Nothing like a little Crystal Method and Courvoisier after a long day, Lex turned the former up, and took a sip of the latter before letting himself into the sauna. Heavy heat descended on his skin, humidity clinging to him as he stripped the pristine white towel from his waist. He didn't bother to hang it, leaving it to puddle on the bench within arms' reach. Leaning his head against the wall, he took a deep breath. Lungs full of warm cotton, it felt like drowning. The first few breaths in the sauna made his heart skip with residual fear. Years after his last dose, he could still taste albuterol lingering bitter on the back of his tongue, but a sip of cognac washed that away.
Lex tended to run the same temperature as the ambient air: cold in the winter, hot in the summer, or at the moment, tropical slick and steamy. He didn't bother to wipe the sweat away, the itch-tickle of its progression from drops to rivulets was maddeningly pleasant- something to keep him from truly relaxing. The heated bloom of liquor running through his veins made good incentive to enjoy and endure the irritation; he knew he shouldn't be drinking in the sauna, just like he knew he shouldn't have been drinking in the hot tub. Lex did a lot of things he wasn't supposed to.
Stroking the damp edge of his glass, Lex sorted through his options for the night. Stay in, listen to his father terrorize the night man into re-arranging the furniture again, hide away in the far end of the castle, and imagine hearing his father terrorizing the night man. Going out would mean waking up the driver- he's gotten behind the wheel with more than two drinks in him before, but those were his ante-Smallville days, before he had a reputation separate from the blind man terrorizing Harker over divanplacement. The Kent farm wasn't far, but even the incentive of listening to Clark describe the placement of every star in the November sky couldn't induce Lex to abandon the warmth of the sauna for the brittle chill of a walk in the dark.
Not a man of complicated pleasures, Lex liked comic books, and warm clothes that fit well; lean, greyhound cars and oak-aged liquor, the straightforward complexity of math and science, the complex straightforwardness of intelligent women. And he liked Clark, who wasn't straightforward, who pretended he wasn't complex, and hid it all under a dark fall of hair and a blush fuck-me smile. Lex knew people in Metropolis who would pay good money for a night with that mouth; he remembered guys from Excelsior with mouths like that, who'd made a business of trading blow jobs for Latin notes. He'd been good at Latin.
The salt taste of sweat stung the part of his lips, and Lex washed it away with a flash of tongue. Behind his eyelids, he could watch a processional of sexual experiences glide through the dark. His first, the first mouth to swallow his cock- he'd been told to call her Miss Clay. The only thing she was supposed to turn down was his bed, but she'd spread his legs and laughed in soft surprise at his dusting of copper curls before swallowing him. It only took a minute, and the whole process had been obscured by a veil of glossy, chestnut hair that smelled of coconut, and felt like silk on his bare thighs.
Emily's hair had been dark too, but short, and it tickled his palms when he threaded his fingers through it. She'd never mastered the art of sinking much below the head of his cock; instead, she'd wrap her fist around the base and jack him into her mouth, washing her tongue back and forth over his slit with a fierce devotion that sometimes frightened him. All alone in the pool house, shades drawn and the air sharp with chlorine, she wouldn't let him put his hands under her clothes, but she'd . After all the mystery of Miss Clay's mouth, actually seeing his spit-slicked cock stained with hints of shell-pink lipstick was a revelation. But, one thing granted, another denied- she never let him come in her mouth- somehow she found it preferable to wipe semen off her designer shirts.
After that, the Latin boys, who learned to fellate while Lex taught them to conjugate, amo, amas, amat, wide, shameless mouths that bordered on aggression, amamus, amatis, amant, that swallowed deeper and harder, and hardly ever noticed when he studied the myriad of ways they flattened their lips and carved hollows of their cheeks on long, lazy draws. They didn't like his hands in their hair, but they didn't mind if he fucked their mouths, so with declensions, he'd thrust deep, blunt teeth edging pleasure with pain.
He picked up the towel and smoothed it against his head, drying his sweat to let more humidity settle there. He followed over its shape with his hand, tracing the familiar contours with the tips of his fingers. Thin skin, tender and sensitive like the inside of his wrist, he'd had innumerable blow jobs, and had given more than a few, before anyone had been brave enough to touch his head. Victoria demanded time, and attention, and sometimes outright worship, but made the adulation worth it with swirling licks along the base of his skull, and flickering laps behind his ears as she worked her hand into the front of his pants to jerk him off. She was both ambitious and literal when it came to giving head in high school; it was a shame she'd returned after college with an emphasis on the metaphorical when it came to fucking him.
A patchwork memory of hands and dark hair, soft tongues and chapped lips, he blindly drained the last of his cognac, then let his hand fall between his legs. He could mimic some of those mouths with his fist: Em's cockhead devotion easy to recreate with soft, shallow grasps and a roll of thumb across the slit, school-hard strokes all the way down to the base, osculetur me osculo oris sui quia meliora sunt ubera tua vino, all good, but perfunctory without eyes to look into, without the bruised plush of real lips slick and sweet to swallow him. His hands were too well practiced, too dry even in the steam heat of the sauna, too smooth to really reflect the varied silk and stone of a hungry mouth.
A switch from left to right, and it was different at least. Clumsy, unsure and stuttering along the arch of his cock the wrong way, Clark's mouth might be like that. All midwestern innocence, he might be tentative at first, testing the head with a dry kiss, an experimental lick before slowly sinking down, covering the inches carefully and looking up with a pale flash of green to make sure he was doing it right. Lex licked his lips, encouraging with a nod, raising his hips to sink in deeper. Tolerating occasional lapses with those sharp canine teeth, he'd stroke Clark's cheek and soothe his nerves with whispered encouragement, "Like that, just like that..."
Flannel, ordinary department store flannel, would chafe his thighs, and broad, working hands would pin his hips; thumbs resting in the hollows there, keeping him still because he wouldn't be able to help himself, he'd want to control Clark's mouth, he'd want to rub the head of his cock against his lips then sink down so deep into his mouth Clark would gasp for breath when he finally pulled back again. It wouldn't take long for him to get used to the weight of a cock in his mouth, though; he'd accidentally lean in and pull his lips over his teeth, and discover the best way to apply pressure, and heat and nothing but smooth, slick strokes all at once. His breath, exhaled in short bursts, would spread hot against Lex's stomach, and when he found a confident rhythm, he'd dare to let go of Lex's hips, and stray to squeeze his balls, or better yet, slide down to grasp his own cock and stroke it in time to his strokes.
Neither of them would last long that way, wouldn't matter either. A few fast, hard strokes and Lex would uncoil, the focus of his existence collapsed to the vault of Clark's mouth, snapping and jolting, raising his hips hard to bury himself deep. The waves of pressure from each desperate swallow would draw the orgasm out until he ached with it. Clark would stutter to a stop, coming in his own hand with muffled, startled cries, then pull away. Dark brows knit tight in the middle, he might press his forehead against Lex's hip, and shiver until Lex traced his fingers through his hair and drew him up for a kiss. That, their tongues sliding together while his mouth tasted of semen, would make Clark blush.
Breathing humidity, Lex rolled his head back against the pine walls, stilling his fingers and listening to his pulse pound in his ears. Maybe he'd make the walk to the Kent farm anyway. The cold clarity of midnight air would scrub him clean.
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