Craving

by a campbell

Lionark (Lionel in Clark's body), NC-17

Thanks to gothphyle for the beta and great suggestions! Caps courtesy of oxoniensis

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1. Lionel

Lionel kicked off the size fourteen shoes, then the socks. Stripping off Clark Kent’s blue shirt, he dropped it unceremoniously on the desk chair, then unfastened his belt before unzipping the khaki slacks. He let a palm glide over toned stomach muscles and felt unaccustomed lips curve into a giant grin as he glanced around his new bedroom. Then he belched.

Despite the millions he had in banks, despite his stocks and bonds, despite the world travel and haute cuisine at his disposal, he’d never eaten a meal in his life the like of which he’d consumed this evening, his own mother having been more likely to drink dinner than to cook it. Fried chicken, corn, garden tomatoes, mashed potatoes...Martha’s ("Mom’s", he reminded himself with a low chuckle) homemade bread and jam, peach pie with ice cream for dessert. A supper that would have wreaked havoc on his digestive system a week ago, but tonight: no ill effects whatsoever. Why, he’d even tried to coax another slice of pie out of "Mom" while he helped dry the dishes.

Though he was nowhere near tired yet, he was confident he’d shortly be sleeping like a baby in this cheap bed of his, frame no doubt from Big Lots. He sat down on the edge of the bed and flexed his bare toes, then, stuffing a two pillows behind him against the headboard, lay back on the mattress, still half sitting-up.

This could prove quite the adventure.

With a deep breath, Lionel opened his hand, let fingers glide over his smooth chest and down to the open zipper. He stroked the mound of warm flesh under white cotton, and noted how it tingled and thickened at his touch. He coaxed the briefs down for more than the peek he’d had in the barn.

Yes, quite the adventure, indeed.

2. Clark

Not that Lionel had ever had a small opinion of his physical attractiveness, but several years of liver disease, not to mention middle age, gave him an enhanced appreciation both of his recently acquired body in general, and of his new "equipment." He caught his breath in admiration now that he could properly examine the..."truncheon," as it was called in various savory eighteenth-century novels--that now was his. Several inches longer than the one attached to his own body, nested in yet more of the curling black hair: thicker, and uncut…by God, this would be interesting.

This boy had the air of one beyond innocent on the occasions they had met, but still, a body like this must house and support a formidable sexual appetite. All this power, so young, everything fresh. Virgin body. Unless Lionel’s continuing suspicions were correct and this beautiful cock had been in his own son’s mouth more than once.

The thought was enough to turn him hard in an instant. He gasped, then gave a pleased chuckle, for he’d somewhat forgotten how lightning fast response was in a young man this age. He let the sensations course through him, closed his eyes and grinned in anticipation and excitement. Good heavens, Clark Kent’s body was a marvel when aroused, and his cock when hard a wonderful thing.

My word, he thought, young Mr. Kent must spend a deal of time pleasuring himself. God knows, he would. And would.

Lionel shifted on the bed, let the big, unaccustomed hand brush the burnished tip, already leaking, wander gently down the ivory, vein-studded pillar of flesh. He caught his breath with delight at the delicious sensation when he fingered the unaccustomed web of skin that half-covered the head and teased it gently down, and back up.

Licked his lips.

The texture, the feel of it beneath his fingers, was amazing.

Lucky boy. No, lucky him, now.

3. Lex

Lionel leaned his head back on the pillow, raked his free hand through the unaccustomed coarse locks.

His interest in young Kent had been unusually acute ever since Lex had made his acquaintance. From the day they’d met in the flesh and he, sightless, had divined that this strange young man was, at the risk of indulging in cliché, a veritable force with which to be reckoned. He’d given it a deal of consideration, bugged buildings, investigated to the best of his ability. And if Lex thought he could be fooled into believing, that this relationship was platonic, that they were "just friends," then he had sadly underestimated his father.

Lex would know a miracle when he saw one.

His eyes fell closed. He stroked.

Let himself envision his son’s body, cool, sleek, conjured up the tenor of his soft voice and how it would sound in this room, out here in the country, far from city noise. No other sound but the soughing of wind in the pines and the soft lowing of farm cattle. Surely Lex (damn him) had stayed to supper more than once, and the boys had found themselves up here with several hours to while away on a weekend evening. Or maybe Lex had offered, in Martha and Jonathan’s hearing, to help with Clark’s chemistry homework: perfect ruse for getting upstairs, being alone. Though the barn was no doubt a safer (if less comfortable) place for sex, the thrill of discovery could be a genuine and powerful aphrodisiac if the circumstances were right.

Lionel glanced over at the mirror, in which he could see himself reflected. His new self, of course. He let his face go soft, his eyes dark. Tried it in Clark’s voice, made it yearning and desperate, "Lex..."

He had an amazingly quick, startlingly vivid vision of his son, slim body so spare beside Clark’s, pushing Clark against the wall, pinning arms to wallpaper, kissing him open-mouthed…or vice versa. It didn’t really matter who did it. (Could this body have a memory of its own?) But no: too much noise. More finesse, more discretion was required here at the Kents.

Lionel shifted on the bed, sighed, let his eyes drop closed.

Slim hand beckoning lightly, soft voice commanding, "Come here." Clark would obey, padding over like a biddable young puppy. And wait, hardly daring to breathe.

Lionel’s fist pumped. And again.

It was more likely that Lex might kneel, mesmerized for a moment eye level with Clark’s crotch, then glance up, gaze cool, appreciative, assessing. That his nimble hands would fasten on the zipper, gliding it down, that lips and tongue would cluck slightly as he reached inside. Clark would shift a bit onto his tiptoes, then over a little, exhaling on a sigh as Lex’s fingers curled around the shaft, as Lex’s other arm glided around his hip to pull him closer.

They might speak to each other for a moment or so, murmuring softly, so the parents wouldn’t hear. Perhaps a bit of anxious nervousness when one or the other of them collided with a chair or bumped against the bed, causing it to creak ominously loud in the stillness. They’d no doubt glance at each other in alarm; Lex might intone "Shhh..." cautiously, then after a minute when nothing happened, Clark would chuckle, and they’d both relax, each with a sigh of relief.

Just before Lex leaned in again. And went down.

Lionel’s breath quickened. He pictured the tip of Lex’s nimble tongue, teasing, then circling. Followed by the flicker of a cool breath, then warm mouth, the tug of lips and covered teeth. Mouth playing and worshipping the hard flesh. Then...sucking. Hard.

He stroked up, then down, smearing the sticky drops of precome over the head and down the shaft. Thinning his lips as he trembled at the keen thrill of pleasure his touch evoked.

He knew enough to know how besotted in love Lex was with this boy and his body, and how the heedless lad had no idea. Clueless, despite having the body of a god. He himself was no imbecile. And he knew that his son, who executed each task he undertook like a master of arts, an absolute expert, really--would do no less for Clark, would ensure he was not disappointed, but satisfied beyond all reasonable expectation. Lionel moistened broad lips slowly, then the palm of his hand, wrapped the wet heat around his cock, and stroked, up, down. Imagined Lex’s tongue swirling around the head, tasting the sticky drops, then under the skin, and the tug of his hot greedy mouth.

He cried out when he came, spurting so fast and hard that streams of come splashed against his chin.

4. Martha

After he was in bed and under the blankets, and he’d heard the muffled footsteps of his "parents" winding down the hall to their bedroom, (“Mom” hadn’t come in to kiss him goodnight, though he’d hoped briefly...) he let his thoughts wander in a different direction.

Conjured up Martha in the lamplit loft earlier that evening. That glorious red sweater, contrasting with the burnished auburn of her hair, smooth against his cheek. The warmth of her body through wool and cotton. Imagined the soft wetness of her mouth and tongue.

Sex with men was all well and good, but sex with a woman, the "right" woman at any given time, outstripped it by far. Simply a matter of biology and structure.

Fresh air wafted through the windows, cooler now, stirring the gingham curtains. He shifted in bed, rolled onto his back, groped for his cock again.

He envisioned the door creaking open, causing her to pause in fear, then sigh in relief when it was clear that her husband doors away still slept undisturbed. Lionel’s eyes would focus through the darkness, and he’d smile in encouragement, endeavoring to look bemused. She’d smile back, and then the smile would fade as she came over to stand beside the bed.

The chenille robe would drop to the floor, not giving him much chance to admire her before she slipped, naked and a little shy, under the covers. She’d no doubt be shivering, and he’d draw her close, press his lips to her brow and then bend his head to those warm, soft...all right...big breasts, that were pressing into his ribcage. Not that size always mattered, but...

His palm folded around stiff flesh once again.

She'd she’d pull herself up, slide one long leg over his thighs, and straddle him, curling smooth fingers around his cock. Her stubby, bitten nails wouldn’t hurt him, regardless of how tender the skin. Guiding him to the wetness between her thighs, then into the warmth. She might respond with a soft gasp at the unaccustomed sensation, because he doubted sincerely that Jonathan was anywhere near this size. Then riding him, hard, her voice whispering soft and urgent in the darkness, murmuring words he couldn’t imagine Martha Kent even >knowing. She’d squeak, squeal, gasp, as he thrust upward, bend down every minute or so to give him an open-mouthed kiss and murmur love words in her soft, beautiful voice.

All while her jackass husband slept unaware and oblivious down the hall, beneath a handmade quilt.

He pressed his fist into his mouth this time to muffle the agonized groan of pleasure that signaled his release.

***

Well, so what if he were planning a busy day tomorrow? Including, among other things, and not in the least, yet further enjoyment of this wonderful body.

So infinitely better than being in prison.

By God, he’d use this body the way it should be used. Day after day, month after month.

For now…he might stay awake all night long.

His hand stole downward yet again.

Because he didn’t feel tired. Not in the least.

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