by Henry Jones Jr
Lana had a perfect mouth. Wide, firm lips that looked beautiful stretched around his cock, as she knelt in the grass at Clark's feet.
She wore white: white sweater, white jeans, and dainty white Keds on her feet. The picture of virginal innocence, like the Angel of Blowjobs if there was such a heavenly creature. The grass didn't dare stain her knees, even when she crept forward to take more of him in.
Her beautiful mouth leaked a single drop when he came. It beaded at the corner of her red lips, appropriately as white as her clothes. Her eyes silently asked, was it good?
Clark licked the droplet away and put her back on her pedestal.
Pete was still young and immature. Excitement was sitting on the couch in the basement of his house, parents and siblings gone, watching filched porn on the television. Side-by-side with Clark, masturbating to the images on screen. Two guy friends doing things guys did. Innocent in action, but arousing with the threat of getting caught.
Pete did not notice Clark watched him instead of the television.
Clark liked to blanket Lex when they fucked. Legs pressed to the outside of Lex's thighs, cock buried deep, toned chest to pale, freckled back, arms over Lex's, fingers wrapped tightly around thin wrists. Wet mouthing of the knot on his skull before nuzzling into the crook of his neck.
Long, slow fuck on cool cotton sheets, a delivery interlude in Lex's bedroom. Clark possessed Lex without asking. Showed him that he was owned with every drawn-out thrust.
Lex always came first, spilling on the sheets that rubbed against him for so long. Clark followed a second or an infinity later.
He was always late delivering Mrs. Bierce's produce.
Whitney's hands were made for football. Large, strong, with a firm grip and callouses that scratched roughly in just the right way.
Braced against the tile wall of the locker room showers, hot water creating clouds of steam and hiding the sound of a soapy hand sliding against flesh, Clark kept his eyes closed, concentrating on the feel of Whitney's hand.
He was jealous of that hand, which got to play sports and touch Lana at any time. There was no fear of hurting someone or the need to temper strength. A wholly human hand, that brought him to the edge with the flick of a wrist, roughened ridge of callouses on the palm scraping over the slit on his dick.
The scarecrow forgave Whitney a little more with each orgasm.
Chloe's tongue was sharp and lashing. She could easily bring a man to his knees. Clark was no exception. Sitting on his lap in the Torch office, she put her deft tongue to use. He could spend hours just kissing her, her passion for words transmuting into another passion.
Her inquisitive tongue explored his mouth questioningly, before taking control. She instigated, titillated, and cajoled with her tongue. She provoked, enticed, and aroused. She caused his toes to curl and breathing to become harsh and jagged. She was an excellent kisser.
She was also quiet for once.
Lex's favorite position was to be flat on his back with Clark straddling his hips, quads bunching as Clark rose up and down, impaling himself repeatedly on Lex's cock.
Lex liked to watch. Heavy-lidded, heated gaze sweeping from Clark's face to his dick as he jacked himself while riding Lex. Mouth parted, panting with increasing ardor when Clark lost his rhythm as climax approached. Tongue sliding out to lick passion-bruised lips as Clark came, ejaculating on Lex's chest.
Lex, as usual, would already have come. Clark never knew when. He only had the illusion of control.
Lionel was a bastard. He touted his power with malicious glee, petting Clark like he was a dog.
Lionel's trousers unzipped only to expose his cock, relaxed back in a leather chair behind the desk of his Metropolis highrise office. Clark between his thighs, head bobbing over his lap. Another pet, and Clark refrained from biting Lionel's dick off, something that became more challenging with every meeting.
Lionel grunted as he came, and Clark swallowed it all like a good boy. Clark wiped his mouth on the back of his arm, stood, and waited for Lionel to nod so he could leave. He'd be back again, same time, next week.
He would do anything for his loved ones.
The scent of arousal was cloying in the room that was made especially for this. He was chained, arms raised and legs apart, naked save for the tight leather binding on his swollen cock. Full mask covering his head, mouth zippered shut, straws in his nose to breathe.
A dark desire, only talked about in whispers. The need to feel pain to bring pleasure. Clark used only his hands, and winced at every muffled scream.
It wasn't his desire.
Clark could hear the squeak of bedsprings and the rhythmic thumping of the headboard against the wall. He usually left the house to give his parents privacy, but tonight he stayed and listened.
He heard every softly uttered word, every sigh, every impassioned grunt and moan. He heard the rustle of sheets as his parents moved beneath the worn cotton. He heard them say each other's name with breathy ardor as they reach the pinnacle together.
He heard what making love was supposed to sound like.
In the loft late at night, Clark stared sightlessly out the bale window. Sprawled on the couch, his lover was his hand. The slick sound of a lotioned palm on hard flesh was the only accompaniment to his imagination.
The fantasy he dreamt when he was alone was always the same: a certain person, a few tender words, and a gentle kiss in his mind's eye. Clark would come to a trembling climax faster than with any of his partners, a fact which made him sad. Made him long for the emotion that he knew he was missing.
He cleaned himself up in silence and went to bed.