Wondering

by rebecca

She's lying in bed, curled up under the covers. It's late--after 3--and she's not sleeping, but she doesn't really care. It's warm in her room, even with the windows open, and the thin T-shirt she's wearing isn't helping any.

She kicks off the covers and stretches out, long caramel legs against pale blue sheets, the worn white fabric of her T-shirt molded to her body. It's one of those nights, when she wishes she could just run and not stop. Just get out, out of her house, of Smallville, out of her life.

A soft breeze blows through the room, but it's not helping her settle down. She sighs and picks up her hair, spreading it out over the pillows so it's not on her neck. Better, but not by much. Swimming would be wonderful right about now, she thinks. Cool water against her overheated body, floating in the dark.

But she can't swim, and she can't run, so she has to find some other way to relax. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply, centering herself in her body. She can feel everything--the soft cotton of her sheets against her legs, the faint dampness of her pillow where she's sweated into the pillowcase, and the hems of her T-shirt brushing against her arms and her hips and her neck. It's vaguely scratchy, especially over her nipples where the design on the shirt is faded and cracked from years of wear.

Her fingers brush over her nipples lightly, teasing them, making them perk up under her shirt. She'll come back to them later. For now, she smoothes her palms over her breasts and down her stomach. It's flat and toned from gymnastics and riding--nice expanse of naturally tanned skin, ticklish along her ribs and sensitive down by the crease between her hips and her thighs.

She wonders what Chloe's stomach looks like, under her colorful shirts and jeans. Is it smooth and white, like the rest of her skin? Does she have a mole on her left hip, or an appendectomy scar? Would she like it if Lana kissed her navel or would she laugh?

Back up to her breasts now, and she's not gentle this time, rubbing and squeezing and pinching the soft flesh. She can feel herself getting wet, her legs spreading automatically. Whitney never understood that; he was always so gentle with her, like she'd break if he touched her too roughly. She thinks Clark would be the same way. But then, Clark doesn't want her. He wants the ideal.

Chloe would understand, Lana thinks, her tongue moistening her lips. Chloe would touch her and kiss her with the same dedication she puts into journalism. She'd want to learn all about Lana's body, if the same things that she liked were what Lana liked.

Lana slides one hand down between her legs and strokes herself with a finger, gasping a little at the feel of it. She's just wet enough that when she starts rubbing her clit, her fingers slide over the little nub easily. Two fingers--one's not enough, and three get in the way. Her other hand rests on the wiry hair between her legs, rubbing absently at her mound.

Does Chloe do this? Does she lie in bed at night and touch herself, imagining another woman's hands on her body, another woman's mouth on her sex? Or does she dream of fantasy men, men with no faces, just hands and mouths and hard hungry cocks? Lana does that sometimes--she imagines she's with some man who doesn't know her and doesn't care. He just wants her body, and she's happy to give it to him.

Her fingers are moving faster now, her legs spread wide, one knee bent . God, it's good--hot and wet and she can pretend it's Chloe's fingers in her, touching her. She aches for the skin on skin contact of Chloe's body against her own, her breasts pressed against Lana's and their sexes rubbing over each other.

She wants to pin Chloe down, to spread her legs open and kiss her there, drink her in until Chloe's writhing and whimpering and begging her to let her come. She wants to make Chloe see stars.

See, Lana's not the meek little girl everyone thinks she is. She doesn't just want to fuck Chloe. She wants to own her. She makes a soft noise in her throat at the thought of Chloe wearing her collar, of that pretty body and quicksilver brain at her service whenever she wants it. Sharp slide of her fingers and the thought of pressing Chloe down on one of the tables in the Torch's office, her hand in Chloe's panties and her teeth in Chloe's neck, and she nearly purrs.

Oh, yeah, right there--she's close to coming, she can feel it. She pictures Chloe in her bedroom, naked, Lana's hand in her hair, pulling her head back, one of her feet kicking Chloe's legs apart, and Chloe hot and wet and kneeling in front of her, nipples hard, waiting to please her--God!

She keeps rubbing gently, soothing herself, until the aftershocks have passed and she's limp and purring on the bed. Lazily, she removes her fingers and wipes them on her shirt. She can sleep now.

Tomorrow, she thinks, rolling onto her side. She'll talk to Chloe tomorrow.



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