Title: FIRST FRUIT
Author: Janet F. Caires-Lesgold
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Category: Vignette, angst, first-person POV
Spoilers: Probably none--takes place after "Hourglass"
Rating: strong R for adult language/content
Pairing: Clark/Lex (potential, implied)
Summary: Lex considers his options
DISCLAIMER: These characters do not belong to me. Smallville is the property of Alfred Gough, Miles Millar, Tollin-Robbins Productions, and Warner Bros. Television, and based upon characters originally created by Jerome Siegel and Joe Shuster. This story is just for the entertainment of my online friends and myself, not for any profit.
COPYRIGHT: (C) December 2, 2001, Janet F. Caires-Lesgold, email@example.com
Please don't redistribute or alter this story in any way without the express permission of the author. Thank you very much.
Clark Kent is a virgin.
A guy notices these things. The only person who has touched his penis since it grew hair is the man himself.
Luckily, I am not in the same boat, though I must point out that I was extremely relieved when I pubed at last. So what if I'm still a natural redhead? It's less embarrassing than being hairless all over.
While I've bedded some of the Smallville High coeds, young Mr. Kent has not had the pleasure. I can tell from the way he moons over that little paperdoll Lana that he's striving for perfection instead of opportunity. What a shame, especially when he's so close to perfection all on his own.
But then again, in the activities I have in mind, I'm not that experienced myself... Not for lack of desire, of course. It's just that Daddy doesn't approve.
My father caught me once when I was fourteen, my dick in my hand and college football on the TV, my mind awhirl picturing the tight butts under those skinny uniform pants, when he came into my room and turned off the television. "Son," he had bellowed, "people don't do business with faggots. You're not a faggot, are you?"
"No, sir," I'd answered, tucking myself back in quickly.
"Good," he'd replied, clapping me on the shoulder, then had bent to counsel me more softly, "If you have to picture Michelangelo statuary to get hard enough to fuck a pussy now and then, no one has to know."
My status as an only child suddenly made more sense to me at that moment.
A year or two later, when I'd popped the cherry of a freshman girl under only a little protest, my father winked proudly at me as soon as he'd turned his back on her freshly paid-off-to-keep-their-mouths-shut parents. It was then that I got the message of what kind of behavior my old man expected from the scion of the Luthor empire. I've tried to live up to his ideal ever since.
I can't say that I've made a hobby of deflowering virgins, but I've done my share. But I've never done another guy. I guess that makes me a virgin, too.
At least I've read enough to know what I'd like to do to Clark Kent. In him, I seem to have found the perfect personification of that statue of David that has gotten me through a few lonely nights. However, I would expect his flesh to be a little more yielding than that hard, cold, white marble. Perhaps not a cherry to pop, per se. His lovely, taut bottom is probably more like a peach--smooth and tender-skinned, exquisitely curved, pliable to the touch, but just as firm and solid as might be required.
Would he be receptive to the idea of my hands on him, my mouth taking indecent liberties with his ripe cock? Something in the gazes he bestows on me makes me feel that he would. Did I say "feel"? Let me amend that to "know"...
I make no secret of the fact that I've been watching him, not unlike the way he watches the babyish girl next door through the huge piece of ocular equipment in the hayloft. Can he tell I've got a taste for peaches almost worse than my hunger for cherries? While I'm at it, I wouldn't mind munching on the strawberries of his lips, the mango slice of his tongue, and dare I contemplate a banana?
Knock it off, Lex. He might think you've got scurvy. But I do long to feast upon his "fruit salad", no matter what Daddy thinks. So he'll be my first...
And I'll be his.