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Wholesome Clark Withholding Sex

He is handsome and wholesome, and is withholding sex. He waits. Isn’t ready. Wholesome Clark needs to be comfortable.

His denial gets me so hot.  We go on chaste dates. Hold hands while walking by the lake. At dinner with his brother and girlfriend, he’ll play footsie with me under the table. Always innocent, never quite enough. Occasionally allowing a hand to rest on my thigh, thumb stroking me in circular motions that I ever so deeply want to radiate outwards towards my pleasure centers.

But they don’t, and he knows that I want it, but doesn’t give it. He’s withholding sex, and it permeates everything we do. He thinks it’s too early. That we don’t know each other well enough. We’ve known each other for 5 years now. But who am I to trifle with his boundaries?

He’s slow with sex but fast in other ways. One night in his house that he’d bought by 21, we’re sitting on the couch as he plays guitar and sings to me in sweet tenor. He taught himself to play the guitar over 10 years. He had his pilot’s license by age 18. His own house at 21.

And here he is, a few years older than I am, playing hard to get.

Clark likes the way I look at him, as though he’s the center of my attention. As though everything he says is important. I think he knows if he gives me what I want I’ll lose interest and meander on down the road of life. But now, with what I want withheld, I’m stuck. Fixed. Held under the power of withholding sex.

Excruciating hours go by, before, in his bed, shirts off, he sets a boundary.

“Only above the waist.” 

I admire his torso like I have no other man’s, kissing it and stroking it in every way possible over an hour. He flips me onto my stomach and caresses my back, from the top of my skull to the base of my tailbone. For an hour and a half, he lightly brushes his fingers across my skin, following contours, looping, changing, present, focused. His touch is mesmerizing and enchanting and oh so evocative.

I am dripping wet. Desperate. Whimpering. I don’t want him to stop but my cunt is crying out for him. 

His withholding sex turns me on so deeply it creates an imprint that still lingers, whenever a man comes up to me from behind. 

It’s hard to walk out of the room. It’s hard to drive home.

Clark challenges me, physically. He takes me on hikes, runs, and more. He loves outdoor stuff and knows that it’s slightly beyond my reach, and that his presence and company is carrot enough to get me off my ass and moving and laughing. I’ll always remember sliding my way across a raging river yards above on a rusty pipe bridge, hugging it for dear life while cursing him for pushing me.

Years before this I remember stalking Clark. Looking through his windows at night in the middle of the winter. Accidentally stepping through ice into frozen ditch water and getting one leg wet and freezing from the knee down. 

Having the ultimate early teenage crush, but unable to confess. He even forgives me when I finally tell him about the relatively innocent stalking. All I saw was him playing guitar. Preparing food. This was the nineties. Now it is five years later. Still the nineties.

We see each other on and off for about a year, after flirting (and stalking) for so many more. Yet still in that year we don’t have penetrative sex, or even really oral sex.

When he finally stops withholding sex it is bittersweet.

We already know that the relationship is doomed. I’ve grown out and beyond and into some other fascinations, and he is still living in my hometown, in the same house, doing the same things. The house, business, and pilot’s license aren’t that impressive without new accomplishments to add to the kit.

Clark is visiting me at grad school, his first time in Los Angeles. He’s well out of his accomplished element. No house, no planes, no business of his own. He does take me to eat at Spago, which is fun, but reveals how sheltered he has been in the newness of the experience for him.

At the time, this status matters to me, and my interest slips. For the first time, he wants me more than I want him. 

It changes everything.

One sunny Los Angeles afternoon we are kissing on the floor. I’ve never felt him push for sex before and don’t expect it, even though this visit we’ve been “going further” than we usually did. There have been orgasms. I have tasted his come. 

We are kissing, as I said, on the floor. Deeply. We’re lying on the brown, shabby carpet of a student housing apartment renovated just a little less than all those apartments that aren’t for students, and lived in just a little more.

I wonder if he’ll stop kissing, but he doesn’t, he keeps kissing me, starting the kiss anew when I break away. He is stroking me, his hands aren’t teasing. He is sliding them down my torso, thrusting his tongue into my mouth as he shoves his hand down my pants.

I gasp. I’ve never felt him like this.

“You like that?” he asks. 

“Yesssss.” I hiss.

He finds the top of my underwear and has his finger on my clit in no time. My body rings with shock, this new man inside wholesome Clark who is not withholding sex. He rolls on top of me, pinning me to the floor.

He smells clean and his breath carries the slight scent of mint.  Clark rubs my clit firmly but gently, in tiny circles, quickly, ruthlessly making me come twice in a row. My head jerks back against the carpet, his body absorbs the rest of the tremors from my orgasms.

“I want you.” he says, pulling me to my knees and ducking out of his shirt and dropping pants to show me his rock hard, uncut cock bobbing at my eye level. 

I pause. Did I hear him? 

So much frustration. Banging my fists on the floor sobbing levels of frustration. Years of teasing and riling and slowly building heat. And now, so simply…

“I want you.” he repeats. 

He doesn’t need to say it thrice. I grab a condom. I catch his eyes as I put it on. He puts one hand on the base of his cock to hold the skin back and runs the other through my hair, tilting my head backwards as I put the condom onto him.

I fall backwards as much as he pushes me and his face is now an inch from mine and I feel him running the tip of his cock from the top of my crack, over my clit, looking for where he can enter me. 

He noses the tip of his cock into my pussy while pushing the hair from my face, holding my head and looking into my eyes, deeply, as he gives me just the tip, just the slightest pressure.

Wholesome Clark is withholding sex again. Making me beg for it.

“Please.” I say, not knowing what else to say.

“I’m here.” he says, pushing just slightly more into me. I can feel every wrinkle in the condom at the entrance to my pussy. 

He applies pressure, not in strokes, but in slow pushes, finding new opening with each one. And then he pulls out again, teasing, smiling, kissing. He looks into one of my eyes, than the other, pushing the head of his cock deeper until he finds resistance. Then he stops. Kisses me again. Pulls out. Repeats.

My brow furrows. I want him inside me. Is he withholding sex even now?

“Clark.” I moan. He hears the frustration, and though he could still tease me for hours and get away with it, he doesn’t.

He’s shallow still, but on the next thrust he doesn’t pull back. He slides his hard cock deep inside me until it will not go any further, and stops.

“Zoe.” he says, looking me in the eyes, still. I feel him, full, hard, inside me. 

Waves of intense, deep longing radiate out from my cunt across my body, leaving heat in their wake. I pull him to me for a kiss and with it he gives me a stroke, long, luscious, careful, and deep. I sigh and relax into him.

And then he is fucking me. Clark is not withholdding sex. He’s not holding back. I feel him cast off all the restraints he’s put on sex with me. It has taken years for him to be ready to fuck me. And now he is. Ready. Willing. Wanting. He wants to fuck me 100 percent, and I realize in this moment that I have never felt that from a man before. Full commitment to the fuck.

He fucks me in strokes that seem to have no beginning and no end, long, adagio, pacing. Peaks building in him. His breath comes harder, little moans as his dick hits deep.

And then he catches himself, and slows down. I wrap my arms around his torso and my legs around his ass and push him deeper, looking up into his eyes. We both know that this is our first and last fuck.

“It’s me.” he says as he thrusts into me. “Clark.” 

He pulls out slowly, but not completely, keeping the suction and connection, and then thrusts all the way back in.

It’s me – Clark, I’m inside you.” he whispers into my ear. “I’m inside you, Zoe.” 

The next morning Clark flies back to our hometown and this is the last I see of him one on one. About a decade later he sends me a photo of him with his first and only child, just after he is born. 

Clark and I have a large body of mutual friends, and so we do see one another again.

We see each other at two weddings in our hometown and flirt deliciously at both. The first wedding he brings his wife and child, so the flirting occurs in the margins, but the second one he does not, and is there alone, and I am wearing no bra. I have a drink in my hand and wholesome Clark still has never tasted alcohol and it is about twenty years since Clark has been inside me.

We chase each other around the hotel grounds like teenagers. He challenges me physically, getting me to climb things and run places, just as we always have. During conversations with old friends, he comes up and stands directly behind me, so close I can feel his breath on my shoulder and brushes of his chest on my back as he breathes.

And yet, even when we are caught together alone in the elevator and he presses the stop button to tease me more, standing face to face, giggling and clearly aroused and at the point in our lives where this opportunity for alone time comes once a decade – we do not fuck

Perhaps I have finally learned that good old wholesome Clark is way hotter when he is withholding sex.

A few months later, I slept with a door-to-door salesman

And then just a few months after that, I hooked up with a guy 20 years older


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