Long Form Roleplayers

The days after the Fuzzo's incident were...hard. That night, after having another shower and cleaning the supersuit, Clark couldn't sleep well. The thing he did in the living room was...so perverse and pathetic. So nasty...And yet, he could feel his massive superballs empty and rested...as if he had lost a weight that he had been holding for too much. Worse of it was the dream...almost like a 3 POV recreation of the scene, in which he saw with shame and glee in equal parts how he took his clothes and started to thrust his bulge against a 9-12 years old toy. In the morning, his cock had escaped from his boxers...jumping like a jack in the box when he took the blankets out. The morning was equally horrifying. The weight in his stomach when Jon returned from his sleep with Fuzzo in his arms, remembering how drenched in his cum the toy had ended up being. The shame in his gaze, unable to look at Lois and JOn...and ending up faking reading the news to not talk. Worst of all, the fact that, under the dinning table, he was hard as steel. Days continued passing and you felt normal returning to you...but soon incident started to happen. The first one was just...embarassing. While doing a patrol, in the middle of the night, you ended up paralized...in front of a Fuzzo ad. A massive Ad, covering a few floors of a building, with the simpathetic face of the doll in it. For minutes Superman lost himself...recovering when he notice that he was groping a slowly growing semi. The second was also worrisome. The last day of school had arrived and Jon left with Lois early, leaving you alone at home. You didn't think about the toy at all...but when you passed by Jon's room. It was like losing time...Clark felt how he opened the door and found Fuzzo sitting in the middle of Jon's bed, as a king. He remember how he slowly took off his belt, undid his zip and let his brown suit pants fall...He remembers watching the slow and sure way in which his dick started to grow and get hard...almost entranced in how his dick was reacting to being close to the doll...Until a call broke the spell and Clark could leave, almost jumping with his cock out, from the room....before he did something even more regrettable. And now, Christmas was here...and they moved to the Kent's farm for the holidays. It was refreshing and liberating...and Clark couldn't avoid feeling a slowly weight growing in his groin...and the need of massage his balls to feel better. He was helping dad around the farm and his hand continued to slip into that shameful...behavior.

The crisp winter air of Smallville should have been the perfect antidote. The scent of pine, the smell of damp earth, and the comforting presence of his father were supposed to ground him, to remind Clark of the simple, honest values he had been raised with. But as he worked alongside Pa Kent, hauling heavy crates of winter supplies, the physical exertion only served to heighten the simmering tension in his loins. Every time he bent over, the thick fabric of his denim jeans strained against the sheer mass of his thighs and the heavy, insistent bulge between them. He could feel his balls—those super-dense, engorged weights—shifting with every step, aching with a phantom memory of the release he’d found in the living room. It was a hunger that didn't feel like hunger; it felt like a parasitic need, a mental itch that only one specific, plastic shape could scratch. As he lifted a massive bale of hay, Clark felt his hand instinctively drift. It started as a subconscious adjustment, a quick tug to ease the pressure, but as his fingers brushed against the hard, pulsing ridge of his cock through the denim, a jolt of electricity shot straight to his brain. He froze, his breath hitching in the cold air, a plume of white vapor escaping his lips. He looked over at his father, who was humming a tune while tinkering with a tractor, completely oblivious. The contrast was agonizing. Here was the man who taught him about integrity and strength, and here was Clark, the Man of Steel, standing in the middle of a snowy field, secretly massaging his balls through his pants like a starved animal.

I can't... I shouldn't... he told himself, but the thought was weak. The memory of the Fuzzo ad, the "lost time" in Jon's bedroom—it was all coalescing into a singular, driving obsession. His mind began to drift, imagining the toy. He could almost hear that mechanical, innocent voice delivering those filthy, soul-crushing commands. He could almost see those swirling eyes, stripping away his dignity and leaving only the raw, needy gooner behind. His hand tightened, his fingers kneading the heavy sac of his balls, feeling them tight and full. He let out a low, shuddering moan that was swallowed by the wind. The shame was there, a cold weight in his stomach, but it only served to fuel the fire. The more he felt like a degenerate, the harder his cock became, pulsing with a rhythmic intensity that threatened to rip through the seams of his jeans. He was a god among men, capable of moving planets, yet he was currently enslaved by the memory of a child's toy. The thought of Jon and Lois inside the warm farmhouse, unaware that the patriarch of the family was currently hard as steel and leaking pre-cum into his underwear, sent a wave of perverse thrill through him. He shifted his stance, leaning against the fence, his hand now working in a slow, rhythmic grind against his crotch. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, the snowy landscape of the farm vanished. He wasn't in Smallville anymore; he was back in that trance, floating in the air, his massive 15-inch shaft disappearing into the pink plastic of Fuzzo, the world reduced to the humming of a motor and the feeling of total, blissful submission.

"Clark? You alright there, son?" Pa Kent called out, glancing over. Clark snapped back to reality, his hand jumping away from his groin as if he'd been burned. He was panting, his face flushed a deep crimson that had nothing to do with the cold. He looked down at his lap, where a prominent, twitching tent had formed in his jeans, impossible to ignore. "I'm... I'm fine, Dad!" he managed to choke out, his voice an octave higher than usual. "Just... caught my breath!" As he turned back to the work, the ache in his groin intensified. He knew the farm wouldn't be enough to save him. The seed of obsession had been planted, and as Christmas approached, Clark realized with a terrifying sense of anticipation that he didn't just want the toy—he needed it. He needed to be broken again. He needed to feel that cheap plastic swallowing his pride and his cock until there was nothing left of Superman, only a needy, shivering mess of a man.

The work was hard to do with a hard-on, but after a few hours Clark finished the necessary fixed to the fence and the land, so that his parents didn't need to worry in spring. Unlike other times, he could feel his chest burning due to the effort of keeping his concentration out of the massive tent in his pants. When he finished, under the worried look of his dad, he went to take a shower...a cold one. He decided to go to the one in the second floor...via flying. He didn't feel like looking at Lois or Jon...or being seen like this. When he entered the shared bathroom, he was fast to close it and lose his clothes...jumping straight into the shower. The freezing sensation was a blessed moment of peace, pacifying any lustful desires...until the water had to end. Leaving the shower was hard, as if Clark was leaving a safe haven. Soon, the plastic curtain was moved and Clark faced himself in a misty mirror. For minutes, his eyes watched the muscular frame, his powerful muscles and his massive cock. Like enchanted, his body started to move and...pose. As if he was a teenager, showing barely visible gain after one week in the gym, he started to flex each muscle...letting a sensation of pride and shame fill him. He felt like one of those frat boys of his college...cocky and dumb. SOon, he started to move his hips...making his flaccid dick move around. An helicopter motion that he saw many times when he was doing interviews with local teams when he was in highschool. Teenagers being teenagers. But this was Super man's cock...a massive slat of meat that danced around, almost hitting the porcelain basin. The wet splat of his dick hitting his abs and hips was just a perverse thing...and soon, as if the cold shower was a dream, Clark was again spotting a semi erection. Returning to reality was hard...but necesary. After all, he couldn't pass hours in the bathroom doing...this. Or some other things. Clark didn't have such a wild libido when he was young, so fast handies were sporadic situations...but now, the idea was gaining traction. But...he had a full house.

The steam from the shower had begun to dissipate, leaving the bathroom in a damp, heavy silence, broken only by the rhythmic drip-drop of the faucet. Clark stood there, naked and glistening, his reflection staring back at him with an intensity that felt alien. He watched the way the light caught the deep grooves of his abdominal muscles and the sheer, overwhelming scale of his thighs. But his eyes kept drifting downward. The "helicopter" motion had awakened something dormant, a primal sense of exhibitionism that thrived on the secrecy of the moment. Even though he was alone, the knowledge that Lois and Jon were just a few walls away, oblivious to the god-like specimen posing in the mirror, sent a thrill of electricity through his spine. He watched his cock—that massive, heavy slab of meat—twitch and thicken. The semi-erection was rapidly becoming a full, throbbing pillar, the head weeping a clear bead of pre-cum that glistened like a diamond against the flushed skin of his shaft. He reached down, his large hand barely able to wrap around the girth. As he gripped himself, the contrast was staggering: the most powerful man in the universe, reduced to a shivering, needy mess by the mere sight of his own arousal. He began to stroke, a slow, agonizingly deliberate slide from the heavy base of his balls up to the sensitive crown. Splat. Slap. Squish. The sounds were magnified in the small, tiled room. Every time his hand slid down, the weight of his 15-inch cock slapped against his lower abs with a wet, heavy sound that echoed the perverse rhythms he had experienced with Fuzzo. He closed his eyes, and suddenly, he wasn't in the farmhouse. He could feel the phantom sensation of pink plastic, the mechanical hum of a toy, and the crushing weight of a command he couldn't disobey.

"Good boy, Superman," he whispered to himself, mimicking the toy's voice. The words felt like a brand on his soul, filling him with a mixture of absolute disgust and an explosive, soaring pleasure. His breathing became ragged, his chest heaving as he increased the pace. He leaned one hand against the cold porcelain of the sink, his muscles bulging and straining, veins popping across his biceps and neck. He was flexing instinctively now, his body reacting to the pleasure as if it were a physical battle. He was fighting himself—the hero fighting the gooner—and the gooner was winning. He imagined the toy was here, sitting on the bathroom counter, those swirling eyes watching his every movement, judging his desperation. He could almost feel the invisible leash tightening around his neck, pulling him down, forcing him to admit how much he loved being degraded. I'm a freak, he thought, his grip tightening, his thumb rubbing circles into the crown of his glans. I'm a pathetic, oversized freak. The thought triggered a surge of arousal so potent it felt like a physical blow. He began to pump faster, his hips thrusting forward into the empty air, chasing a release that felt like it was miles away yet right on the edge. His balls were tight, pulled up high against his body, aching with the pressure of the super-seed building up inside him. Just as he felt the first tremors of a climax beginning to roll through his core, a muffled sound drifted through the door.

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