as he continues to ease inside of you.
Yeah, he has to be splitting you open. You wouldn't be surprised to look down and see a tear running right through the middle of you. You're so lucky he's yours and you're his forever because, after this, you wouldn't be able to take anyone else (not that you'd ever dream of doing so).
“Takin’ it so well,” he huffs. “Squeezin’ me so tight. Gosh, you're s-so perfect, pretty.”
You're whining beneath him, trying so hard not to wrap your legs around his waist. He needs you open, as open as you can get. You're squirming, though you try hard not to. “So good, honey,” you gasp. “‘S so good, ‘m gonna…”
You don't know what you're going to do. Cum? Cry? Spontaneously combust? Perchance, even, keel over and die?
“Yeah?” he breathes, dropping a hand to your thigh to spread you a little wider. He goes an inch deeper, faster than before just from the shift alone. Your head tilts back, your jaw slack. “Sorry. I'm sorry. Didn't mean to do that, sorry.”
You're shaking your head, bringing it forward again to press against his temple in an effort to ease his worries. “S’okay. Feels good, so good.”
His breath shudders in a small moan. “Promise?”
Your head is full of air, you think. You can't get a single thought in there, other than Clark and his big cock and his big hands and his big heart. “Fuck—promise. I promise, baby. I promise.”
His response is a strangled sound in his throat. He drops his head down briefly into the crook of his neck before quickly raising it again to see your face. He wants to be able to watch you as he fills you, needs to know if it hurts, if it's good, if you're still with him.
He's saying “okay” again, repeating it under his breath as he continues on. “Almost there, honey. So close, doin’ so freaking perfect for me.”
The fact that there's more is making you crazy dizzy. How is there more? You may have to take back what you said early about him not being a freak because this is freakish activity.
He has to ease the last couple inches of himself into you with tiny thrusts. It takes everything he has not to give into the pull of you and just shove the rest of him in—especially when you're squeezing around him like you and damn near sucking him into you like a vacuum.
You don't even realize he's in until his whole body sighs, until you feel his hips perfectly flush against yours as he relaxes just the slightest amount. His body presses lightly into yours, still hovering but needing to be close. Clark groans when he feels the rise of him in your belly against his.
“Fits,” he huffs. “Holy crap, it fits. I'm in, sweetie.” He's losing his mind over it, too. He presses his hand against your tummy, he whines when he feels your abdominal pulse against the pulse of his cock. He can't think straight, vision bleary and hands grabby and head fallen into the curve of your neck.
You're barely able to keep your eyes open, so you're happy when he dips into your neck so you can close your eyes and bask in him.
He's stretching you so wide. It's achy and tight but so, so good inside of you. You wrap your legs tightly around his waist, and he lets you, breathing in the scent of you as he tries not to cry into your shoulder at how good he feels.
“Takin’ all o’ me, honey,” he mewls, sounding as pathetic as he feels. “Dunno how you're doin’ it. You're perfect.”
You're whining like you've been hurt, but he knows you haven't—he knows the difference. You're panting into the air, into his chest, into the crook of his neck. He's just so thick and warm and deep. You pull your legs around him to try and get more of him inside of you, even as he's fully bottoming out where there is no end or beginning of either of you.
“Clark,” you whimper, savoring the stretch and leaning your hips up for more of it.
“I know, I know,” he says. “I know, honey. Just—gimme a sec, okay?”
Because if he doesn't take a moment to breathe, he's going to cum inside of you right here and now.
It's a long time before he moves. You're squirming and whining and begging him to move, to fuck you senseless (despite the fact that you're already senseless).
He takes a breath before slowly beginning to pull out of you. The drag of your gummy walls around him is hot, and—if you're being completely honest—it hurts a little.
You tighten your fingers in the curls at the base of his neck, and he takes it as a sign with how tight you've pulled as he pauses. “You okay? You still with me, honey?”
You nod, the movement choppy. “Yeah, jus’...” A deep line is etched between your furrowed brows, concentration and something vulnerable centered there. “Jus’ a little slower? I—hah—it’s a lot.”
He's stroking your cheek, wiping at sweat and tears and the tiniest bit of wetness left behind by many of his kisses. “Too much?”
“N-no,” you insist. “Not too much, just a lot.”
The fact that he's able to be this put together as you're squeezing his cock like you're trying to flatten it to a straw is beyond him. He lowers his body to press flat against yours, his elbows supporting himself as he cradles your head in his large hands. His thumbs stroke your cheeks lovingly. “Tell me when.”
You take a moment to really think about that. You do need a second to get your head together. Between the pleasure and slight pain of the stretch, you have to catch your breath. You nod gently. “When.”
Clark doesn't continue pulling out. Instead he thrusts himself so slowly back into you until he's just as deep as before.
You whimper, feeling the head of his cock pressing into a spot in you that has warmth coiling in every inch of your body, dominating your belly and your thighs and the heart in your chest (should you see a doctor?—it doesn't matter).
“Deeper.” You don't even realize you've said it until he's following your command, the blunt mushroom tip of his cock, already pressing against that spot deep within you, pushing just a bit harder. He isn't rough, he isn't fast, his hands on you aren't even just a miniscule too tight.
When he presses into you, you think your vision goes white, but you're not sure because the only thing in your fuzzy brain right now is the fact that he feels so good in that spot.
“Clark, right there,” you gasp shallowly. “Please, I—fuck!”
Clark rolls his hips into you. He doesn't pull out more than an inch, breathing loudly in your ear as he focuses his deep, shallow thrusts against a part of you that has your jaw dropped and your eyes shut and your tongue feeling too big in your mouth.
Open-mouthed breaths leave your chest, and you wrap your legs tighter around him just to keep him that much closer.
He's a goner, he thinks. And how is he supposed to not be when you're whimpering and moaning and crying for him like he's holding your heart in his hand, stroking it gently and telling it that it's the prettiest thing he's ever seen in his entire life?
This feeling blossoms all over your body. It starts from deep inside you, spreads through your thighs and your chest, goes out to your legs and arms and tingles in your fingers, your toes, the very tips of your tongue and ears. If you could live in this feeling forever, you would be perfectly content to never do anything else in your life.
“More. Please, baby, I need more. More, more, please.” You're rambling, and Clark thinks maybe you might actually kill him.
“I got you,” he puffs. “You're doin’ so perfect for me. Y’feel so nice and—and tight.” He drops one hand down between your bodies and lays it flat against your belly. You can both feel the bulge of him showing through, and it makes you both audibly gasp. “Feel that? That's me.” He whines, presses his fingers gently into the curve at the very top of him. “Right there, that's how deep I am.”
You move your hand to join his, and he grabs it gently to guide it right where he wants it. You curse at the feeling, a prominent rise in your tummy that makes your head spin. “That's me. That's me, honey. So deep, so good.”
He's the one who's rambling now. He doesn't bother with pulling out of you in any way. When he thrusts into you, it's just to press himself deeper into that spot until your whines sounds less pleasurable and erring on the side of uncomfortable. He makes a note of it in his head, kissing an apology into your shoulder before he's finding a steady rhythm that has you gasping and moaning and wriggling beneath him.
He's not even fucking you—not really. It's nowhere close to being able to be described as fucking. He's rocking his hips, he's rolling them deep within, he's coaxing the pleasure out of you like he would with his fingers against the spongey part that makes your eyes cross.
He's cooing at you: “so good for me” and “my perfect girl” and “doing so well” and more praise than your heart can physically handle. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, bring him down close. You don't let him move even an inch away, and he doesn't try. He tucks his arms under your back, hugs you to him as he continues to thrust inside of you.
It feels so good, you can't even begin to wrap your head around the pleasure. He's deep, he's big, he's stretching you out like one of his condoms that don't fit—the only difference being that those actually broke and you didn't (at least, not physically) (your brain is teetering on the edge of broken).
You feel your need tugging inside of you, building earnestly as he continues to moan and gasp into your neck like you're the one fucking him. “Cl-ark. I needa cum so bad—please, I wanna cum for you.”
He sounds like he's in pain when he groans. Wordlessly, he snakes one hand between your bodies once more and rubs at your clit, still a little achy from before just damnit, does it feel good. You're starting to sound like you are sobbing in his ear now, and he pulls back to check that it's still out of pleasure and not pain under the guise of simply wanting to kiss the tip of your nose.
Your foreheads are pressed together, damp with sweat. Your noses brush against one another as you breathe into each other, weak and pathetic and so fucking perfect for each other.
You're not making any sense—or, at least, your words aren't. You're pretty sure you're speaking gibberish, and you don't care to stop as you continue to babble about how good he's making you feel. He understands every word and responds in kind.
“Y’feel so good, sweetheart. I'm not gonna last,” he whines. A particularly deep roll has you seeing stars almost brighter than the ones in his eyes. He's still speaking to you, but it's white noise as the ebb of your upcoming release fills every ounce of bone and muscle and tendon you have.
Your moans sound more like yelps in his ears, these high-pitched noises that go straight to his dick and have him throbbing inside of you. He's still pressed firmly against your body, and he's not sure if he's imagining it when he feels the way the bulge of him moves in your belly and against his.
“I'm—ohh, I'm gonna cum,” you moan, legs and arms tightening.
He's rutting into you now, and the slight, dull pain of it feels so good right now. You think you're going to pass out. The way he's making you feel doesn't seem like something a human should even be able to take.
You're chanting his name like a prayer, and he's so in love that all he can do in response is praise your name right back to you. “Come on, honey. Let go, let me feel you.”
The sound you make is inhuman. It's this high-pitched mewl in the back of your throat that you weren't sure you could even make. It rings in the air, it vibrates in his ears and makes it so, so hard for him to keep his head on straight.
When you cum, your pussy flutters around him like butterfly wings—warm, wet, tight wings that suck him in like they never want to let him go. Your hips roll against his like he's just not deep enough, even as he's already pressing against your cervix. You grasp at him and shudder and whine and cry and beg for him as he's making you feel good.
And Clark. Oh, Clark. He really hasn't meant to do it.
It takes him completely by surprise when you clamp down on him so tightly that it knocks him off the edge like he's been hit by a freight car (a freight car strong enough to knock him off balance). Instead of pulling out as he intended, he'd pressed in deeper.
He thrusts deep like he's trying to be inside of you. He lifts your hips just a bit and tries to crawl his way into you with knees that slip slightly against the sheets beneath you. He chokes on a moan and then whines in your ear like he's going to cry, too.
And when you feel this strange pop! deep inside of you as the head of him presses past something you didn't realize could even be breached, you stop mewling all together as you suck in a deep gasp and stare wide-eyed at the ceiling like you've been enlightened.
The warmth of him spills inside of you, the two of you grasping onto each other for dear life at the overwhelming pleasure. You think you can actually feel the way he fills you to the brim, your tight pussy milking him for all he's worth. Even when his hips stutter and threaten to pull back, you swallow the sob that tries to escape and fix your heels into his back so he's forced to stay inside. He's not complaining.
The haze that clouds your minds is thick and heavy (like his cock) and takes a while to sift through. You catch your breaths, you hold onto each other like you'll fall over a never-ending cliff if you loosen your grasps for even a single second. He mouths at your neck, you scratch his scalp, and you both let the last sparks of pleasure lick at your bones like a settling fire before you even think about allowing your minds to return to some semblance of normal.
Clark is the first to come to, but only because he realizes that he's still inside of you. And he already came. Inside of you.
“Shoot!”
You whine like you're going to start sobbing (this time out of pure sorrow) as you feel him peeling his sweaty body from yours. He shushes you gently, using one hand to stroke through your hair as he looks down to where you're still connected. There's a white ring around the base of his cock where your arousal had chosen to gather. Looking past skin and blood, he can see himself so fucking deep. He's so deep, the tip of him has actually pushed past your womb where the majority of his cum has filled you up.
He shudders—then feels a little guilty for it because he still hasn't pulled out—before placing a hand to your belly and ignoring the way it has his dick throbbing from how he can still feel that fucking bulge.
“N-no…” you protest meekly as you feel him beginning to pull out of you. You feel that pop! again as he retreats and want to cry. “Clark, please.”
He just keeps shushing you, watching with way too much pleasure as his cock slowly drags out of you. It takes a while (though nowhere even nearly as long as it had to get it in) to pull out. He nearly curses at the sight, the ones on the inside and the outside.
You wrap your legs tighter, digging your heels even harder. But he's entirely unfazed—it's like he doesn't even register you trying to keep him in.
(He feels it. Oh, he feels it. The greedy way you keep trying to suck him back in, even as he's drawing out, is making it so hard to keep his resolve. He gnashes his teeth so hard, he's surprised they don't crack under the pressure.)
“Clark, please, please.”
“I know, honey,” he says, sounding completely and thoroughly wrecked. “I know, but I gotta.”
When he's fully out of you, he's absolutely gutted when he sees the way your pussy refuses to fully close. There's still a gap where he once was, wanting him back, begging for him to come back. His teeth grind harder.
He shuffles down to his elbows, kissing you all the way down until he can properly take a look at you. “Oh, baby.” His thumb so lightly traces the lip of your pussy, and that tiny movement is enough to make you jolt. “She's still open for me.” His voice is strangled. “Took me so well, and she still wants me inside her.”
He's talking about your pussy like it's a person, and it's making your dizziness a thousand times worse. “Needs you,” you correct (pathetically).
Clark makes this face like he's been punched in the gut. “She needs me inside her,” he reaffirms. He leans in and presses the softest kisses along your inner thighs, against your fluttering lips, against your clit (though only once because you're visibly shaking, and your entire body jumps when he does it).
You feel so perfect (you'd feel even better if he'd get back inside you, but alas). Clark moves up to rejoin you. He scoops you up in his arms and rolls over onto his back, your body placed right on top of his furnace-like chest.
“Didn't mean to…” he licks his lips, drawing lazy circles between your shoulder blades so you're shuddering on top of him like a leaf in the wind, “...to do it inside. Was an accident.”
It takes a long time to find your voice, mostly because you're half asleep and drifting deeper. “S’okay,” you whisper, your voice a bit raspy with overuse. “Feels so good.” (It comes out more as “fissoguh”, but he knows what you meant.)
He chuckles so softly, and the sound hums against your body and makes it harder to stay awake, especially with the way he holds you. Like you're everything.
“I know, but I shouldn't have.” His fingers card through your hair.
You would have responded, said something along the lines of, “If you didn't, I would’ve cried so you felt bad about it after,” but your tongue currently isn't working. And even if it was, you would have failed to speak anyway. Instead, you just hum your disagreement.
“Yeah, yeah,” he lightly teases, pinching your side to make you squirm. He continues to soothe you, trying to quiet the nerves in his head telling him that maybe he overdid it and maybe he hurt you. The idea makes him cold with fear.
You hear it in his silence. Even in the fog of your fatigue, you can hear the worries eating away at him. He's prone to worrying himself silly, especially about you, and you'd promised him you would be there to kiss it away.
So you turn your head through the haze, tucking yourself into the space of his neck. You press a kiss to his throat, gentle and hardly there but long and loving.
Clark smiles, tries to swallow the lump in his throat. He kisses your hairline, lingering for a long time, his thanks to you for caring so much.
“Love you,” you murmur, and it's the truest sound on Earth.
He breathes through his nose, still stroking. “I love you, too, pretty.” And you believe him because why on Earth would you not?