Breathless

by Aelita


AN: I've seen a few versions of yellow kryptonite flowing around. In my version (shamelessly stolen from a number of people) nearness of it makes Clark human. In other words, takes away his special powers without the sickening effects of the green rocks. Whether it's real or lab-created by Lex, I'll let you decide. I kept this explanation in notes because putting it into the story shifted focus and who'd want that?
Dedication: To wonderful Icalynn who gave me courage, and amazing Ana who whipped this story into shape. Changes have been made after their beta so all mistakes you might find are my own.


Warnings: hard-core BDSM, slash, PWP

AN: I've seen a few versions of yellow kryptonite flowing around. In my version (shamelessly stolen from a number of people) nearness of it makes Clark human. In other words, takes away his special powers without the sickening effects of the green rocks. Whether it's real or lab-created by Lex, I'll let you decide. I kept this explanation in notes because putting it into the story shifted focus and who'd want that?

Dedication: To wonderful Icalynn who gave me courage, and amazing Ana who whipped this story into shape. Changes have been made after their beta so all mistakes you might find are my own.


Breathless


Anticipation is like fine scotch.

You can want it, smell it, taste it across the room, even before the bottle is opened. All it takes is one glance, one thought, one invisible touch of desire. And then, after it's poured, you take the first, tantalizing sip and it's exactly what you expected. Yet it's different, better, worse and you need to take another sip, you want to guzzle it, just pour it down your throat because you know that it only gets better with every drop. But you can't. You won't. You keep it in your mouth, savor it because you have to. Not because that's the way it's supposed to be but because you honestly don't have a choice or the flavor will be tainted.

Lying on the bed, wrists and ankles chained to the posts, blindfolded and high on the contemplation alone, he reaches the conclusion that the anticipation is the best part.

Happens every time and Lex, being Lex -- a snobby son of a bitch who has to prove everyone wrong and can probably read minds despite his assurances that it's not true -- usually chooses this moment for the first touch. One simple touch which sends not only that theory, but his entire ability to rationalize to hell, and he feels his body tense in expectation, the rush of disappointment almost painful when nothing happens.

He tries to sense if Lex is in the room. He remembers him leaving, right after the last constraint was in place. Has no idea how long it's been, how long Lex wants him to wait, but knows well enough that he won't notice when Lex returns. Listening is worthless.

Lex moves like a predator, silently, swiftly, and even Clark can't hear him unless he wants to be heard. Superhearing or not, he should be able to hear something: the door closing, clothes being removed, and the vicious hiss the strap makes in the air before striking. However, no matter how hard he tries to focus, he can't hear anything besides the dull, steady reverberations of the yellow meteor fragment from across the room and the pounding of his own heart.

He is perfectly aware of how vulnerable he is right now -- custom-made metal shackles with velvet lining tight around his wrists and ankles, and the pillow strategically placed underneath his stomach are unfailing reminders -- but, even that awareness is slowly taken away from him. Need, consuming, overpowering hunger, building with every moment, rushing through his blood, rendering him deaf and blind to everything but this carnal desire. There is freedom in it too, exhilarating freedom that comes from the places inside of him that he doesn't want to examine too deeply. A deep breath and he is already starting to get light-headed and the darkness is swimming around him.

You can get drunk on anticipation.

Especially when it smells like this, like debauchery, like sex, thick, overwhelming scents of fear, leather, candle wax, and sweat mingling in the air until he can swear that there is no oxygen left and breathing is a task, almost scary in its difficulty.

He wants to move. Needs to, but doesn't dare, not even his fingers that are twitching to curl into fists, biting his cheek to keep from groaning because this is fucking unbearable. There is the urge to rub his throbbing cock against the delicate, sweat slicked silk that covers the pillow, yet he knows that the relief will be anything but; the cock ring making sure of that. No coming until Lex says so and that thought does nothing except making his arousal even more torturous.

He wonders if he's going insane.

He also thinks he hates Lex and decides that he'll count until ten and if Lex isn't back, he'll... scream. Or move. Or something.

A century later, counting done and forgotten, Lex is a no show and anticipation starts to turn into fear. Fear that Lex forgot about him. Fear that nothing is going to happen. He presses his face into the covers, trying to keep it from overwhelming him. Panic is pumping blood faster in his veins, and he can swear his heart is about to force itself out of his chest.

He fails to hear Lex again.

The first lick of the deceptively pliable leather against his cool skin is a respite and a shock at once. It startles him into a loud cry and his body jerks against the restraints. It's not severe, gentle rather, almost a caress, and the ache it leaves is so fucking good he almost curls into it. The second follows slowly -- Lex is taking his time -- just a tiny bit firmer, more than a tiny bit better, and he inhales sharply with satisfaction. The mark is still pulsing when the third strike makes him gasp and the pace changes abruptly, becomes faster, harder. Another and another... unmerciful quick bites, not really hurting yet but fierce, stinging nonetheless and he can't stop from shifting, not sure if he is trying to move away from the burn or into it.

Lex is anything if not methodical and covers the entire open span of flesh with precision strokes and soon his back, his ass, his thighs are on fucking fire and he is aware of them like never before. He is panting through an open mouth, short, unfulfilling gasps laced with soft moans and his skin feels hot, stretched, tight and fuck he can't think, can't remember, can't do anything but feel.

There are pain-tears soaking his blindfold and Lex is just starting.

The agonizing pleasure doesn't stop, isn't paused even for a moment and he notices that he is struggling against the bonds only when the metal digs painfully into his limbs. He is writhing as far as his chains allow, which isn't much but enough to realize that even silk now feels like sandpaper against his aching cock and god, he needs to come because it feels like he will die if he won't.

The lashing stops just as suddenly as it started and he freezes, unsure of what to expect next but knowing that it's not over yet, not by far and he'll thank some deity for it later.

Something brushes against his burning ass, something soft and cool and his skin is so sensitized that it hurts. He swallows, tries to, but his throat is too dry and it only makes it worse. Another light caress, that feels like something molten poring down his back which is ridiculous because the silk is cold and he shudders -- forceful, full-body tremble that shakes the bed -- unable to keep the loud groan from escaping. Please.

"Please what, Clark?"

Low, husky voice that sends another spell of shivers down his spine, while the fabric is still dancing on his skin and it's not becoming any more tolerable. It takes a moment for the question to penetrate and did he really say the word out loud? Didn't realize it, doesn't care, doesn't fucking know why he said it, he just needs... something. And he moans it again, adding his lover's name this time, flexing his arms until the chains clang, reminding him once more that moving is forbidden and he sobs.

He misses the moment when the material is taken away. He is perfectly aware of when Lex's fingers touch him first and it is so different, firmer than silk, gentler, warmer and excruciating because this is what he wants more. Slender digits tracing the rivulets of sweat down his back and sides until he can't swallow a moan. Hot wetness flickers against the small of his back, stroking his skin languorously, and the air feels cold everywhere but where Lex's tongue is caressing him. His eyes are squeezed so tightly, he can see tiny white dots among the darkness and his breathing is frenzied enough that he's afraid he'll black out.

Hands part his cheeks and he chokes on a yell and silently prays to black out when the tongue brushes down his cleft and slides inside of him because no one can take this much and stay sane. There is a hazy doubt in his mind that the chains are strong enough to restrain him that disappears quickly as the tongue starts to dart in and out, slick, hot, fucking him deeper than it should be possible. The sounds ripping from his throat can only be classified as whimpers, and he refuses to acknowledge that the tears are still leaking from behind the tightly closed lids.

Lex pulls away too soon, stroking his feverish flesh soothingly and he doesn't know if it's a curse or a blessing, and fuck sanity is overrated. When Lex murmurs, it takes a gargantuan strain to concentrate and understand what he is saying. "I'm going to take the ring off now. Do NOT come until I tell you." As soon as it sinks in, he shakes his head, or tries to, but the ring is gone before he can protest, and he cries out with the effort it takes not to let go.

He's afraid to move, to breathe, because one touch and he'll lose whatever intangible hold on his control he possesses. Fuck. This isn't fair. This is supposed to be his chance to give up control, to forget everything, and just... The strain is almost too much, he can't stop shivering, can't stop whimpering, and even Lex's simple command won't be able to keep him from caving in much longer.

The strike of the strap against his ass is sudden, severe, fucking painful, and he screams as his back arches in a frantic attempt to get away. His shoulders and arms protest against the strain as he mindlessly fights against the restraints, and if he were human he'd be bruised from them alone. Another blow follows, before the first one settles in and this time he doesn't have time to get the air into his lungs. He can't even scream, but he tries and he is choking, he can't breathe, terror tensing him when the leather lashes against his skin again, tearing into his muscle so deeply he swears it reaches bone, and it shocks him into inhaling and he cries out with harsh, racking sobs. It's too close to being too much, overwhelming, and it has the power to crush him, to reduce him to nothing. It's still not enough. He needs more, every cell in his body begging for it, and he doesn't give a flying fuck if he can take it because it feels good, too good, fucking amazing, but he knows it can get better and he pleads for it. Begs for it, without saying a word and he knows that Lex understands.

"You can come. Now." Lex punctuates the last word with the final blow that he feels even before the leather touches him. The pain sharpens as the razor-touch kisses the flesh and the black blurs, it flares into the bright, blinding white, and he thinks he is screaming but can't hear it, can't hear anything anymore. Hard, spiraling spasms hit from the bottom of his spine, rippling through his stomach, up, higher through his entire body until he is falling into the white with a final tremble.



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