I can’t get best friend Clark out of my mind. He’d be the best friend ever; always helps move you between home and college and apartments, remembers your allergies, picks you up if you call him after too many drinks.
Best friend Clark who is more than a best friend, because you always end up sleeping at his place in his shirt and panties and that’s it. You’re tangled up in his sheets and his arms, half across him. Clark has a tight hold on you, one arm firmly around your waist and a hand on your ass. Sleepovers didn’t stop when you reached 12.
Best friend Clark who, when you both were ready, gladly took your virginity and let you take his. You learned everything, from ABCs to calculus, together with Clark. This is just another one of those things.
Best friend Clark who won’t fuck you when you’re drunk (“you can’t consent while drunk baby”), but he’ll let you rut against his thigh until you’re satisfied and then in the morning get you aspirin and water and cook you breakfast. And then he’d fuck you into his sheets because how dare you wear that skirt when you know it’s his favorite?
Best friend Clark who’ll help you move into your apartment or move furniture, but afterwards he needs to shower because he’s so gross. And so you both hop into the shower. It’s fine, you’ve been bathing together since babies of course. But now Clark’s feeling every lush curve of your body, and he’s sucked hickies onto your neck. Your lips are slotted together, and now he’s fucking your pussy raw until your moans bounce off the shower walls and you can barely stand.
Best friend Clark, who’s more than your best friend. But you two won’t define it beyond that, because how can someone define something so vast? He’s your Clark.
