Summary: Your parents have never once let you out of their sight. The one time they do, they leave you around Clark Kent, the nice boy that works as a farmhand on your father’s land, whose family attends the same church as yours. They don’t notice the hunger in his eyes every time he looks at you. (part of my kinktober series)
Notes: it’s here and it is NOT two days late! this is the part i’ve been most excited for and i’ll admit i got a bit carried away.. so this is an abridged version of what i’ve actually written, and if the full version is something you all would like to see, let me know :3 gif by hoult-nicholas
The end of August has brought a swift, cooling breeze to Smallville, a welcome reprieve from the sticky, stifling heat that has plagued the farm town you reside in all summer. Very few things have been able to motivate you to step outside the comfort of the ceiling fan in your bedroom; your parents’ patience has surely worn thin with your complaints every Sunday morning. The unrelenting sun makes the walk to the church grounds miserable, and if that’s not bad enough, you have to sit there practically boiling in the pews, bobby pins poking your scalp, sweat slicking your forehead, making you fear for the integrity of your modest white dress.
There is one upside to the heat.
You’ve known Clark Kent your whole life, or at least, you’ve known of him. The town is small enough that it’s hard not to know everyone’s name, despite being sent to an all-girls school out of town, and you’ve seen him every Sunday since you can remember.
But it wasn’t until a few months ago that you got very familiar with him. Business has been remarkably good for your daddy the past few years, which meant work had gotten harder, and he’s only getting older. Before harvest season started to ramp up he decided this year he’d need some help, and a few days later there was Clark, in the field behind your house talkin’ to your daddy, gesturing broadly like he was explaining the land to him. From then on, you saw Clark every day, handling cows and carrying wheelbarrows of corn through the fields, bags of feed thrown over his wide, flannel-clad shoulders.
You started spending a lot of time at your window after that. Curious eyes peeking out from behind your curtains, trying to be casual in your clear attempts to spot your daddy’s farmhand from your second-story window, overlooking the fields of corn and various barns and stables. And when the heat came, sweltering and heavy, you were greeted with the sight of his broad, muscular chest, bare except for the sweat dripping off him.
Your body hasn’t felt quite right since then. You’re constantly uncomfortable, a strange, unfamiliar tingling between your thighs plaguing you, and at first you blamed the heat, but it was undeniable that it only bothered you if Clark was around. Or if you thought of him, which was the case more often than you’d ever confess.
You’ve tried to figure out how to fix it on your own – you can’t ask your mother about it, her reaction to your monthly bleeding is humiliating enough – late at night, when the wood creaking beneath your parents’ feet goes silent, and you know they’ve settled in their bed across the hall, you feel around yourself, searching for the wound, the burn, the source of your discomfort and some way to soothe it, but nothing helps, and all your fingers come away with is a clear, sticky slick, wiped away haphazardly onto your pink sheets. The rest of your night is spent in prayer, desperately trying to rid yourself of your curiosity and temptation.
Yet when the sun comes up, you find yourself taking every opportunity to be near him, though they are few and far between. You make a concerted effort to conceal your eagerness when you see him come to rest on your porch, breathing deep and wiping the sweat from his face, timidly offering him a glass of ice-cold water, which he always accepts. And then you have to stand there, waiting for him to finish, grateful that he’s too distracted with his beverage to notice you ogling him. Your eyes inevitably fall to where his waistband meets his stomach, a thatch of dark hair trailing down into his pants, but you tear them away after just a few seconds, your face heating with the rush of blood to your cheeks. If your mother looked out the kitchen window and saw you like this, she’d pluck your wandering eyes right out of your head.
“Must be nice, havin’ an ice box in the house.” He’d remarked, not unkindly, as he wiped his lips clean with the back of his hand. You blanked – it hadn’t occurred to you that most people in Smallville didn’t own an icebox.
“You’re welcome to it any time you’d like,” You tell him, your voice quiet and high.
“Thank you kindly,” He smiles, reserved, his voice deep and raspy from a hard day of work in the sun. He looks away from you quickly, chugging the rest of the water down and hurriedly handing you back the glass, then making his way off your porch like you’d said something to offend him..
It doesn’t matter how often you remind yourself that to lust was to sin, how often your knees collect splinters from fervent praying for your temptations to leave you, the burning stayed, ever-present in the corner of your mind, drawing you in towards the sweet boy that tended to the berry bushes that sat beneath your bedroom window, a gift from your daddy. It was almost cruel, to be so reminded of your doting father, who’d never even let you attend a co-ed school dance, as you studied the ripples of muscle on Clark’s back while he plucked at the bushes carefully.
You’re sure your daddy gave him a firm talk before hiring him. Marked you off limits with not-so-thinly veiled threats and a hard look, and if that wasn’t enough, the shotgun that sits on the wall by the porch door surely conveyed just how serious he was about protecting you. Besides the gratitude he expresses when you bring him a water, the communication you have with Clark is limited to nods of acknowledgement, anything else in the presence of your father would surely go down very poorly.
But your daddy goes out of town for a weekend, some big-time meeting in the city with vendors and distributors; you knew it was important, but you tuned out at the dinner table whenever he got to talking about business, letting your mother handle the part where you pretend to look interested in men’s business operations. And that same Saturday, your mother stays late at her church events committee meeting, last-minute arrangements still needing to be ironed out for the luncheon the next day. You’re alone in the house, and Clark is alone in the barn, the sun just starting to lower, though the oppressive heat had yet to let up.
So you bring him lemonade. You had nothing better to do all day than to juice lemons from the tree your daddy planted in the yard when you were born, and the hard, repetitive labour a welcome distraction from the discomfort in your core every time you caught a glimpse of Clark outside. But you made too much, several pitchers fill to the brim with the sugary beverage – you always make it on the sweeter side, a guilty pleasure – and you certainly won’t get through it all by yourself.
Your walk out to the barn is slow, trying to keep the cold glass steady in your hands while you trek across the field, carefully avoiding patches of mud that might make you stumble or stain your dress. Thankfully, the barn doors have been kept open while he works, saving you from a dangerous balancing act, and allowing you to spot him immediately, lugging straws of hay around in little more than a white tank top, stained with dirt and grain and sweat. His arms are on full display, thick and corded with hard-earned muscle, flexing with the effort of his work. You stand there in the entryway, frozen, staring, your core clenching around nothing while you watch him. You’re broken out of your trance when he notices you, his eyes flashing up to meet yours, widened, and his expression turns bashful, like he’s the one that’s been caught leering.
“I brought you some lemonade!” You explain quickly, as if that excuses the awkward amount of time you spend standing there in silence, holding up the glass in your hands. That smile – that damned smile – breaks out on his face again, full of gratitude.
He thanks you, setting down his pitchfork and stepping closer to take the glass from your outstretched hand, giving you a full view of his thick neck when he tosses the glass back, his throat bobbing with each gulp. Your face heats again, matching the sensation between your thighs, as it always does when you’re in his proximity.
“‘S sweet.” He comments when he finishes, his lips still sticky and shiny with the residue, drawing your eyes to how plush and pink they are, how good they might feel against you. “Your mama know you came out here to give this to me?”
“Mama’s not home.” You admit. He nods in understanding.
“That why you snuck out here to see me?”
“No!” You gasp, shaking your head emphatically, eyes wide in shock.
“No?” His tone is teasing, knowing. “You were just going to watch me from your window for the rest of your life?”
You’re at a loss for words, disbelieving at his audacity. You thought you were being subtle, hiding behind your curtains, and he never seemed to see you up there.
“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t think- I-” He shakes his head at your stammering, smiling easily, like he hasn’t just exposed your sin.
“Don’t be sorry, it’s alright, honey-”
“No, it’s not!” You cry, turning away from him in shame. “You don’t understand, I’ve been- you’ve made me feel…”
You trail off, unable to find the words for what you’re experiencing, the way you feel when you see him. “How have I made you feel, hm?”
“... Hot.” is all you come up with.
“Summer tends to do that to you.”
You whip back around, astounded at his ability to joke about your misdeeds, only to find him far closer than you anticipated, close enough to touch. And he does, his hand coming to stroke your forearm, easily mistaken for an innocent touch if it weren’t for the intensity of his gaze.
“Where do you feel hot?” He asks. Your lips part, but no answer comes. “Here?”
You shake your head, though your skin feels feverish where his hand lays, a trail of warmth as his touch travels up your arm, your shoulder, till his hand is cupping the back of your neck, tilting your head up towards him.
“Here?” He asks again, and you shake your head again. The corner of his lips turns upward, and he steps forward, directly into your space, then further, pushing with him, backwards until your legs hit a bail of hay, scratching at your delicate skin. “I can help you cool down, but only if you tell me where you’re burning, baby.”
He’s tender, but firm, as he pushes you to sit back.
“Does it burn right here?” He asks, and you don’t have the strength to meet his gaze anymore, looking down at where his arm disappears beneath your skirt, wondering what on Earth he’s doing to you beneath that fabric, finally finding the source of that torrid heat.
He sinks down to his knees in front of you, slipping his head beneath your skirt to press his face to the gusset of your panties, and your mouth falls open on a gasp.
“W-what’re you- oh gosh-” You stutter out, your legs trying to close around his head on instinct when you feel his tongue press against you through the thin, cotton fabric. “We can’t- Clark!”
“We have to, baby, I told you,” He soothes you, pressing his lips to your inner thighs, making you whimper from the loss of him where you really need him. “There’s no other way to stop you from burning.”
He wraps a hand around your thigh and moves it to rest on his shoulder, forcing your muscles to stretch to accommodate him, before reaching to slip your panties to the side, exposing your most vulnerable parts to him. You can’t see him from here, but you can hear him, taking a deep breath of your scent and groaning.
“Saved this all for me, didn’t you?” He mumbles, then he’s pressing his tongue to where you’re dripping for him, drawing a tight whine from you. He licks at you there for a bit, not quite where he knows you want him, savouring the flavour, all sticky and sweaty for him after a day of making lemonade in the hot sun, barely shielded by the kitchen curtains. He lets himself indulge in your taste; he’s waited long enough for it.
But you’re impatient, unpracticed. You roll your hips on instinct, drawing his tongue further up, and he lets you, slotting his mouth against your clit and giving it a kiss, sloppy and wet because he knows you need it that way, and your high-pitched mewls confirm it.
It’s all instinct from that point on, your muscles, taut with the shock of stimulation, finally loosening as he sucks and nurses at your bundle of nerves, till he’s got you rocking against his face steadily. He thanks whatever God is out there that he doesn’t need to come up for air, relishing in the sweet moans he draws out of you, the way you’re giving yourself over to him so easily, so naturally. He thinks even if he did need air, he’d happily give it up to die right here, bringing you to the pleasure you need.
You’ve never indulged yourself like this in your life. So many weeks spent praying your desire would go away, only for Clark to force it to fruition, your climax approaching rapidly with the way his tongue moves against you. He won’t let you run from it, tightening his grip on your thigh and keeping his ministrations steady till it washes over you like a wave, your body arching towards him and your jaw falling open on a whimper, clutching your hands around straws of hay, anything to ground you while you ride out your high.
When you set your eyes on him again, he’s already looking at you, your chest, still confined by the bodice of your dress, falling and rising heavily in an attempt to catch your breath. He keeps that all-consuming gaze on you as he licks his lips, glistening with your wetness, not bothering to hide the grunt of satisfaction as he tastes you again, and then his mouth is on yours, making you taste your own residue on him. He kisses you, open-mouthed, once and then twice and then one more time before he’s reaching down to unlatch his belt, the metal clinking sending a chill down your spine, reigniting the heat that had just subsided with your climax.
He slots between your legs easily, despite his wide frame, your legs fall open for him to fit. He releases his manhood deftly, and you gasp at the unfamiliar sight; you’ve only ever heard of what’s between a man’s legs from your mother, and even then, her words were coded, bashful, embarrassed to even verge on vulgarity in front of her daughter. This was certainly not what you had pictured.
He can see the confusion in your eyes clearly, and he knows fear will do you no good, only make you tight-laced and difficult to open up, so he takes one of your hands off his shoulder. He guides it down, down the planes of muscle on his chest and stomach that he knows you’ve yearned to feel under your hand, down to where his cock hangs, hard and heavy, too heavy to even stand upright.
Your hand flinches away, hesitant. “Clark-“
He shushes you gently, nudging your nose with his, beckoning you to look at him.
“The same way you burn for me-“ He moves your hand again, wrapping it loosely around the shaft, a gasp falling from both of you. “I burn for you here.”
His skin there is soft, lacking the callouses that litter his hands, and it’s flushed red, leaking clear fluid from the tip. You gasp softly at that, thumbing at where he’s leaking, drawing a hiss from his lips like you’ve burned him. You pull your hand away again, fearing that you’ve hurt him
“Feels good, honey, it’s okay,” He assures you, moving even closer, till his shaft is pressed against you, hot against your flesh. His mouth falls open on a broken moan at the contact, sending a shiver through your body. “G-gonna make it better, baby, just have to let me in.”
You feel him moving under your skirt, adjusting, till he’s lined up with your entrance. He’s barely dipping in, but it’s enough for you to grab his arm, pushing weakly, panic evident on your face.
“But we- we’re not married,” You protest, breathless, so close to what you’ve been needing. “It’s a sin, Clark, if we’re not married, it’s wrong-”
“It’s not wrong,” He shakes his head, his eyes so sincere, you can’t help but believe him. He shifts his hips slowly, letting his shaft slide back up through your folds, his tip nudging you where you’re throbbing for him, knowing it’ll make you squeal for him again, music to his ears. “Feels so good, baby, that can’t be wrong, ‘s too perfect.”
You nod in agreement, distracted, persuaded, no longer protesting when his tip probes at your entrance, sliding in easily with how soaked you are for him. The ache you’ve felt for him for months is replaced with the sting of the stretch, making your eyes water despite how slow he’s going. His thumb comes to your aid, rubbing soothing circles into your clit. The contrast is almost too much, the shocks of pleasure and the ache of accommodating his size inside you, his girth filling you to the brim once his hips still.
Clark kisses you, forcing you to focus on the movement of his lips against yours instead of where he’s splitting you open, mumbling praises about how good you’re doing, how tight you feel around him.
And when the shift happens, when your pained gasps turn to timid, dazed moans, as the stinging is replaced with white hot pleasure, he knows immediately, putting more strength behind the roll of his hips into you, groaning at the clutch of your walls around him, better than he could’ve imagined.
You draw him in deeper with every thrust, legs pitched up around his waist to keep him close, your nails digging into his bare shoulders. You’re barely kissing now, just sharing breath as you move against each other, that same tight feeling in your stomach from before rising in you again. You never thought you’d revel in the roughness of this act, the bruising grip he has on you, the piston of his hips as he nudges against a soft, spongy spot inside of you, drawing a frayed sound from your lips.
He takes you earnestly, encouraging as he feels you clench down around him, needing to feel you release on his cock after all these months of watching you, knowing you wouldn’t be able to bring yourself there on your own. He’s waited, bided his time, till you came to him and finally admitted that you wanted him, like he knew you eventually would, just so he could show you what he could give you, the gift of coming apart. Your limbs lock up as it happens, your head tilting back on a particularly rough rut of his hips, only capable of releasing a high-pitched cry of his name.
It’s then that he lets go of his restraint, your sex still pulsing frantically around him as he grits his teeth, biting at her jaw, her ear, and letting common sense leave him, frenzied as he thrusts into you. His hips have a mind of their own, giving himself over to the chase of his release, rooting himself as deep as he can until he spills his seed, groaning, ragged.
He doesn’t still, even after he’s finished spurting inside you, dragging out the aftershocks as you tremble together. You bask in the glow of it, realising suddenly – you’ve never been this close to anyone before.
At that thought, you kiss him, and even in his shaken state he kisses you back with no hesitation, moaning at the taste of your lips again.
“D-does this mean I’m yours?”
His forehead rests on yours, his eyes as serious as his tone: “Yeah, baby, all mine.”
He’s exceedingly gentle as he helps you stand, once he’s sure he hasn’t hurt you, petting at your sex once he’s pulled out and searching your face for any sign of pain, but you’re still in a shock; you won’t feel the soreness ‘till tomorrow.
He leads you back to your house after he’s smoothed out your skirt, holding your hand and never letting you stumble on your still-shaking legs, but he leaves you at the gate of the fence that surrounds the main house, high enough that no one will see you arriving together from the house. He kisses your cheek, reassures you that he’ll see you soon, and then sends you off, for you to run into the house, speeding up to your room to avoid conversation with your mother. She knows you, she’d know something was off once she saw your mussed hair, your blown pupils and heavy breath.
So you shut the door to your bedroom tight, exhausted, and pad over to your closet to pick out what you’ll wear in church tomorrow. For once, you weren’t just dressing for the eyes of God.
