No one eats it like Clark does.
Your toes curl, and you squeeze his head between your thighs. You've asked him so many times how he does it. One moment, he's fucking you deep and fast with his tongue--so warm it's borderline hot--your hand gripping his hair, holding him to you as he parts your folds with his fingers, stretching you open while he stabs into you over and over. Next, he's lapping at your juices, flicking your overstimulated clit with a tongue that’s suddenly ice-cold.
The first time he ate you out, he left you a trembling mess--his hot and cold therapy throwing you over the edge again and again.
He seemed most at home with his mouth between your legs. On days you refused to let him go, he'd plow into you with his fingers until every bone in your body turned to jelly and you couldn’t cling to him anymore.
The first time he entered you, it was written all over his face--he was holding back. The way he moved reminded you of someone crossing a slippery ledge: cautious, intentional, as if one wrong move might send him crashing into the deep below.
You tried to unravel him. Tried to get him to lose himself in you the way you lost yourself in him. But he always smiled down at you--patient, sorrowful--like you didn’t know what you were asking.
So you discovered edging.
Every day when he came home from the newspaper office, you’d meet him at the door in something tiny and tight--thighs out, curves popping, just enough covered to make him reach. Then you'd slip away before he could touch you.
You’d laugh and flirt. Cook his meals while indulging him with wet, lingering kisses. Add a little extra sway when you walked past him.
But when he reached for you, you'd kiss him and pull away.
“It was a hectic day, babe. Maybe tomorrow?”
And ever-gentle, ever-patient Clark would nod, ask if you needed anything, and head for another cold shower.
It took a week to crack him. But you did it.
It was Sunday. He’d been home all day. The flimsy baby tee you wore showed every bit of your areolas, and the boyshorts wedged in your ass left the full globes of your cheeks jiggling as you moved in faux-hurry, “busy” with fake chores.
You pretended not to see the tent in his boxers. Or the growing wet spot at the tip.
He gripped the TV remote loosely. The screen forgotten. His eyes followed you like a hawk--devouring, calculating--until he couldn’t take it anymore.
You were bent over the washer in the laundry room when he stepped behind you and tugged down your shorts.
If he noticed how damp they were, he didn’t say a word.
He just lifted you like you weighed nothing and French kissed your swollen labia.
He’d eaten you standing before- holding your legs over his shoulders, head buried deep- but this time…
This time, he lifted you straight to his mouth like a girl-shaped cup and drank like a man dying of thirst.
You were caught between the shock of his strength and the ecstasy of what he was doing to you.
The moment he sucked your orgasm out of you, he lowered you and bent you over the washer.
The nudge of his cock against your opening was your only warning before he plunged in -- one brutal stroke that shoved you up the machine.
Your mouth opened in a silent scream.
One hand pressed to the small of your back. The other braced your neck.
He leaned down and growled into your ear, “Brace yourself.”
You clutched the machine.
His next thrust dislodged the scream from your throat. He ground in, tip bullying your cervix.
His thighs trembled. He groaned- like he was losing control.
And then he went wild.
His hips slammed into you, over and over, each stroke pushing you farther up the washer. His arm around your waist yanked you back onto his cock, meeting every hard, punishing thrust.
Your feet dangled. Your legs shook.
Spots exploded behind your eyes as pleasure collided with pain-- your insides twisted up around him, your body desperate to keep up.
He bent over you, grabbed your wrists, and wrapped your arms around the machine. Planted his knees wide. You felt the washer tilt with the force of his strokes… and then he fucked you like a man possessed.
Wet, obscene sounds filled the room, punctuated by your raw cries and his primal grunts. Your body was wrecked. Your pleasure hole destroyed.
You lost count of your orgasms. Wondered how he kept going, hips still bucking with delightful frenzy.
The claps came faster, louder, and your voice rose into something unrecognizable. Your walls fluttered around him, struggling to keep up, as slick spilled down your legs.
And when he finally growled his release, shooting deep, you knew two things:
He had come undone. And you were never edging him again.
