men will literally encourage female hypersexuality until it stops benefiting them personally. then suddenly it becomes pathology, degradation, daddy issues, lack of self-respect, trauma, etc. they’ll consume sexualized women constantly, glorify them, fantasize about them, profit off them, even build entire cultures around them. but the second a woman embodies that sexuality too openly, too honestly, or outside of male control, she’s “damaged” now. like suddenly the thing they were rewarding becomes proof there’s something wrong with her like what?
hypersexual reader who isn’t sated after two or three orgasms and needs more
vs
boyfriend who’s a little too old and will not cum more than twice in a day, weakly letting you ride and use him as you please until you’re done, sated and tired and sleeping into his side
clark kent x nympho!reader
tags/cw: nympho reader, hypersexual themes, size kink if you squint, office sex, light exhibitionism, gagging, love & lust, mentions of oral & standing doggy, est. relationship, improper use of superpowers, quickies, desperate behavior, superman is better than human men
823 w.c.
nympho!reader hcs
Clark Kent, whose nympho girlfriend is completely insatiable for him. He never expected to end up with a girlfriend who wanted him the way you did constantly, hungrily, as if something in you sparked to life the second he walked into a room.
Maybe it was the trace of Kryptonian biology in his kiss, some alien chemical that slipped past your lips and burned straight into your bloodstream every time his mouth met yours. Maybe it was simply him: the way he said “ma’am” to waitresses, the way he apologized to doors when he accidentally slammed them too hard, the way those broad shoulders carried the weight of the world and still curved protectively around you when you slept. Whatever the cause, the effect was absolute. One look at Clark Kent: glasses, tie slightly crooked, that shy smile, and something feral woke up inside you and refused to go back to sleep.
Mornings began the same way: you rolling over before the alarm, sliding a thigh across his hips, feeling him already half-hard under the sheets. He’d murmur a sleepy “Morning, baby,” voice rough with dreams, and you’d answer by sinking onto him slowly, savoring the stretch, the way his huge hands immediately settled on your waist like he was afraid you’d float away. Soft, lazy, sun-through-the-curtains sex—until it wasn’t soft anymore and you were riding him hard enough that the headboard knocked pictures off the wall.
By midday, you were already texting him, asking if he could fly home for "lunch", a break never long enough to satisfy you, but long enough to chase away that restless longing until evening. He’d appear on the balcony thirty seconds later, tie fluttering, cheeks flushed from supersonic flight. You’d barely let him set his notebook down before you were on your knees, mouthing at him through his slacks, inhaling the faint scent of ink and city air that always clung to him. Lunch break meant you bent over the kitchen counter, skirt rucked up, one of his hands clamped gently over your mouth so the neighbors wouldn’t hear you scream when he finally pushed in.
Some days, you showed up at the Daily Planet yourself, innocent as anything, brown paper bag in hand. “Brought you lunch, baby,” you’d sing, loud enough for Jimmy to hear. Clark’s eyes would flick to you behind his glasses, half warning, half plea, and two minutes later, you’d be locked in the single-stall bathroom on the 8th floor, his tie stuffed in your mouth to muffle the noises while he fucked you against the door hard enough to rattle the hinges. Your vibrator sat forgotten in the bedside drawer at home; nothing on Earth could find the places he reached when he tilted his hips just right. Those stolen minutes behind a locked door or in a quiet corner always left you glowing and him smiling like he knew exactly what you were doing.
At home, you were even worse. You’d find him in his study, glasses slipping down his nose, hair curling over his forehead, legs spread in that careless way that always did things to you, and you’d climb right into his lap like you had every right. He’d look at you over the rims of his glasses with that mix of fondness and exasperation that told you he was two seconds from giving in or losing his place in the article entirely. If he really needed to finish his work, he’d whisper that you’d either have to wait… or take care of yourself. And of course, you chose the latter, just to see his jaw tighten at the sight.
One night, he finally sat you down gently on his lap, hands warm on your thighs, eyes soft in a way that made your chest ache. He asked, with such careful sincerity it almost broke your heart, whether you felt pressured to chase him like this. Whether it felt like a compulsion. You just stared at him before laughing, because he genuinely didn’t realize. You told him you loved sex, especially with him. That you craved him because he made you feel wanted, adored, alive. He nodded slowly, as he understood for the first time, and told you he’d give you whatever you needed, whenever you needed it.
And sometimes, “what you needed” involved Clark using gifts he probably shouldn’t have. The speed he normally used to save lives. The tongue that could do things no human anatomy textbook accounted for. The strength that lets him lift you as if gravity stopped applying. The kind of experiences only he could give you.
Your human exes had never come close. Clark could keep up. Clark could meet you where you burned hottest. Clark could give you exactly what you wanted without ever making you feel greedy or wrong for wanting it. He met it. Matched it. Fed it. And he loved every second of being wanted by you.
being hypersexual as a girl means staying in my room everyday and masturbating, even if my family could catch me. even if i feel disgusting about myself afterwards.
but ill still do it because this kitty's clit needs rubbing!
He’s always been a little embarrassed by it, this constant, gnawing hunger that never seems to let up. He’s used to being horny all the time, but ever since he met you, it’s gotten so much worse. Every time you hang out, the second he gets home he’s rushing to his room, shoving his pants down and wrapping his hand around his aching cock, stroking himself furiously while your face is still fresh in his mind.
Just the sight of your lips or those pretty eyes is enough to melt him into pure ecstasy.
Hypersexual! Gojo, who’s desperately trying to be lowkey around you. He doesn’t want to scare you off. You’re so wonderful, kind, patient, smart, and genuinely good in every way. How could someone like him, twisted and starving with lust, possibly deserve someone as perfect as you?
He used to need multiple partners just to take the edge off, never satisfied with just one person. But the moment you came into his life, he stopped seeing anyone else. The mere idea of being with you is enough now. No one else even comes close.
Hypersexual! Gojo, who’s always been the one to make the first move, now holds back. He waits for you to start things because he’s terrified of coming on too strong and ruining this. He’s used to using his dazzling looks and effortless charm to get whatever he wants, but with you he refuses to. It’s driving him insane. He wants you so badly it hurts, but this is the first time in his life he’s ever wanted something so precious, so he’s careful.
Hypersexual! Gojo who at parties and hangouts, he has to sneak away every so often, slipping into a bathroom or a dark corner just to jerk off because your mere presence turns him on unbearably. He’ll lean against the wall, biting his lip to stay quiet, pumping his cock with quick, desperate strokes while thinking about you.
So when the two of you have been going out for two weeks and you finally confront him, telling him how needy you are for his touch and demanding to know why he hasn't made a move on you, Gojo gets all flustered. His cheeks flush, those bright blue eyes widening as he realizes just how badly you want him too. He’s still unsure how to behave around you, scared of letting the full weight of his desires show.
The first time you’re together, he’s surprisingly tender and caring, almost too gentle. But you’re already frustrated from all the waiting, so you start begging him, voice breathy and desperate: “Harder… faster, please—”
That’s when he falls apart.
He tries to stay careful at first, but the moment he sees you can take him, really take him, something inside him snaps. He fucks you with raw, overwhelming passion, hips slamming into you with a need he can’t hold back anymore. He cums faster than he expected, groaning your name as pleasure crashes through him.
He’s a little embarrassed afterward, but you honestly don’t care. You just pull him closer, smiling.
Hypersexual! Gojo, who’s an absolute mess for you.
People need to understand that you can be hypersexual and asexual at the same time. Yes, you can have no desire for sex at all, and be repulsed by explicit material, and then out of nowhere have an inexplicable desire to have sex or masturbate, thoughts of the act itself and images of it can appear in your head AGAINST YOUR OWN WILL. Most of the time people who have both have been sexually assaulted or abused in some kind of way related to sex. Hypersexuality is a trauma response, so can be asexuality. So don’t go invalidating people without knowing them and their stories, ‘cause asexual and hypersexual people are pretty valid, whether you believe they’re faking it or not, they exist
