Summary: What's a boy like Clark to do when he needs money for college?
Warnings: Rated NC-17. m/m.
It hadn't seemed like such a big deal when Clark had made the decision. He needed money, needed it bad--college textbooks and grande lattes didn't exactly come cheap--and this gig certainly paid better than the alternative, a part-time job reshelving books at the library. Not to mention, his friend Veronica had a friend Sarah who knew a girl, Monique, and she'd done it. "Private fantasy fulfillment," she'd called it. "You do what the client wants for the camera. It's all anonymous and completely private. Nothing ever winds up on the Internet. If you're interested, all you have to do is fill out some forms and audition, and you're set."
She'd talked about it like it was nothing, just another way to make money, no different from washing cars or answering phones. Now that Clark was actually at Passionate Productions, in the owner's private office, applying to be some rich person's celluloid wet dream, marking little checkboxes whether he would or would not be willing to perform felching (whatever that was), he had to seriously wonder about Monique.
"Okay, kid. Let's see what we've got here." The owner of Passionate Productions--Mikey Bilasco, but everybody calls me Mick--took Clark's paperwork and looked it over, his lips pursed.
"Oral sex, yes. Bondage and submission, yes. Topping, yes. Bottoming, no," the man read aloud, making Clark want to disappear under the desk. "Not the most adventurous applicant I've ever seen, but enough to work with. So go ahead and get your clothes off, and let's have a look at you."
Clark's cheeks burned, the reality of it hitting him hard. "Um--"
Mick sighed. "Monique did tell you the deal, right?"
Clark cleared his throat. "Yeah. Um, but-- Should I just-- right here?"
"Right here, kid. Anytime now would be good, too." He tapped his pencil on the desk, a harsh, staccato that unnerved Clark even more.
Don't think, just do it. That had been his mantra all the way over here, and he did his best to turn off the "what the hell are you doing" part of his brain and just concentrate on the immediate task at hand. Kick off shoes. Undo buttons. Slip out of shirt. Unzip pants. Shuck off underwear. Getting naked in five easy steps.
"Okay, stand out here in the middle of the room." Mick got up from his desk and circled around him, checking him out from every angle.
Don't think about the fact that he's looking at your dick, don't think about the fact that he's looking at your dick, Clark begged himself.
Finally the man said, "Well, kid, I've got to hand it to you. You do have some huge natural talent there." He stared pointedly, and it was impossible not to think about the fact that he was looking at Clark's dick. "Let's get some pictures. Put you in the catalog. See what happens."
He pulled a digital camera out of a desk drawer and motioned Clark back against the wall. "Do something sexy."
Clark stared at him in dismay.
The man sighed. "Well, at least look like you've actually had sex before." He frowned. "You have had sex, right??"
"Yes!" Clark said, feeling rather huffy.
Okay, so maybe only a couple of really awkward hand jobs and some less-than-successful head with his first-year roommate, but that counted as sex! The Sex: Read It Before You Do It brochure he'd gotten in his freshman orientation kit said so.
Mick sighed again. "Well, do the best you can."
Clark concentrated on trying not to look like he wanted to cry, and Mick snapped away, taking what must have been a good two dozen shots of him.
"Okay," he said at last. "That's probably as good as we're going to get. And some people do go for the scared virgin look."
Clark wanted to say something back, toss off a biting retort, but it was hard to be sarcastic when you were butt naked. He settled for simply scrambling back into his clothes.
"I'll give you a call when somebody's interested," Mick told him, as he was scuttling shamefaced out the door.
He went home and had been in his dorm room exactly two minutes when Veronica called.
He told her, leaving out the virgin remark and some of the more humiliating details.
"Long story short, I got the job," he told her. "Well-- if someone picks me out of the catalog."
"Oh, they will. I'm sure they will. That's so cool, Clark! I knew you could do it," she gushed enthusiastically, as if he'd just told her he'd made the Dean's list.
"He looked at my dick," Clark complained.
"Really? That's so surprising coming from a pornographer."
He didn't have to see her to know she was rolling her eyes.
There was a part of Clark that really never expected to hear from Mick again, that even hoped he wouldn't. It was counterbalanced by the part of him that paid the bills and knew if Mick didn't call he was going to be in some serious trouble.
In the end, necessity won out.
"You've got a prospect, kid," Mick said when he called. "He'd like to have a preview. It's something I do for my better customers, a courtesy, to help the client decide if you really fit their fantasy. I don't get paid for it, so you won't, either. But the guy who's interested in you is a big tipper--the biggest, actually--and this is a chance to get in good with him. So what do you say?"
Clark swallowed hard. A million excuses zipped through his head. I've got a big test to study for and my long-lost uncle is visiting me and there's this really ugly cold sore on my lip.
"When you do want me there?"
"Saturday evening at eight. This is a big opportunity, kid. Don't blow it."
When Clark got to the Passionate Productions office on Saturday night, Mick seemed even more nervous than he was, which was really rather unsettling.
He met Clark at the door and hurried him down the hall. "The client's already here. He doesn't have much time. You can change in here." He pushed Clark into an empty dressing room. "He wants you nude. You can put that on." He pointed out a robe on a hook. "You're in Studio 3. That's the third door on the right."
"Wait," Clark said. "You mean you won't be there?"
Mick shook his head. "It's always just the client and the talent. Cameras are set up to operate automatically."
"But what--" He was starting to panic.
"He just wants to get a look at you," Mick assured him. "Maybe he'll ask you to jerk off. It shouldn't be anything too complicated. Just do what he says, and you'll be fine. None of this is exactly rocket science."
There were about a hundred other questions Clark would have liked to ask--who was this guy, was Clark supposed to let him touch him, what if he asked for things Clark had specifically said he didn't want to do--but Mick was already halfway back to the reception area, no doubt on his way to greet another client.
Clark fumbled his way out of his clothes, so nervous it felt like he was trying to undress with oven mitts on his hands. He pulled on the robe, sashed it tightly around his waist, ignoring the fact that he would just have to unsash it again in about two minutes, and peaked outside.
The corridor was empty, and he walked quickly. Something about being caught wandering around in a bathrobe embarrassed him terribly. The linoleum floor was cool beneath his feet, solid and reassuring, and he tried to concentrate on that.
"Just close your eyes and think of paying your student activity fees," he told himself as he opened the door.
An almost painfully bright glare hit him in the face. Even after his eyes had a chance to adjust, he couldn't really make out anything past the circle of pole lights, the rest of the room obscured in blackness. The irony didn't escape Clark, that he could see through five feet of concrete and was at the mercy of simple darkness.
"Good evening," a voice said from the shadows.
Clark started. He hadn't even realized the man was already there.
"Remove your robe, please."
The man's tone was flawlessly polite, but there was a hard note of authority beneath the courtesy. This man didn't make requests, he gave orders, and he was used to being obeyed.
Clark did nothing to challenge that expectation. He meekly slipped out of his robe, laid it on the floor near him--the room was utterly empty, not even a chair--and he tried not to fidget as he waited for the next instruction.
The wait went on for quite some time, not even a sound from the other man, and the urge to cover himself with his hands grew almost irresistible. He'd tried to tell himself that this was no different than being naked in the locker room. But he was quickly learning that being someone's own personal peep show...well, that was actually a lot different.
At last, the man broke his silence. "Turn around. Slowly."
Clark did, but apparently not to the man's satisfaction.
"Slowly," he emphasized.
Clark took a deep breath and tried to mimic the slow mince he'd used back home to sneak into the house after curfew, once he'd figured out that super speed made a distinct whooshing sound that never failed to wake his parents up.
"Better," his faceless Svengali told him. After a few more slow-mo pirouettes, he let Clark stop. "Now I'd like you to do something for me."
Funny. Clark thought he'd already been doing something for him. Sarcasm probably wasn't the way to drum up business, though, so he kept to the safe choice of simply nodding.
"Good." No doubt he was always pleased to get his way. "Here's what I want you to do. I want you to take that big, gorgeous cock of yours in your hand and show me what you do when you're all by yourself."
Clark took in a shaky breath. "Okay."
For the first time since he'd made the big seventh-grade discovery about his dick and his hand and their mutual attraction for one another, the prospect of jerking off was genuinely unexciting. He did all the things he usually did to get himself going. Rubbed his thighs and pulled at the head and imagined his mother catching him, even though the fact that he fantasized about shit like that probably meant he had deep psychological problems. But his dick just lay there, giving off a definite "go away, kid, you're bothering me" vibe.
Clark started to sweat. He could feel the man watching, could imagine his impatience, and he manhandled his dick more desperately, hoping against hope that something would spark it to life. He finally even resorted to reaching behind himself and pushing a finger into his butt, something that embarrassed him so profoundly that he reserved it for only the horniest emergencies, a failsafe when he needed to get off good and fast.
And yet, his cock still flopped listlessly in his hand.
He had no idea how long his futile attempt went on, but at some length, the man said, "That's fine."
"I could do something else," Clark offered pitifully. "I could--" Nothing even remotely sexy came to mind.
There was the click of a door closing at the far end of the room, and Clark realized he was alone.
"Or I could just slink off in abject humiliation," he muttered under his breath.
It was two days later when he got the call he'd been dreading from Mick. There were just so many reasons to feel bad about himself. Not only had he suffered performance failure of the most spectacular variety, but he'd been a big coward about it, too. After the client had left him there, he'd run back to the dressing room, fudged on the promise he'd made his parents to never use his powers for anything but absolute emergencies, blurred back into his clothes, and waited until the reception area was empty to sneak out. Just the thought of having to tell someone, anyone, "I couldn't get it up," was more trauma than he could handle.
"Look, I'm really sorry about the other day," he began.
But Mick wasn't listening, "Congratulations, kid! We've got you booked for your first session. Same night, same time."
Clark squinted in consternation. "With someone else?"
"The same client." His tone seemed to imply it was a good thing Clark had such big natural talent, because he clearly wasn't going to get by on his brains. "Make sure you're on time. This client is a very important man. I cannot stress that enough. His time is very valuable."
"I'll be there," Clark said, trying not to be rankled by the implication that his time was comparatively worthless.
I'm just cranky, because, well, utter humiliation can do that to a person.
"See you then," Mick told him. "And Clark?"
"Whatever you did the other day, the client really liked it. So just keep doing it."
Clark spent the next five days fretting about that. Why would the client possibly want to see him again? It made no sense. Unless that was what got this sicko off, other guy's...inadequacy. Clark tortured himself imagining a repeat of his previous performance, or lack thereof, and the man taunting him about it, enjoying his limp-dicked misery. Was there such a thing as an impotence fetish?
He was even more rattle when he arrived at Passionate Productions this time than he had been the last. He felt downright queasy as he changed out of his clothes and into the robe, and tread heavily down the hall, taking small steps, trying to put off the inevitable for as long as possible.
It was the same studio, but today there was a camera and...a bed, huge and round and dolled up for sin with cream-colored satin sheets and enough pillows to make an entire harem comfortable.
"It's nice to see you again," the same voice said from the shadows. "Tonight, I'd like you on the bed."
Clark took a deep breath in a rather feeble attempt to relax and lay down, settling on his back.
There was an unnerving silence, and Clark didn't have to see the man to know what he was doing. He could feel his eyes moving over his body.
"You don't seem very comfortable," the man finally said.
"I, uh-- I wasn't really expecting you to ask for me again. Not after--" His face went scarlet. "You know. The other day."
"Why? Because you're not a shameless exhibitionist?" There was a smile in the words. "That's precisely why I did want to see you again. I enjoy a challenge."
Clark hoped so, because his cock was sending him the same "not tonight, I've got a headache" signals that it had the last time.
"Do you want me to," he swallowed hard, "try it again?"
"I'd like to hear you say it."
"Fine." Clark took a breath. "Do you want me to jerk off?"
Of course, the man couldn't just give a simple answer. "Is that what you feel like doing?"
How was he supposed to respond to that? This wasn't supposed to be about what he wanted.
"I see," the man said at last, dry humor in his voice. "That's all right. I'm very patient. You'll learn that. And, of course, there are so many other things we can do."
Clark hated to sound like he didn't have any imagination but, "Like what?"
"Talk, for instance."
"Talk?" Clark asked skeptically.
"You don't think I could find pleasure in that? Looking at you, listening to you..." he trailed off suggestively.
Clark's hand reflexively clenched and unclenched around the fancy sheet. "What should I talk about?"
"Why don't you tell me about your first sexual experience? I'm sure I'd enjoy hearing about that."
Clark hesitated. "You mean with another person?"
Experience was open to interpretation, after all.
"I assume you followed the predictable wet-dream route to masturbation, so yes, with another person."
"It was kind of embarrassing, actually."
"Tell me." He sounded interested.
Clark took a deep breath. "Well, there was this girl. The girl next door, I guess you could call her. And I really liked her. A lot. Anytime I was near her..."
"She had an effect on you," the man helped him out.
"A unique one." Blinding pain from Lana's meteor rock necklace combined with a raging hard-on anytime she smiled at him. Clark was sure he'd probably be fucked up from that for the rest of his life. "I never told anyone this before, but I went to the drug store one time and opened up every brand of shampoo just to find the one she used. I used to keep a bottle next to my bed and--" His cheeks burned to remember. Thank God high school didn't last forever.
"So what happened with Miss Unique?" the man prompted.
"Well, it was senior year, and we went on our class picnic to Hanging Rock. All the kids were climbing up to the top to look out, and La-- um, this girl was just ahead of me. I was, um-- eager to see her as always, and near the top she lost her footing and started to fall and I caught her. And when I did--" He held out his hands, the palms curved upward. "They were just right there. I'd never touched a girl's boobs before. I'd never touched a girl at all. And. Well--" He looked down at the sheet. Why had he started telling this story again? "I came in my pants." He sighed. "Actually, she didn't really talk to me after that."
"So Miss Unique wasn't the love of your life then?" Clark had expected the man to get a good laugh at his expense, but his tone was perfectly serious.
"No. I figured out why the first time I had actual, you know, sex-sex. You want to hear about that?"
"If you're comfortable telling me."
He smiled wryly. "Talking to someone you can't see is kind of like talking to yourself."
"Then tell yourself all about it," the man said with obvious amusement.
Clark was in the flow of storytelling now, and he shifted into a more comfortable position, on his stomach, head propped up on the pillow. "It was with this other girl. We were good friends, and she had kind of a crush on me, but I just never--"
"You didn't think of her that way."
He shook his head. " Still, we did go to the prom together. Just as friends. But afterwards she wanted to-- She said it was a tradition. I didn't want to take advantage of her. I mean, we were friends. But she said she knew how I felt about La-- you know, the other girl, and she didn't care. And just to shut up already and have sex with her."
"And how was it?"
"Um..." He sighed. "Not too good. I didn't expect it to be so hard. I mean, just trying to get my-- into--" He let the man fill in the blanks. "Afterwards, I said I was sorry. And my friend said it was okay. That was what she got for making a repressed gay guy have sex with her."
There was a much-too-long moment of silence. "Was that how you found about yourself?"
Clark laughed. "Yeah. Not too bright, huh?"
"Sexuality is a confusing thing. How bright you are has nothing to do with it." The man seemed to choose his next words carefully, "I saw your form, of course. Clients do. It made me wonder how much actual experience you'd had with other men."
"Some," Clark insisted hotly. Why was everyone always trying to chalk him up as a hopeless virgin?
"Care to be more specific?"
"You know," Clark mumbled. "Hands. Mouths."
"But you've never been fucked?" It wasn't really a question. "I found that quite interesting. You marked that box 'no' on the form, and yet the other day you fingered yourself without even being asked to."
Clark felt the heat rush to his face. "It's not--"
"No, of course not. It's not the same at all. And yet...." His voice was silky, and he let the words hang there in the air, and Clark's heart pounded while he waited for him to finish. "I'll bet you fantasize about it, don't you? When you're touching yourself like that. How it would feel if it was something else--"
Clark sucked in his breath. "God!" He was instantly, painfully hard.
"Turn over," the man ordered.
Clark rolled onto his back, letting the man see him, his needy dick curving toward his belly. Knowing that he was looking made him even harder.
"I can-- I can do what you want now," Clark said shyly.
There was more than a hint of smugness in the man's answer, "Oh, you already have. We're finished for tonight. I'll see you next week."
The man's agenda seemed to have no rhyme or reason. It was insidious that way. Sometimes they would just talk, not always about sex stuff either, but often life stuff. Clark's classes. His goals, the grand ones that he didn't usually confide in people, searching for the Truth and winning Pulitzer Prizes and writing stories that really mattered to people.
"Those are very noble aspirations," the man told him. "I expect big things from you one day."
Other times, though, it was all about the sex. The man knew how to talk dirty, that was for sure. He would tell Clark things he'd like to do to him, ways he'd imagined him.
"I picture you in your virginal teen-boy bed, alone at night, or even better in the afternoon after school, door locked, hoping no one knocks, no one's listening. Your clothes are flung on the floor, and you've got your pillow under your hips, face pressed into the mattress, biting it to keep from making noise that will give you away, pumping and pumping, your legs parted just enough to catch a glimpse of..."
He'd go on and on like that, and Clark would do what came naturally, over and over.
His problems with having a shy dick were history, as was any pretense of modesty. Sometimes, just the sound of the man's voice was enough to make him hard. It wasn't that he didn't notice, either, how the man used his responses to his advantage. He was well aware that the directives were becoming more specific, more commanding, more pornographic each session. Spread your legs wider and I want you on your belly and Let me see your face when you come. It was hard to really object, though, when he had his wet fingers in his ass and his hand around his cock and that voice that was a wet dream all its own whispering the most perfectly raunchy things.
The day the purple vibrator appeared, though, there was no order. "Use it. Don't use it. It's up to you."
It was a diabolical strategy, this freedom of choice thing. Clark ignored the toy at first, but the next session, there it was again, and the next time too, lying there so suggestively, making Clark unbearably curious. If just a finger in his ass made him feel like every nerve in his body had just been shorted out, what would that thing do to him? On principle, it probably should have annoyed him, being manipulated that way--by a veritable master of the art it seemed--but it was hard to really mind after he'd given it a try and come like a tomahawk missile.
There was one thing, though. One thing that bugged him. Something he didn't even notice for an embarrassingly long time, not until after he'd replayed their sessions in his head again and again, usually with his hard dick in his hand, so many times that it wasn't just a narrative anymore, but a parade of actual sense memories, the glare of lights so real it made his eyes water, the man's excited breathing so clear Clark's heart pounded. That's when he'd realized. That he'd smelled arousal from the other man, but never the tellingly intense scent of completion.
The man had watched Clark...do all those things, all those times, and he'd never once come. Frankly, it pissed him off.
So much that he just blurted it out during their next session, "You never get off."
At the time, he had the purple vibrator up to the hilt in his ass, so it was a true testament to just how much this bothered him.
"You make it sound like an accusation." The man seemed to be laughing at him, and that just incensed Clark.
"What is the point if I don't turn you on?" he demanded.
"Oh, you turn me on," the man assured him. "Very much."
"So what then? You just don't want there to be any actual evidence of it?"
"I simply prefer to delay gratification. It makes it all the more rewarding when it finally comes."
Clark rolled his eyes. He wasn't quite the wide-eyed rube people took him for. The man might have convinced himself that it was an Olympic-caliber achievement in self-restraint to beat off to a video at home instead of doing it to the real thing, but Clark knew bullshit when he heard it.
"Why don't you stop being a coward and just come here and fuck me?"
There. He'd said it.
The man shot back, "Why don't you fuck yourself with that toy like you really mean it and show me how much you want my cock?"
Oh, that made him come all right, in spectacularly messy fashion, feet kicking out, sliding on the slick fabric of the sheets, spittle flying as he shouted out the obligatory obscenities. But it wasn't what he wanted, not really. Or, at least, not entirely.
The man waited for Clark to calm down before gloating, "I'd say my method does have some advantages, don't you agree?"
He was way too pleased with himself, and Clark had that prickly, too-sensitive feeling he got when he was still raw from orgasm.
"Fuck you!" he shouted, genuinely furious.
Then snatched up his robe and stomped out of the room.
The outburst did not result in immediate firing, as he'd feared once he cooled down enough to actually worry about the consequences. In fact, the only fallout was a change of props for their next session.
Mick met him outside the dressing room. "Special instructions," he explained when Clark gave him a puzzled look.
In the studio, the bed was gone, the room empty, save a chain with manacles at the end of it hanging from the ceiling.
"Here. Put this on." Mick handed him a blindfold.
His tone made it plain this wasn't something to question, and Clark had checked "yes" to the box for submission. He sighed and slipped the blindfold on. Mick adjusted it so it fit tightly across his face. It must have been lined with lead, because no matter how hard he strained his eyes, he couldn't see a thing. He took a brief swan dive into panic then, convinced the man somehow knew. For a long, dizzying moment, he couldn't even breathe. Then his rational brain kicked back in, thankfully, and he thought it through, asked himself how that could be possible. It had to just be a coincidence. Had to be.
"Okay, now there's one more thing," Mick told him. "Hold out your hands."
Cold metal closed around Clark's wrists, the cuffs locking with a sharp click. Mick walked away. A moment later, there was a loud cranking noise and a sharp tug on his arms. They were lifted above his head, so high he had to stand on his tiptoes.
"Your client will be right with you."
The door closed, and the only thing Clark could hear was his own heart. He waited, hanging there, for an incredibly long time--at least, it felt that way--and he was sure this was by design.
At last he heard something stirring, and demanded, "Is this supposed to be punishment for the other day?"
"Why would you think that?" the man asked disingenuously.
"Oh, I don't know," Clark said sarcastically, rattling the chain.
"The other day you wanted me to touch you." Clark heard one slow, deliberate step, then another, coming nearer. "Do you still want that?"
The effect of those words was immediate, no way to help or hide it, even if Clark would have preferred not to give the man the satisfaction of seeing him get ragingly hard.
The man laughed. "I'm guessing that's a yes." He was very close now. "But I'm not going to do anything unless you ask for it. Unless you're sure."
The most galling thing about these minds games was that Clark could rip the chain right out of the ceiling, snap the cuffs like they were made of paper, turn the tables, put his hands all over the mystery man, make him beg. Only he couldn't do that either, and it was more frustrating than actual helplessness.
"I'm sure, fuck you!" he snapped. "Please!"
The man laughed again, "Well, since you asked me so nicely..."
He came closer still, so close that Clark could feel the heat of his body. He trembled, his breathing ragged with excitement, every muscle, every nerve straining with anticipation. The touch when it finally came, a single finger gliding across his chest, made him shudder uncontrollably. It also made him want to seriously hurt the man, a leather glove separating him from the honesty of skin that he craved so badly.
"You fucking bastard!" he yelled.
"Does that mean you don't like it?" the man asked innocently.
He traced a gloved finger in torturous circles around Clark's nipple.
"I hate you!" Clark screamed at him.
The man pressed a kiss to his shoulder, whispered in his ear, "That's not what your body tells me."
He busied himself learning everything Clark's body had to say, sliding his leather-covered hands over Clark's arms and chest, his legs and belly and back. The message in Clark's response was clear: Touch me, fuck me, do anything you want, just don't stop.
"You're such a fucking control freak," Clark said through clenched teeth, some last vestige of pride not wanting to give in to the pleasure.
The man pressed himself against Clark's back, rubbed his hands down Clark's thighs. "Of course. Otherwise, we wouldn't be here."
"Does this make you feel like a big man?" he demanded.
"I don't think I can put into words, not to do it justice anyway," the man said, as if considering the matter very seriously, "how it feels to have this magnificent body under my control, to do with just as I please."
There was no warning. The man's hand closed around Clark's cock, the other cupping his balls, and Clark screamed, the intensity of the sensation almost too much to take.
The man's breath was hot against his ear. "You have no idea how it feels. That I can make you respond like this. Make you grunt and tremble and beg. Knowing it's not a well-rehearsed show. That it's not because of who I am. You have no idea."
His hand moved faster, with more erotic intent, and Clark whimpered. Deep, wracking tremors shot through his body, his legs shaking so hard he was afraid they might not hold him up.
"God! Please!" he begged, no pride left. "Please!"
"Yes," the man whispered, and Clark could feel the press of his erection through wool trousers against his ass. "I love making you want things you didn't think you would."
Clark could feel the orgasm building, that final, uphill climb.
The man kissed his neck. "I love making you do this."
He plunged two fingers into Clark's ass, roughly jacked his cock. Clark thought he knew all about orgasms, garden-variety ones that took the edge off, the really melting, bone-deep ones that made you drool, but this...well, it was orders of magnitude beyond anything he'd ever imagined.
The first thing he was aware of when he finally resurfaced was the man's arm around his waist, holding him up, the touch of his lips, skimming over his neck.
"You're so fucking beautiful," the man muttered.
"Let me down," Clark said, still panting. "Let me make you feel good."
He could feel the man's smile on his skin. "You already have."
"Please!" He shook the chain desperately. "Let me touch you."
The man pressed one last kiss to his neck. "I'll see you next week."
"Fuck you!" Clark shouted as he walked away. "Fuck you and your fucking Machiavellian sex game bullshit!"
The man's laugh wafted over to him from the other side of the room. "Shouldn't the orgasm of your life have put you in a better mood than this?"
The door closed, but Clark didn't care that the man wasn't there to hear him. He kept right on cursing until Mick finally came and let him down.
Clark's mystery man never failed to surprise him. The next session he found the chains gone, the bed restored. The only reminder of the week before was the blindfold, neatly laid out on a pillow.
"Put it on," the man instructed him and then amended, "please."
Clark obeyed without a word and stretched out on the bed. All week, he'd reminded himself why he was doing this in the first place: It's just about the money, just about the money. If the man wanted to act out petty power struggles with him, why should he care?
"You're quiet today," the man remarked.
There was a distant rustling that Clark couldn't quite decipher and then more stillness.
When the man spoke again, he was close, near the foot of the bed. "I take it you weren't completely satisfied with how things went last week. That you were expecting something else."
"You know I was," it slipped out, with more vehemence than he meant to betray.
Why couldn't he just treat this as a job? Why did have to keep acting like a co-dependent idiot caught up in a dysfunctional relationship? What was wrong with him?
"Well, we can't have that," the man said. "It would be bad for my reputation if word ever got out. I am known for giving complete satisfaction."
The bed dipped, and Clark's heart started to beat harder.
"Now there's just one thing I need you to do for me." He took Clark's wrists in his hands and pulled them up toward the headboard, and Clark instinctively took hold of it. "Don't let go."
He shifted his weight, his leg brushing Clark's.
Shit! That was bare skin he'd felt. The man was naked. On the bed with him. Promising to touch him.
"Exactly what I intend to do," the man's voice dropped into the gravelly range of unmentionable things, "please you."
He laid one hand flat on Clark's chest in the space between his nipples, no glove, just skin and skin, at last. Clark tightened his grip on the bed and prayed it wouldn't splinter in his overeager hands. The man gave him everything he'd held back the other night, his mouth everywhere, hands plucking and probing and teasing, body stretched over Clark's, moving against him. He tried to memorize every detail, not that it told him much. The man was thin, strong all over, his skin smooth and warm, and, God, how Clark would dearly have loved to touch it.
The tip of the man's tongue flicked against his nipple, circled around it in lazy circles, and then sucked hard, making promises of things to come with his lewd mouth.
"So...what else can I do for you?" he asked, as if it weren't perfectly obvious what Clark's body was begging for.
"Say it. I like to hear it."
"Suck me. It's--" He couldn't find words equal to his urgency and had to settle for, "It's what I want."
The man kissed his belly, making him tremble. "It's what I want, too."
The other blowjobs Clark had received had been quick and dirty, the other guy going down in a frenzy and gobbling him up. This was...something else entirely, a fine art of torture. It took a while before Clark could even be sure it had begun. There would be a tantalizing puff of breath on his sensitive flesh, and then nothing, over and again, until every fiber of pleasure in his body was strained and waiting. Even then, the man wasn't in any hurry. He leisurely tongued the folds of the foreskin, for who knew how long, before finally stretching his mouth around the head and taking it inside.
"Fuck! Yeah!" Clark bucked up so eagerly he actually came off the bed, trying to push into that hot, teasing mouth.
The man held down his hips, refusing to be rushed, continuing to drive Clark slowly, surely insane. He lightly stroked his fingers over Clark's hole, tantalizing but not penetrating him. Clark arched his back, thrust his hips in a desperate frenzy, and the man let him, stroking his thighs. So good, and Clark wanted more, wanted to pound into the man's mouth, but when he thrust again, the man moved just out of reach, only the tip of Clark's cock lingering on his lips.
"Fuck you!" Clark shouted in frustration.
It went on and on like that, Clark desperately trying to fuck his mouth, the man sometimes letting him, sometimes not. Finally, when Clark was completely undone, to the point where there the only logical conclusion was either tears or violence, the man swallowed him, making him scream, and let him go wild, let him use his mouth as fast and hard as he wanted right up to the end.
Afterwards, Clark lay wilted, utterly spent, used up in a way that was more than physical.
The man was still there, beside him, watching. "So gorgeous." His voice was strained, and the bed started to shake, and Clark quickly understood why. "I could watch you for the rest of my life, and never get tired of it."
"Let me touch you." He was still clutching the headboard, and the thing was: he could just let go. He could reach over and take what he wanted, nothing on Earth to stop him, except these mind games, and that was the problem. They were more insidious than he'd ever realized, the rules seeping into him, until they were inviolable.
"So fucking gorgeous," the man muttered, his breath coming in ragged gasps, the scent of his arousal heavier and sharper, the fleshy slap increasingly frantic.
"At least let me see you," Clark made one last-ditch plea.
The man went perfectly still. He didn't cry out, but a second later, Clark felt the soft fall of come on his belly.
He expected the man to just get up and go when he was done, but he was unpredictable as ever. He climbed onto Clark, straddling him, and leaned in for a kiss, the taste of Clark's come still bitter in his mouth.
"Aren't you going to say 'fuck you'?" he asked, sounding both satisfied and amused.
Clark shook his head, and the man kissed him again, kissed him a lot. At last, he slid from the bed, and Clark could hear the pad of bare feet across the floor. He let go of the headboard, got up and pulled his robe on mechanically.
All the way back to the dressing room, he struggled to figure it out, but in the end, he really didn't know why. He just knew this wasn't fun anymore.
It was the week before midterms, and the library was a mad house. Clark pushed his cart long down the long row of stacks, stifling a yawn, trying to resist the urge to check his watch yet again. No more than five minutes had passed since the last time he'd looked, he was pretty sure, and that wasn't going to make quitting time come any sooner. He checked the numbers on the end of the shelf, wheeled halfway down the row, stopped and let out a heavy sigh. This section was always a wreck. Who knew those environmental science majors were such animals?
He got into a mindless groove, restocking the shelves, his thoughts drifting far away, so he almost leaped out of his skin when someone tapped him on the shoulder.
"Hey," Veronica said, not the least bit concerned that she'd just startled him witless.
"You've really got to stop doing that," he told her, for what had to be the millionth time. "You're going to give me a heart attack one of these days."
"I have faith in the strength of your grain-fed constitution," she said distractedly before getting to the real point of her visit, "So did you know this fascist establishment you work for won't let me check out any more books? Just because I owe them a few measly bucks in fines. I was hoping you could work a little magic for me and make it all go away." She smiled winningly.
He glanced over at his cart o' menial labor. "I'm afraid I don't exactly have that kind of power."
"What good is this job then?" She sighed dramatically. "By the way, I saw Sarah yesterday, and she told me that Monique had gotten out of the personal fulfillment biz, too."
"Really? She always seemed so gung-ho about."
"Apparently, she kept getting this guy who wanted her to dress up in footie pajamas and read Goodnight, Moon to a teddy bear. She seemed to think it was retroactively ruining her childhood."
"I can see that," Clark said sympathetically.
"So, have you heard back yet about those scholarship applications?" Veronica asked.
"Not since you asked me three hours ago, no."
Clark still had a little porn money left after paying off his debts, but he was trying to get a jump on next year.
"You know you secretly enjoy me worrying about your financial solvency," Veronica insisted.
"It's such a big secret I don't even know it myself."
She whacked him on the arm. "I'd better be the first one you call when you do find out something."
It turned out to be a surprisingly short wait. When Clark got home, the phone was ringing.
"Clark Kent? This is April Valentine from the Financial Aid office."
"Um...I think maybe you got the wrong student. I paid off the last of my balance a couple of weeks ago."
"Financial Aid, dear. Not the Bursar's office. I'm calling to let you know that you've been selected to receive a full scholarship from the Luthor Foundation, beginning next semester and continuing until you matriculate."
"Wow! I can't believe it. That's great news. That's--" He frowned.
Had he applied for a Luthor Foundation scholarship? There were so many, and they did tend to run together in his mind, but he really didn't remember it.
"Are you sure about this?"
The lady ignored his question. Perhaps she was used to dealing with students who couldn't believe their luck. "Now, I know it's rather late notice. We somehow left your name off the list when we originally did our notifications, but there's a reception tonight at Luthor Towers for all the scholarship recipients. It starts promptly at eight, and you should really try to wear something presentable."
"Tonight?" Clark asked, startled.
"Full scholarship. Free dinner. Is there a problem, dear?"
"Well, when you put it like that--"
"Great!" she said brightly. "I'll let the Luthor Foundation know they can expect you."
Clark hung up and speed-dialed Veronica.
"Quick! I have a clothing crisis. I need your help."
"Oh, my God!" she squealed. "You've finally come to your senses about plaid. I'll be right over."
Inside, though, he was greeted politely at the desk. "Good evening, Mr. Kent. You're expected. You can go right up."
Even the elevator was lavish, gleaming mahogany panels, crystal light fixture, a bench covered with a gold velvet cushion. Clark spent the few seconds it took to speed up to the penthouse resolving not to look like he's thinking "wow" all evening.
At the door, he was greeted by a servant wearing all black. "Let me show you to the living room, Mr. Kent. Mr. Luthor will be right with you."
He was left alone and wandered around the room, taking in the bright canvases on the walls, pictures he was pretty sure he'd studied in art history class, that sleek modern furniture that could have come from a museum, as well.
Clark was fidgeting like a nervous wreck when a man--Lex Luthor, Clark recognized him from the paper--came breezing into the room.
He could only hope his mouth wasn't hanging open. Lex Luthor was good looking in photographs, but in person? Wow.
They shook hands and exchanged introductions.
"Can I offer you something to drink?" Lex asked. "Soda? Water?"
"A Coke?" Clark said.
Lex went to the bar and fixed it, along with something alcoholic for himself.
"Here you are." He handed Clark the glass.
The man, Lex--it was hard to think of him like that, it seemed too forward-- made no effort to hide the fact that he was looking Clark over, and that was deeply unnerving. For the first time, it occurred to him to wonder where everyone else was.
"Am I early?"
Lex smiled and shook his head. "Right on time."
"The invitation was exclusively for our new scholarship recipients."
"You mean--" Clark frowned. "But I was sure they were other--"
"I like to give our scholarship holders personal attention, really get to know them, on an individual basis," Lex explained.
"Um...okay." Clark tightened his grip on his glass. Were rich people always so weird?
"So perhaps I could show you around?" Lex suggested. "There's a billiard room. I don't know if you play. Our aquarium has one of the most extensive collections of tropical fish in the city. I'd be happy to point out some of the more rare varieties. We also have a media room. I have some interesting videos we could watch together. I always enjoy a good film, don't you?
The way his inflection dropped on that last part of the sentence...oh, God! Clark knew that voice.
Lex took a step closer. "Well, do you enjoy it, Clark?"
Clark was impulsive anyway, and this was the kind of provocation anyone would be hard-pressed to ignore. Instinct took over, and he shoved Lex hard against the wall, sending their glasses flying, trapping Lex with his body.
He'd wanted this so much, for so long--jerked off night after night to the idea of it, the moment when he'd finally get his hands on his mystery man--and now that it had happened, he had the hardest time deciding what to do to him first.
Instinct had gotten him this far, and he rode it a little further, pressing his face into the sweet curve of Lex's neck, breathing him it. God! No one had ever smelled so good. He licked at the soft, thin skin right where the pulse beat, tasting warmth and salt, feeling the pounding rhythm of Lex's heart on his tongue. He bit down hard, intent on leaving a mark.
Lex gasped. There was the distinct scent of fear coming off him, and an even stronger wave of arousal, his dick hard against Clark's thigh. Just as sexy and fucked up as ever, and Clark wanted to tell him how it was going to be. I'm calling the shots now and I could fuck you right here for all the servants to see, and nobody could stop me and I'm going to make you beg, make you crawl.
He drew back, to say it, but the look on Lex's face made him stop. I dare you to and There's nothing you can do to me that somebody else hasn't done before and I won't even care when you leave. It was surprisingly telling, painfully so, and Clark let out his breath, loosened his grip. If they were going to get out of this power struggle and into bed, one of them had to stop acting like an ass.
There was a clear "what now?" look on Lex's face, and Clark did what felt right. He kissed him, again and again.
It took Lex some time to respond. When he finally did, he thrust his hands into Clark's hair and pulled him closer and bit his lip. "You fucking quit on me. I hate that."
Clark kissed him softly, his cheeks, his forehead, his lips, not quite an apology. "I just wanted to touch you, and you wouldn't let me." He took a step back. "Come on. Where's your bedroom?"
Lex hesitated, and Clark said very quietly, "Please?"
Lex's eyes were hot, electric, boring into him, searching his face for...who knew what.
Finally, he reached out and took Clark's hand. "Well, since you asked so nicely."
Clark smiled, and Lex pulled him down the hall. Maybe after they'd had sex a few dozen times, they could break out the video camera. Clark had some personal fantasies of his own he'd liked fulfilled.