Summary: Smallville/Pretender crossover. Miss Parker seeks
revenge against Lionel, but realizes the sins of the father shouldn't
be visited on the son.
Warnings: Rated NC-17. Light BDSM, m/f
Push a puppy away, and it will come back more determined to be petted. It was knowledge Miss Parker had often used to her advantage. Metaphorically speaking. Not that she made it a habit of kicking around small animals, no matter what people at the Centre might think. Not that Lex Luthor was particularly the puppy type, even if he was all of seventeen years old.
"Mind if I sit down?" He was already sliding onto the bar stool next to hers.
"It's a free country," she said, not giving an inch.
He ordered something called a Tornado that looked like an oil spill in a glass and made her think there was good reason why teenagers weren't supposed to drink.
"Can I get you another--"
"Scotch," she said, eyeing his oil spill distastefully.
"Scotch for the lady," he told the bartender, with a chivalrous lilt on the last word, as if he'd seen too many Cary Grant movies.
The bartender set the drink down in front of her, and she sipped at it, as if it were the only thing that existed, as if there were no boy sitting next to her eating her up with hungry eyes like she was something sticky and sweet he wasn't supposed to have.
She knew about his taste for older women, of course. Revenge was serious business, and she applied herself to it the way she did everything, with hard, single-minded focus. She'd done her research. He'd been thrown out of half a dozen prep schools, always for good reason. Most Friday nights, he could be found skulking around this bar, having perfected the art of slipping out from under the head master's watchful eye.
There had been pictures of him in the files, but it was different seeing him in real life. In the surveillance photos, he made her think of fundraising ads for children's hospitals, stick thin in his blazer and flannels, his pale, bare head all the more pronounced in the company of his horse-playing, pink-faced classmates with their unruly mops of hair.
In person, though, he was not sickly but sleek, skin so flawless it was almost unnatural, giving her the same urge to touch she might have felt about a statue in a museum, curious to know if he was as smooth as he looked. The thing that really caught her attention, though, that got lost in photographs, were his eyes, a blue so sharp they pierced like dangerous icicles.
"Did you know that men reach their sexual peak at nineteen? Women, on the other hand, don't really come into their own until their thirties."
She arched an eyebrow at him. "Oh, really?"
"Really. And you know what that means."
"I don't, actually."
"It means that you and I have a lot to offer each other. Statistically speaking."
"Is that right?"
"It is." He watched to see if he'd hit the mark, and when it was clear he hadn't, he brought out the big guns. "I'm Lex Luthor, by the way." He held out his hand.
"How nice for you," she drawled, letting the mockery hang in the air.
He turned just a little bit red as he pulled his hand back. Clearly, he wasn't used to being made fun of. That, she calculated, had just made her a great deal more interesting, hopefully interesting enough that he'd play right into her hands.
He bent over his drink, probably working on his next line, and she studied him out of the corner of her eye, searching for traces of his father in him. It was hard, though, to find evidence of a man so devious he'd tied the Centre in knots in a boy who carried his personal history in such an obvious way. It had been a freak accident, a meteor shower, she'd read, that had caused him to lose his hair. If she were a different kind of person, no doubt she would have felt bad for the kid.
He turned, looking her dead in the eye. "You're really beautiful, and I'd like to get to know you better." Apparently, he'd surmised that the direct approach was probably best.
She sipped her Scotch. "Thanks, but I'm not interested."
"Not yet, maybe." His smile was a study in charm. "But if you get to know me, that's bound to change."
"I've never been good with children. They bore me."
"That's okay." He leaned in confidentially. "I've actually never been a child."
"Is that so?"
He took a sip of his oil spill. "It is."
"That's very interesting, I'm sure." She slid her purse onto her arm. "But I'm going now."
When she slipped off the stool, he couldn't quite hide his disappointment. She was nearly to the door before she turned back.
It took a moment before his surprise transformed into a self-satisfied smile. He plunked down a wad of cash for the bartender and tried not to look like he was hurrying as he rushed to catch up with her.
Outside, the evening wind gusted, a slight chill in the air. There was an alleyway just on the other side of the bar, and she grabbed the boy by the wrist and pulled him into it, pushing him up against the wall. Light from a nearby streetlamp fell over him, and she liked the way he looked there, creamy and smooth against the rough bricks. He blinked at her, his mouth open in surprise, and she set on him, gobbling up his cotton candy lips. She could feel him getting hard against her thigh, and his breath mingled with hers in ragged little fits and starts.
No matter how world-weary he might pretend to be, he still tasted young.
He reached for her, one hand sliding inside her blouse, the other under her waistband, eager fingers trying to get at skin. She pulled off him and took a step back.
"What--" He breathed roughly, eyes sparkling with betrayal, the way teenaged boys always looked when an opportunity to get laid seemed suddenly snatched away from them.
"Let's go. My place."
She turned without waiting for an answer, but she had to smile at the sound of relief that came out of him. Boys and their desperate dicks. There were few things in life more dependable.
In the taxi, she didn't touch him, wouldn't let him touch her. Hot and cold, carrot and stick, that was the secret to keeping a man, or a boy for that matter, in the palm of your hand. By the time they reached the apartment building, the kid looked like his skin was pulled too tight. She slid out of the back seat and led him inside, confident she'd already won.
The apartment was in a luxury high-rise, generically opulent, virtually indistinguishable from a hundred other buildings in the city, just the way the Centre liked it. She and the boy rode up to the penthouse, and she showed him inside.
He set on her the second they were through the door, hands on her breasts, rubbing her nipples through the fabric of her blouse, mouth on her neck, hot breath against her skin.
"Whoa there, Tiger. What's the rush?" She slipped out of his arms, went to the bar, poured two glasses, handed him one.
"Scotch?" he asked.
"If you're going to drink, you should do it right."
He sipped at it tentatively, smiled at her and took a longer swallow--whether to please her or because he actually liked it she wasn't sure.
She ran the back of one polished nail down the length of his fly, feeling his cock jump at her touch. Scotch sloshed over the rim of his glass and ran down the side in a fine trickle.
"What did you say your name was again?" he asked.
"I didn't." She shrugged out of her jacket and let it fall to the floor. "Come on."
He followed her like a puppy to the bedroom, but stopped short in the doorway, not surprisingly. The sight of so much leather and steel and vulcanized rubber was bound to give anyone pause; there were arm and leg restraints fastened to the four posters of the bed, a tray of clamps and plugs conveniently located on the nightstand, an array of whips arranged in a cabinet on the wall, dildos of every size, including a purple one enormous enough to terrify an elephant.
He stared, paler than usual, but he kept his voice suave. "Quite an arsenal you have here."
"You like my toys?"
He darted a glance at her. "Well-- It's not really my thing."
She shrugged. "My mistake. I thought you liked playing grownup games." She undid the buttons of her blouse and tossed it aside.
He made some unintelligible answer, eyes locked on her breasts. She slipped out of her skirt and lingerie, letting him see all of her, before stalking over to him, looping her arms around his neck.
"Don't you think it's important to try new things?" she whispered in his ear.
She took his mouth before he could say anything, kissing him into submission. He held himself stiffly at first, almost as if he wanted to resist, like he might actually try to pull away. She ranged her hands over him, chest to back to belly, soothing away doubt with the teasing brush of her fingers. She could feel it when he gave in, leaning into her, the excited rush of his breath against her lips, as hesitation yielded to need. When she reached between their bodies and cupped his cock through his pants, he groaned out loud.
It was easy enough to coax him out of his clothes. She kept a hand on his cock, increasing the pressure when he took something off, lightening it when he seemed like he might stop. A grown man couldn't remember his own name when his dick was being played with; a horny teenager didn't stand a chance.
"Nice," she told him when he was finally naked.
It wasn't idle flattery. He was bare everywhere, reed thin but stronger than he looked in clothes, and all cock, long and thick and downright impressive.
"Why don't you go lie down for me, Tiger?" she purred against the side of his face.
He inhaled sharply, his cock jerking at the tease of her breath on his skin. She could feel him tremble, and he stared at her almost helplessly.
"Unless you're afraid, that is."
He lifted his chin, eyes sparking with defiance--a rebellious stance she could tell he a lot of experience with--and strode across the room the way his namesake might have marched into India. It amused Miss Parker, as it always did, that the secret to winning in life was to play a better game of chicken than your adversary.
"That's right," she crooned to him as he settled onto the bed. "Lie back. Get comfortable."
The problem with the point of no return, Miss Parker had often noticed, was that there was no mile marker, no neon sign, clearly pointing it out. More often than not, you didn't realize you were even close until you were staring at in the rearview mirror. The boy seemed to be having just this kind of revelation right now. She reached first for one wrist and then the other, left ankle, right ankle, fastening the cuffs, cutting off escape. His eyes flashed with doubt, but he didn't offer any resistance or even speak, a sort of stunned resignation on his face, as if he understood just how irrevocable all the small decisions had been that had led to this moment.
She paused for a moment to admire her handiwork. She liked the way he looked under her power, bare and splayed, trying not to tremble, cock flushed, already half hard, stiffening a little more with every touch, every flicker of her eyes over his skin. She strung a line of kisses up his belly, to his chest, licking at each nipple. He sucked in his breath, and she bit down, playfully. He started to breathe even harder.
"Like that?" she asked.
He licked his lips.
She smiled. "Then you're going to love this."
She reached for the tray on the bedside table. His eyes grew large when he saw the stainless steel clamps. She gave him the sweet smile that made people at the Centre see their lives flashing before their eyes and teased a nipple with her tongue and fingers until it was red and peaked. He gasped when she fastened the first clamp and again when she did the other. She toyed with them, and he moaned out loud. If he didn't actively enjoy pain, he was at the very least no stranger to it.
He stared up at her, eyes dark, all pupil. The expression in them might have been lust, might have been fear, and if she let it, sure to be a distraction. Conveniently, there were ways around that.
"Close your eyes."
She reached beneath the pillow, pulled out the blindfold she'd put there. She traced a thumb over the delicate skin of each eyelid, following the pale blue veins, slipped the blindfold on and fastened it tightly in place.
"No peeking," she murmured, feeling the surprised rush of his breath.
He licked his lips nervously. "Isn't it customary to pick a safe word?"
"I've never really been much for custom." She leaned in and whispered against his ear. "Or safety, for that matter."
She kissed him, as a distraction, just in case he surprised her by abandoning bravado in favor of good sense. She didn't need his cooperation, of course, but she liked the idea that when he thought back on this night, he'd realize he had only himself to blame. She licked at the little scar on his upper lip--it intrigued her, the only flaw in his otherwise perfect skin--then reached for a ball gag and pressed it to his mouth. For a moment, it seemed as if he might refuse and she'd have to force the issue, but then, for whatever reason, he gave in, let her do it, take away the last defense he had.
She tilted her head, trying to decide if she was finished. There were straps and rings and other contraptions she could use on him, but the day she needed help controlling a man's cock was the day she'd know that she'd lost her touch.
She slid off the bed, leaving him to wonder what she was going to do next, and went to sit on the sofa. She lit up a cigarette and stared into space as she blew puffs of smoke into the air. She had him, and she could do whatever she wanted. The prospect was too luscious not to take a moment and really savor it, her enemy's young son, cosseted and helpless and spread out just for her.
His muscles were tensely bunched, in anticipation, or perhaps dread, but he didn't fight against his restraints. It seemed the same stubborn streak of pride that had gotten him into this wouldn't allow him to show any weakness, either. His belly dipped deeply with every breath, the one sign of his fear, and yet his cock still rested against his stomach, wet at the tip. There weren't many men who could sustain an erection through terror, and it gave her an unwanted flash of pride in him that she refused to dwell on.
It had been five years since Lionel Luthor had gotten the better of her, but the humiliating sting of the memory made it seem as if it had happened only yesterday. The instances were rare when she let her appetites get the better of her. That's what people always expected from women--for some need, for love or sex or a good-girl pat on the head to derail them, make them lose their focus--and Miss Parker prided herself on never being what anyone expected.
She wasn't sure, even now, what made it different that time, whether it was the lush scent of gardenias in the Bahamian air or the way the sun seemed to wrap itself around her bones making her feel strong enough to live forever or how sweet Olivier's skin smelled, as fresh and warm as a line of laundry hung out to dry in the clean sea air.
Of course, she'd intended him to be a quick, bloodless fuck. What else would a waiter from the hotel restaurant be? When she'd pushed him down onto her bed, though, he'd smiled up at her with bottomless dark eyes, whispered some Creole sweet-nothing that she didn't understand and lazily worked his hand inside her bra, stroking the softness of her breast like he knew there was more to her than the sharp edges she showed the world.
They spent an entire weekend in bed--he didn't bother calling in sick, just shrugged as if it weren't important when she suggested it--and every time he kissed her, smiled, touched, tasted, entered her, it was as if he were truly inside.
She didn't realize the classified Centre documents she was carrying were even missing until she got back to Blue Cove. Then it was too late to do anything about it. Olivier would be long gone, retired on the proceeds of his treachery. It made her want to gouge his eyes out when she remembered how bad she'd felt that he might lose his job because of her.
When Lionel Luthor swooped in and acquired a biotech firm right from under the Centre's nose, it was clear who'd bankrolled her humiliation.
If she were anyone else's daughter, she would have been written off as a liability and dispensed with, in the permanent sense. Since she was her father's daughter, she was merely punished. Mr. Raines had delivered the verdict himself; she would have to start all over again, demoted back down to the rank of ordinary cleaner. It had taken three years to claw her way up from the basement, making it back to the safe haven of the corporate division only to have it snatched away from her again when Jared went missing. She had to wonder if that was part of her punishment too, sending her out on this maddening quest.
Lionel Luthor had taken more than just some documents from her, and now she had something of his, quid pro quo. And she could do anything. The room was wired for sound, lined with hidden cameras. She had a miniature 35mm camera in her purse if she wanted to add her own personal flair to the Luthor family humiliation. And if none of that was enough, if she needed to work out her rage in a more direct fashion, there was a whole team of Centre operatives she could call in, who would happily violate her nemesis' heir, in every conceivable way, and consider it a fringe benefit of the job.
She went to stand at the foot of the bed, to enjoy the possibilities. She could. She really could. Do anything.
Only--and it was a recognition she really didn't want to have--she'd be doing it to the wrong person, the fatal flaw in her plan.
"Fuck!" she cursed under her breath.
She'd known it all along, if she were really honest with herself. Research wasn't always your friend. She'd just been so set on her revenge that she hadn't wanted to acknowledge a truth as plain as handwriting. If she were dealing with a man who had any human feeling, striking out at his son would be the worst thing she could do to him, but Lionel Luthor was a lot like her own father, made of more impervious stuff than mere flesh and blood. Hurting Lex would be just that hurting Lex.
She reached for the fastening of the ankle cuff, to let him go. No point in this now. But then it occurred to her. If she had him and she could do anything, then she could just--enjoy him.
He flinched when she put her hand on him. She kept the brush
of her fingertips light and caressing, communicating pleasure,
not pain, and eventually he relaxed, even tried to strain into
her touch, although his bonds worked against him. She teased,
moving slowly up his body, along each leg, over his belly, flirting
with each nipple clamp on her way across his chest, mapping his
arms, thumb stroking his throat, one hand briefing cupping the
smooth curve of his head--lingering in each place only long enough
to feel him tremble with the desperate need for more.
She found herself drawn once more to his scar, and she wanted to hear him. He was too proud, it seemed, to make noises through the gag. She stroked her thumb along his chin, to get him to relax his mouth, and pulled it free.
His jaw worked as he got used to the absence. "Yeah."
She traced the scar with her finger. "How'd you get this?"
There was just the briefest pause. "Accident."
She wondered if she could see his eyes whether there would be anything in them that gave away his lie or if he was already too well schooled in subterfuge. Not that she needed any clues, of course. Instinct told her. That defiant tilt of the chin. Hot blue spark of rebellion in his eyes. She knew where it came from, and she could just as easily imagine what it had gotten him, flash of open-handed anger across his face, the hard fist of his father's displeasure.
For the first time all evening, she felt how terribly young he was. She wasn't sure whether she found it touching or laughable that he thought anything he did might actually matter, that he could somehow escape being made over in his father's image. She could have told him differently. For people like them, family was destiny. You could rage against it all you wanted, but you weren't going to change anything.
She bent her head and licked at the little white line. She thought it would be rough, but it was actually oddly smooth. Maybe it was her imagination, but it seemed to taste different too. Sharp, even bitter, but sweet as well, in an odd way, as if it were his spirit she was tasting. Reckless, yes, but also brave, and not many people in this sad sack world were. She kissed and tongued and touched the scar with her fingers, like she wanted to eat him up, and he moaned against her mouth, his body starting to shake.
She wasn't sure which was sadder, how his dream of a life to call his own would be inevitably trampled or how circumscribed her own imagination had been that it had never occurred to her to dream at all.
"I need you to touch me!" he said, urgently.
"Is that a fact?"
"Yes! God-- Just-- Please!"
"Say it again."
Her lips curved with satisfaction. "You beg so pretty, Tiger."
That didn't keep her from taking her time, of course. More was more when it came to pretty begging. She kissed a leisurely path down to his cock, taking a few detours, to explore the hollow of his hip and the fat blue vein in the crook of his elbow, eliciting some rather delightful whimpers of frustration.
Blow jobs should start with blowing, that's what Miss Parker always thought, so that's what she did, warm tickle of breath along his shaft, making him writhe beneath her, as satisfying as the desperate little noises that streamed out of him.
She ran her thumb lightly over the head, enjoying the moan that came from deep in his throat like it was torn right out of him. She popped her thumb into her mouth, murmuring as she sucked it, so he would know what she was doing. She liked cock, usually a great deal more than the man attached to it. She liked the aggressive thrust, the heft of it in her hand, the landscape of veins and ridges, so much better than if it were smooth as a test tube the way she'd imagined before she'd actually touched one. She appreciated the contradiction of cock, lust hardened, but still the softest skin you'd ever touch. She even liked the way come felt on her tongue, warm bitter-salt that made her screw up her face and squint like eating lemons.
Cock was an acquired taste, like caviar or olives, the kind of thing you learned to savor. There was no such thing as gobbling cock, not if you were a true aficionado like Miss Parker. She took her time, sampling the boy's gorgeous cock, lapping at the fat, leaking head, nibbling the neat little scar on the underside, swirling her tongue around the thick shaft like an ice cream cone. His taste was clean, unspoiled, and she took all of him into her mouth, sucking greedily, like he was the best kind of treat.
The noises coming from above her grew more frenzied, but it
was as if they had nothing to do with her. She found it amusing
that the men she sucked were always wild to have her do it again.
Whatever she did was for her own pleasure, not theirs. It didn't
matter how much the boy begged; she wasn't going to let him finish
until she'd had her fill of him. Every time she felt his belly
tense, his balls start to draw up, she pulled away, brought him
back from the edge, until his voice was raw from the loudness
of his pleading.
By the time she'd finally gotten enough of him, deep, wracking shudders ran through his body, as if he were in actual danger of flying apart.
"God, please!" His voice was hoarse.
She reached behind his balls and scraped one fingernail lightly along the delicate skin. That was all it ever took. The boy went silent, jerked like he was having an epileptic fit, and then screamed loudly enough as he came to make her quite glad she'd thought to have the room soundproofed.
Afterwards, he lay boneless on the bed, ribs moving up and down, bottom lip as bright as blood where he'd bitten it. Miss Parker leaned over and removed the blindfold. He blinked up at her, eyes adjusting to the light, his expression more than a little dazed. She braced her hands on either side of his head and kissed him, letting him taste himself in her mouth.
"I'd ask if it was good for you, Tiger," she said. "But I don't think you like bothering with the obvious any more than I do." She placed a kiss in the middle of his chest. "I'm afraid this isn't going to feel quite as good, though."
She undid the first clamp, and he sucked in his breath. She pressed a finger to the raw nipple to soothe it. "Easy, Tiger. Easy." He managed to control his response when she took the other one off, although she knew it must have hurt just as much. She scooted up to the headboard and undid his arms, then down to the end of the bed to free his ankles. He sat up, rubbing his wrists ruefully, trying to get the feeling back in his hands.
"I guess you've been told before how good you are at that."
"It's been mentioned," she said dryly.
His expression turned thoughtful. "You know, for a while there I thought--"
"What?" She ran her thumb along the smooth line of his jaw.
"Nothing. Just--" His eyes met hers. "That you were going to do something else."
"Well, I hope you're not disappointed."
He shook his head. "This was much better."
His smile was lopsided, and she wondered if he had any idea how charming he was when he didn't try so hard.
"Glad to hear it." She framed his face in her hands and kissed him until he started to make the little noises she liked to hear.
He pulled her closer, pressed his face against her neck, warm palms closing over her breasts. She let him, just for a moment, running a hand up his back, enjoying the feel of him, satin skin beneath her fingers, hot, eager mouth on her nipple. When he tried to tumble her back onto the bed, though, she pushed him away.
"But--" he protested.
"We don't have to--" He brushed her hair back behind her shoulder. "I just want to touch you. Make you feel good."
She smiled. "Well, you're going to need your strength for that, Tiger. Better get some sleep."
He looked surprised. "You mean I can stay?"
"Will anyone call the cops if you don't come home?"
He shook his head. "They think I'm-- It's not a problem."
"All right then." She patted the pillow next to her.
He settled down beside her. "But tomorrow--"
She kissed him. "Tomorrow."
If Miss Parker were using the good judgment her father had worked so hard to instill in her, she would have been long gone when tomorrow came. Instead, she found herself calling in an order for breakfast at the local greasy spoon. The boy slept soundly, not waking when the doorman buzzed her on the intercom or when the delivery boy banged on the door loudly enough to alert the dead that the bagels had arrived. He didn't so much as stir until Miss Parker took the plastic lid off one of the cups of coffee and let the smell drift over to him.
Even then he only opened one eye and mumbled something into the pillow.
She couldn't make out a word, but then she didn't really need to. "Not much of a morning person, huh?" She handed him the coffee.
He took it, decidedly grateful. "Not really. You seem--awake."
She shrugged. "I'm not much on sleeping."
He pushed himself up on one elbow. "So-- Should I-- Do you want me to--"
She slipped out her robe, crawled onto the bed and kissed him. "I want you right where you are." She pressed her lips to his neck. "Naked." Kissed behind his ear. "In my bed."
His eyes flashed hot, like a summer sky. "I can do that."
"Good." She took the cardboard carryout box from the nightstand and sat it down on the bedspread. "I hope you like eggs."
They dug into the food. Miss Parker lived primarily on nicotine and black coffee, but this morning she had an appetite and greasy diner breakfast tasted better than she remembered. When she finished, she lit up a cigarette. The boy was still bent over his eggs, and she watched him out of the corner of her eye. There were so many things she could imagine doing to him.
He looked up, caught her glance. "What?"
She shrugged. "Just thinking."
She let her expression do the talking.
The corner of her mouth twitched. "Anything in particular?"
"You sure you want to know?"
His eyes turned a deeper blue. "I'm sure."
She threw the remnants of breakfast onto the floor, swung her leg over his lap and straddled him. His arms closed eagerly around her waist.
"I want to fuck you," she told him.
His hands drifted down to her ass. "Mmm. Yeah." He rubbed his already hard cock against her thigh.
She smiled. "No, Tiger. I mean, I want to fuck you." He followed her glance over to the tray of dildos and swallowed hard enough that she could see the action of his throat.
"I've never done that," he said, voice low, nervous.
"You'll like it."
He didn't look convinced.
She ran her lips along his throat. "Trust me," she breathed the words against his skin.
He still didn't seem entirely sure, even as she was arranging him on hands on knees, pushing a pillow beneath his belly to give him something to rub his cock on, spreading his thighs as wide as she could get them. But then, pleasure was always the best persuasion. She reached over the side of the bed and felt around until she found the containers of jam the diner had sent. She tore one open and dipped her fingers in it, spread it down the elegant line of his back. He started at the sensation, sticky and cool. When she bent to taste him, sugary goo and sweet salty skin, he began to tremble.
The sharp knobs of his spine were like stepping stones; she worked her way from one to the next, down his body. When she smeared jam on his ass cheeks, he sucked in his breath, not expecting it. She caressed his hips, reassuringly. His muscles felt firm and young beneath her tongue, quivering at the wet exploration. She blew warm little puffs of air along his cleft, and he jerked at the tease of it. She used her thumbs to part his cheeks, and his body went rigid beneath her, more nervousness than lust, she felt pretty sure.
She opened another package of strawberry jam--amusing herself with the thought that it ought to be cherry preserves, virgin boy after all, at least for this particular sex act--and rubbed it in teasing circles around his hole.
"God," he gasped.
She pressed a kissed to the small of his back, letting him feel her smile on his skin. "You ain't seen nothing yet, Tiger."
Miss Parker liked making grown men cry--she was the first to admit that--but this was even better, making a beautiful boy sob. She licked and licked, little whimpers streaming out of him, tension melting away, his body pliant beneath her, and then she pushed inside, feeling him open for her tongue. His cries grew frenzied, begging for more, and she added fingers, carefully lubed, reaching deep inside him, searching.
When he screamed, she knew she'd found what she was looking for.
She worked that hot button until every muscle in his body trembled like jelly and his demands grew louder and increasingly desperate. A man begging to be fucked was the prettiest begging of all.
When she was planning all this, she'd made certain to stock the perfect toy for such an occasion, just in case. She was already wet, seeing the boy like this, touching him, and she slid the fatter end of the double dildo into her pussy. She moaned softly at the sudden, aching fullness, the same way she was going to make him feel, and that excited her more than anything.
The boy looked over his shoulder, and his mouth fell open. "God. That's so fucking hot."
She smiled, leaned forward and traced a red nail along his creamy cheek. "Wait until it's your turn, Tiger."
She carefully lubed both the toy and the boy's hole. He tensed at the first touch of it, and she murmured little words of comfort as she stroked his hips. She waited until she felt him relax, and even then, still took her time, slow build of pressure, until just the very tip slipped inside him. He made an encouraging sound, and she pushed deeper, sinking into him, inch by little inch. When she felt him clench, she stopped.
"It's too much," he said, voice cracking. "I can't-- I feel too--"
"Sssh." She wrapped her arms around his waist, laid her head on his back. "Just wait. It's going to be good. I promise."
He took a shaky breath and nodded. Even with his permission, though, she waited until she felt the clench ease, moved carefully when she did start again. Soon, the noises coming out of him changed from strain to reluctant pleasure, and she kept going until she was buried all the way inside him.
She pulled out, pushed back in. He cried out, his voice sharp with surprise, and then he demanded loudly, "Do that again!"
She thrust into him, heat burning in her belly. As good as it felt to have him, it felt even better to have him like it. He whimpered and pushed back, and she curved along his back, head on his shoulder, arms clasped around him, and fucked him. His breath turned heavier, his moans throatier.
"It feels so good, doesn't it?" she murmured, lips brushing his skin. "You don't think you're going to like it. Don't think you want to let anyone inside. But then you do, and you're all filled up, like you never thought you could be, and it's so much better than you ever imagined."
He made a soft sound, reached back for her hip, trying to pull her into him.
Her arms tightened around him, and she strung kisses over his face, his shoulders, the sweet bare curve of his head. "You feel so good. So fucking good." She thrust wildly, losing control.
His entire body went rigid beneath her when he came, and he let out a long, loud stream of ohfuckohfuckohfuck. She reached between their bodies, hard flicks of her thumb, and she was coming too, eyes tightly closed, her shouted obscenities mingling with his.
Afterwards, she pulled out of him, disentangled herself from the toy and settled him onto the bed. He shuddered, uncontrollably, long after he'd come. She cleaned him up and then just let him be. She leaned against the headboard and smoked a cigarette and didn't bother him with questions about whether he was okay. It was his first time, and even if it had been done by a woman, it was still something he'd need to make some peace with.
His eyes were closed, although she could tell he wasn't asleep, and that gave her the chance to look at him, really study him, for as long as she liked. Delicate ginger lashes swept his cheek, and she had to wonder if they'd somehow escaped the meteors or if they was the result of some cosmetic modification, no doubt painful, that his father had forced on him, to make him look more like other people. To make him into the son Lionel Luthor wanted him to be. How many more "modifications" would there be? How long would the boy be able to withstand the slow grind of paternal influence before his spark went out for good? Her chest clenched at the inevitability of the loss. She had to wonder if people had looked at her like this when she was a kid, with a sad sense of doom flickering in their eyes.
She poured a Scotch and drank it. Poured another, and the boy still didn't stir. When he did finally hold out his hand for the glass, she had no idea how much time had passed, only that they were going to need another bottle of Glenfiddich soon and there were only three Marlboros left.
"I was fourteen," he said unexpectedly, breaking the stillness. "I was in a fencing tournament at school. My father didn't usually bother to come to things like that. But for whatever reason, he showed up that day. It wasn't one of my better performances. I kept dropping my arm. I'd been working on it, but still. My father took me home and insisted we practice together. He said he knew how to cure my bad habit. We started to fence, and the first time I dropped my arm, he gave me this." The tip of his tongue darted out to touch the scar. "He was right, though. I did learn not to drop my arm."
She didn't know what to say--probably there wasn't anything--and the silence was loud.
"Most people ask about the hair." His eyes searched her face. "You didn't seem particularly surprised by it."
She didn't bother to look away, because there was no point. He already knew. Maybe not all of it, but enough. He probably had from the moment he stepped foot in the bedroom, and he still would have let her. Punish him for his father's sins. Maybe he felt the inevitability, too. Maybe he understood more about destiny than she'd guessed.
She stretched out beside him. There was nothing to say, only one thing she could give him, and the big surprise was that she wanted to. She kissed him, took his hand and put it on her breast.
He blinked. "Really?"
"Whatever you want." Probably the only time in her life she'd ever said those words.
He didn't wait for another invitation. He rolled her onto her back and moved on top of her, his hands and mouth everywhere at once, on her throat, the sensitive insides of her thighs, back of her knee, planes of her belly. He kissed frantically and rubbed against her, and she let him, even though he was making her shake, making desperate little noises stream out of her.
"You've got the most amazing breasts." He licked the soft curves. "I really like them."
"Yeah." He skimmed his thumbs delicately over her nipples.
She pulled him down and kissed him. "I'm pretty taken with your cock."
He grinned. "Hopefully, you'll like my mouth, too."
It wasn't his first time eating a woman out, that was clear. He had the technique, understood about varying the stroke and pressure, knew how to use his breath and fingers and the gentle application of teeth to completely unravel every last bit of self-control she had. This was precisely why she didn't indulge in this very often. It made her feel weak with pleasure.
The boy wasn't content to make her sob, he had to make her come. She scraped his back raw with her nails and yelled "fuck! fuck! fuck!" and bucked up into his hands, riding out the waves of orgasm. He pulled back, pleased grin on his face, and groped in the drawer of the bedside table for a condom. He opened the package with his teeth and rolled it on his cock. Moved between her legs and entered her.
And the thing was: this wasn't just some quick, bloodless fuck. He was inside. Even when she flipped him over, taking back her rightful place on top, trying to regain control, it didn't change anything. He stared up at her with warm blue eyes, and there was so much behind them that she could only guess, but that still seemed so familiar. There was no way to hold back, and she didn't even want to. She took his face in her hands and kissed him like she was trying to leave behind some small part of herself. His hands stroked up her back, into her hair, and he kissed back just as fiercely.
She licked at his lips and told him, "It's Monica."
It took him a moment to realize what she was giving him. "Monica," he repeated, smiling softly.
He kept whispering it, her name, again and again, as he moved inside her, as he kissed and caressed and took them both over the edge.
Afterwards he curled around her, and she let him, even though she usually preferred post-coital sarcasm to cuddling. She wasn't sure how long they lay there, but eventually he kissed her shoulder and said, "I'll be right back."
She listened to him pad into the bathroom and then quickly sat up. She poured the last of the Scotch into a glass, along with a little extra something. When he came back, she offered him a sip. He took the glass and smiled at her over the rim. He lay down again, and she let him hold her until she felt his breath turn heavy. Then she carefully slid out of his arms.
She waited a little longer, just to make sure he was truly out, before starting to erase the evidence that she'd been there. All the time she'd wasted as a cleaner did come in handy on occasion. She bagged all the props and took them down to the incinerator, removed her fingerprints, vacuumed, scrubbed, even changed the sheets.
When she was finished, she paused a moment at the side of the bed, staring down at him. His mouth was slack in sleep, fist curled beneath his chin. He would awaken in the morning with a slight headache, a vague memory and nothing more. It would be safer for them both this way.
She pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Take care of yourself, Tiger."
She turned sharply on her heel, went down in the elevator and
back out into the anonymous bustle of the city. The late afternoon
sun flashed in her eyes, and she slipped on dark glasses. As she
walked away down the street, she was impervious once more.