My Skin Is Not My Own     My Skin Is Not My Own

 by shelia452

 Donations of fanfic faerie chow always welcome! 

 

  

 Title: My Skin Is Not My Own (1/1)
 Author: Shelia
 Rating: NC-17 for graphic masturbatory imagery Pairing: Clark and umm...
the barn
 Disclaimers: I don't own them, just happily abuse them. You know, I'm
starting to think I have this thing for the Kent Farm's barn. Somebody
save me.  

 My Skin Is Not My Own
 By Shelia 

 Clark staggered as he misjudged his speed, and the wide open doorway,
catching himself against the weathered red painted side of the barn just
before he could burst through its sturdy planks. 

 He panted harshly and it took all his concentration not to quiver
uncontrollably in rhythm with the energy surrounding him. And Clark's
control was slipping. 

 This one was going to be as strong as, if not stronger than the first
spike this morning that had left him stunned, flat on his back, sprawled
out in the back pasture, comming in his jeans and grasping at the grass. 

 He could feel this latest solar flare building, sharpening, overwhelming
all his senses. His body was drinking in the energy Sol was pouring out
and the whole world vibrated around him in a seductive hum. A seductive,
steadily increasing hum that held a knife edge of threatened frenzy that
made his already achingly hard cock throb in echo. 

 Clark leaned against the barn trying to anchor himself in reality. The
distraction of the boards was a rough caress against his cheek, the palms
of his hands where they rested against the barn. 

 A great pressure was building and his whole body ached with the energy
flowing into him. Clark closed his eyes and pressed harder, feeling the
give of aged wood as he ground his hips, his erection, against the barn. 

 He shuddered and pushed away, a dark-haired young god in faded blue
plaid, fumbling at the fly of his worn jeans. Clark gritted his teeth
against a moan as his cock, thick and heavy, slapped into his hand. Clark
fisted and pushed. 

 Hard. 

 His chest began to burn. His free hand gripped a handful of blue plaid
and red cotton near his shoulder and ripped downward as he twisted and
fell back. The material ripped away with ease, exposing his throbbing
chest to the sun. 

 The rough wall supported his shoulders and Clark stroked himself hard
again as the symbol branded into his chest burst into reality in a sweet
agonizing pulse. 

 Kal-el 

 Yes, he was Kal-el and the universe harmonized just for him. 

 Clark groaned as his knees weakened. He stroked again, sliding down the
barn wall slowly. Rough splinters caught on blue flannel creating the
occasional small tear and he felt some of them disintegrate in a ghostlike
caress as they tried in vain to impale his skin. 

 The solar flare peaked and the force of his orgasm drove him to his
knees, head thrown back, gasping at the sky. His colors chased one another
over the emblem branded into his skin and he came in a great straining
pulse that arched his back and Clark screamed soundlessly at the blue
Kansas sky as energy concentrated, tuned and poured through him, wave
after wave, leaving him empty and gasping for breath. 

 But not empty. Not gasping for breath. His body thrummed. He was so full
of energy that he felt that if he just wanted to, he could rocket into the
sky. 

 Hastily he stuffed his still half hard cock inside his jeans. He zipped
as he stood and wiped his hand absently on the remains of his shirt as he
looked around him with wide eyes and breathed deeply. 

 Clark was hyperaware of everything. The sun spike had torn through him,
robbing him of his control, but not his energy. Acceptance made him
strong, stronger than he had ever felt before, more permanent somehow.
Acceptance felt like a piece of forever that recognized him for who, for
what he was. 

 Kal-el 

 Clark reached out and touched the barn, then boldly stared up at the sun,
concentrating. Energy bathed him in a vibration that caused his cock to
twitch and the ghost of his scar to tingle with promise. His hand trembled
against the rough wood reminding him of the here and now. 

 He didn't know what was to be, only knew what was. 

 He was Kal-el. He was Clark. 

 And right now he was Clark with chores. 

 So Clark turned, an exquisite interpretation of a dark-haired young god,
beautiful enough to be a prince among the gods of love and desire,
powerful enough to be the stunning warrior god of truth and justice,
hidden away from the world, hidden away even from himself. Hidden, giving
him time to sort this all out. 

 So Clark turned, and walked through the barn's open doorway. 

 After all, the cows wouldn't feed themselves. 

 *~fin* 

 Comments, critiques, Clarks, or requests for the `real' title of this
piece, welcome here, or at shelia452@hotmail.com. Remember feedback is a
terrible thing to keep to yourself.   
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