A Matter of Time

by a campbell

Clark Kent/Lex Luthor NC-17

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Lex leaned back against the Torch door as soon as it shut behind him. He touched index and middle finger to his mouth in a brief fiddle with the scar that split his top lip, sighing in mild triumph as his eyes dropped closed.

Only a matter of time before he’d have him. Ordinarily, he’d have set his sights coolly on the pretty blonde, high school freshman or no, but he’d save her for another day. Predictably, young Kent had eclipsed her, commanded his attention completely, godawful red plaid shirt notwithstanding. What clinched it was the scared, uneasy look on his face at the close of the conversation, brought on not by Lex’s numerous and pointed glances at his crotch over the past ten minutes, but by the idea of a date with Lana Lang. It had to be.

“Hope you get her a nice gift.” One more glance down, one more hint at what that gift might be, before Lex turned to leave, confident he had him almost completely disarmed.

Ever wonder what you’d be like? You know, if you hadn’t come that day?

Nice choice of words, Clark. So easy, selling the story about having dropped by the Torch to meet Chloe. So hard, not to say, “I knew you’d come,” though he’d used his warmest, sleekest voice throughout the conversation as a hint. Impossible even to resist recounting that day so many years ago, not only to mesh with the initial intent to disarm by engaging emotions, not even to see that green gaze soften with sympathy, but also because talking to Clark almost felt like having a friend. At least, as close as someone who’d never had a genuine friend could call it.

And he would. Come, that is. Only a matter of time. The kid was weakening already, witness the unease, the half-scared, half-fascinated glances in response to his own deliberate intensity every time they met. And soon…

Soon, he’d divest him of those ill-fitting, cheap shirt and pants from Fordman’s or Rural King. Lex envisioned it happening right in the Torch office on a school day afternoon, images conjured with ease. Unbutton the flannel shirt with deft fingers, bare the toned muscles the clothes concealed, the cock that had to be gigantic; look at the size of his hands, for Chrissakes. Breath in the damp, warm musk of his crotch before burying his face in it, seeking out testicles with the expert tip of his tongue. He could imagine the weight of the boy’s cock filling his mouth, heavy weight of thrum of blood beneath the taut skin, the moan from above as tongue traced the pulsing vein from base to tip. Then the burst of come, best nourishment ever. Overflowing his mouth, dripping from his chin, spilling on the floor as he'd look up only in time to see Clark sag against the wall, satisfied, stunned breathless…and his. Indefinitely.

He’d be wasted on Lana Lang only temporarily.

He’d move in soon.

But now, he had to get out of here and head out to Hamilton’s before the door opened.

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