WARNING: NC-17 Slash Fiction

Four years of fantasies didn't begin to come close to the reality of being fucked by Lionel Luthor. Crouched on all fours with Lionel's cock buried deep in his ass hammering out an irregular rhythm that made it impossible to anticipate the pleasure, Whitney was trembling. Literally shaking from the pleasure of Lionel's thrusts and the pain of his own engorged cock. But every time he thought he couldn't stand it another second and reached for himself to relieve the incredible agony, Lionel would ram in deep and stop, and a commanding "No!" would briefly halt the proceedings until Whit had control again.

"Jesus, Lionel. Let me—"

"No." A sure hand ran across Whit's electrified skin, around to his chest. Lionel eased back but didn't withdraw, shifting his balance, supporting and encouraging Whit to come upright to his knees. Whitney complied. He couldn't have resisted if he'd wanted to, which he didn't.

Whit arched his back, moaning as the movement forced Lionel into him another inch, then two. His shoulders pressed against Lionel's and he twisted his head, seeking his lover's mouth, but in that awkward position a kiss would have required Lionel's cooperation, and he didn't give it. Instead, Lionel ran his hand down Whit's torso, slid his fingers into the pale blond curls that framed his cock. He cupped Whit's balls and gently—very gently—squeezed as his tongue lapped a rivulet of sweat from the pulsing artery in Whit's throat.

A small thrust. Another moan. A longer withdrawal and a deeper thrust.

"Fuck!" The word was an explosion.

Lionel's lips were at his ear, whispering, breathless but not out of breath. "We're going to have to find you a better expletive, Whitney." Another perfectly aimed thrust connected with Whitney's prostate.

"Lionel!" The world went white and Whitney knew that if Lionel hadn't put the perfect amount of pressure on his sac, he would have been shooting cum all over the black Egyptian cotton sheets. "Oh, God! Lionel!"

"Perfect. Remember that."

Some part of Whit's brain that could register and record facts realized that Lionel was barely breathing heavily. His voice was perfectly controlled. He could have been overseeing a board meeting or discussing a dinner menu with his cook for all the emotion or exertion he was showing. And yet Whit knew that every fiber of Lionel's being was focused on fucking him. On pleasuring him.

No. On controlling him. The slow undressing that had gotten them into bed; the languid kisses; an insanity-producing exploration of Whit's body, in which Lionel had introduced his mouth or hands to every part of Whit's body except his cock... An eternity of fondling and caressing that was more torture than foreplay, and then this... Being fucked by a fucking genius who had barely even raised a sweat on his own beautifully toned body. Lionel was a performance artist, and Whitney's pleasure was just a byproduct.

But not even the tiny sliver of objectivity that still clung to Whit's brain could manage to care. He'd never been with anyone who could make him feel so much. Fucks like this were addictive. All it took was one, and he was hooked. Maybe for life.

A light push on Whitney's shoulders. He went to his hands and knees again, and Lionel's hands were at Whit's hips, holding him steady as he found a rhythm that was deep and even, quickening until finally, between his moans of Lionel's name, Whit finally heard Lionel's breath coming in short bursts. Lionel's hand went to Whit's cock then and the short, hard strokes on his dick and the long, fast thrusts in his ass turned Whitney's world upside down. He didn't remember coming or screaming Lionel's name. He barely registered the soft, ragged way Lionel called his name, but was deeply conscious of emptiness he felt when the physical connection with Lionel was broken. He collapsed in a heap and reveled in the way Lionel followed him, coming to rest with his body half on Whit's, half-off, his mouth pressing kisses against his sweat-slicked shoulders.

"Oh, God, Lionel..." Whit couldn't stand it. He shifted, praying Lionel would stay draped on top of him when he rolled onto his back. He wasn't disappointed. Lionel's mouth found his. Deep, frantic kisses quickly gave way to soft, lazy ones. Then much too quickly, Lionel rolled to the edge of the bed, sat up and leaned back for one final quick kiss.

Unable to resist, Whit brushed back a damp lock of hair that was trapped on Lionel's brow. "You are amazing."

Lionel rewarded him with a dazzling but utterly immodest smile. "An appropriate response. I'm sure more superlatives will occur to you as you reflect." He stood but made no effort to determine which of the assorted clothing on the floor was his. "Would you care to join me in a shower?"

Whit laughed shortly. "Shower? I can't even move yet. You put me through--" He glanced around for a clock and found on on the nightstand. "Shit. Two hours? You fucked me like that for two hours and you have enough energy for a shower?"

Lionel's immodest smile broadened. "And food. I'm famished. 'Dictators ride to and fro upon tigers which they dare not dismount. And the tigers are getting hungry!' he quoted energetically, jabbing a finger at the intercom on the phone beside the bed. "Mrs. Hatch! Lunch in the Greenhouse Alcove in fifteen minutes." He released the button, not waiting for a response. The thought that there was no one on the other end of the line to do his bidding never occurred to him. "If that little romp was enough to leave you spent, Mr. Fordman, the Sharks trainer is going to have his work cut out whipping you into shape." He swooped onto the bed, kissed Whitney hard, nipping at his lower lip not hard enough to leave a mark, but hard enough to make an impression, a branding that proclaimed ownership. At least that's what Whit wanted it to be.

Lionel bounded gracefully away, pausing halfway across the room. "You're certain about the shower?"

"Certain. I'll just lie here and gather my strength..."

"As you wish."

He disappeared and Whitney managed to sit up. The sheets were sticking to his back where he'd been laying in his own cum, but they pried loose easily as he shifted to the edge of the bed. He was going to regret passing on the shower — he'd have to wash up, at least, but he didn't want to shower. Lionel's scent was all over him and he didn't want to wash it off. Not right now, anyway. He wanted to take it home with him so he could savor it. Revel in it. He'd shower tomorrow morning. Or maybe next week.

Or...he could be in the shower, his hands slicked with soap, exploring parts of Lionel's finely toned body that had been off limits during their two hour "romp." And since this had been Lionel's concerto to conduct, there were an incredible number of potential Lionel Erogenous Zones to be discovered.

Impossibly, inconceivably, Whitney felt himself growing hard again. "Fuck."

Precisely.

He found his legs and grinned as he navigated the minefield of their clothing. That had been an unexpected pleasure. In Whit's fantasies, when he was trying to keep his expectations to what he thought of as "realistic," Lionel had always been fussy about his clothing when they undressed each other. In reality, the undressing hadn't been heated or rushed, but there had been no concern for where anything fell, either.

Whitney stepped through the opening that had swallowed Lionel and found himself in a marble-and-bronze bathroom that was bigger than the apartment he'd been living in for the last four years. It had more rooms, too; it was more of a bath "suite" that curled around the perimeter of the bedroom. The first room had a marble topped vanity with a dozen brass-handled drawers, nooks, and crannies surrounding an enormous mirror. Across from the vanity was a walk-in closet. The room curved through an archway, where Whit found a commode, a bidet, and another long vanity, this one with two matching marble sinks and sleekly elegant brass fixtures.

Whit paused. No. Gold fixtures. "Jesus." He suddenly found it hard to breathe, but he pressed on, following the sound of running water through another arch. A Jacuzzi sat in an elevated alcove across the room; closer to him, a wall of glass blocks created an open partition into a walk-in shower-room. Steam danced around Whitney as he moved down the short corridor created by the block wall.

"Lionel?" It didn't seem wise to just barge in unannounced.

"Ahha! Changed your mind, I see?"

Whit came around the corner and paused just short of the spray of six jets of water that were cascading over Lionel's torso and sluicing down his body. Whit wasn't the slightest bit embarrassed about the sudden thickening of his cock.

"I couldn't resist a tour of Lionel Luthor's bathroom. You could sell tickets," he said with a grin as he joined Lionel in the center of the spray. "Couldn't resist this, either." His hands went to Lionel's waist, then slid slickly to his back as he stepped in for a kiss. Lionel didn't exactly return it in full force, but he didn't move away, either.

"I've never had a lover with beard before."

"Do you like it."

"Yes. It adds...texture to everything you do. And you do everything very well. Have I told you that yet?"

"Not nearly often enough." Lionel escaped Whitney's embrace by moving to the shower caddy built into the wall. He captured two loofa sponges, tossed one to Whitney. A bar of soap followed.

Whitney laughed. "Lionel, your ego is bigger than your pocketbook. And a lot more fascinating." He lathered the loofa. "Come here. I'll do your back if you'll do mine."

"Turn around."

Not surprisingly, Lionel took control. Not exactly what Whit wanted, but being scrubbed down and curried like a prize racehorse had its perks, including a hard-on that wouldn't quit. If Lionel noticed (and how could he not?) he didn't show it.

"Now you." Whit tossed his loofa onto a bench-like shelf, lathered his hands, and stepped behind Lionel and slightly to his right, their bodies not quite touching, but close enough that Whit could run his slick hands over every inch of Lionel's torso, his thighs, his cock, which slowly started to respond... Whit was pleased when Lionel's head fell forward, onto his chest, not relaxed, but focused on what Whit hoped was a great deal of pleasure.

The spray had washed away the soap and Whitney lathered his hands again. This time, he lathered Lionel's back, across his shoulders, then down to cup his beautifully muscled butt in both hands. Whitney felt Lionel tense and he leaned forward to kiss the back of his lover's neck as he trapped the heat of his erection against Lionel's hip. The tension didn't go away, but Whitney was sure he knew what to do. His lathered hand blazed a lazy path down the center of Lionel's spine, then lower. His fingers melted into the cleft between Lionel's cheeks, his middle finger found the pucker--

"No."

Lionel pulled away from him abruptly. Not hastily or angrily, just definitively, closing the door. He stepped into a full jet of spray, rinsing away the last traces of lather, then he looked at Whitney, his pale eyes so remote they might have been focused on a complete stranger instead of the lover he'd driven half-mad with pleasure not ten minutes ago.

"No, Whitney. Finish and get dressed so we can have lunch." And then he was gone.

"Son-of-a-bitch," Whitney swore under his breath, restraining himself from slamming a fist into the marble wall. His hands were too valuable for stupid stunts like that, but God would it feel good to hit something.

Lionel had set him up. Again. He'd known exactly where Whit was going, and he'd allowed it to go on so that he could make his point dramatically. Lionel was a top. A complete and total, don't-touch-my-ass top.

"Shit."

Whit found the shower controls, adjusted the temp to as cold as he could stand, although Lionel's little power play had pretty much taken care of Whit's erection anyway. When he stepped out of the shower a minute later, he found huge bathsheet on a marble topped table but no Lionel.

Whitney dressed and with a little bit of wandering and the help of a maid, managed to find the Greenhouse Alcove, a private oasis of green just off the balcony. What he didn't see, anywhere, was a trace of Lionel Luthor. Which was probably good, because he wasn't sure what he wanted to say.

"I'm really, really sorry. Please forgive me, I won't ever try to fuck you again," sounded pathetic, particularly considering that part of him wanted to punch Lionel in the face for setting him up like that.

"You cocksucking bastard, why didn't you just set the ground rules?" That sounded better, but probably wasn't the shortest path to a second date.

"You're the best fuck I've ever had, and I'll grovel at your feet for all eternity if you'll just aim that incredible cock at me every day for the rest of my life." Now, that really was pathetic, but of the three choices so far, it was the one that came closest to what he was really feeling.

He draped his coat over one of the chairs that framed a glass table that gave the appearance of hanging in midair, unsupported by legs or wires. Another time he might have looked for the magic, but he really didn't care about the table or the two elegant place settings or the dome-covered plates containing a lunch he didn't recognize.

Lionel finally made his entrance. "Ah! I see Bella has worked her magic for us! Whitney please, Sit!" Lionel pulled out his chair, sat, and as if by magic, an attractive young man appeared with a bottle of wine. Whitney wondered if Lionel ever fucked the help. Lionel said something about the menu, but Whit barely heard.

He took his seat and the wine was poured. The servant disappeared. Lionel commented on the bouquet of the wine — something else Whitney had made it a point to learn about so he could impress Lionel Luthor. He didn't give a shit about wines today and he wasn't hungry.

"I want to see you again, Lionel." Fourth choice, straightforward, simple. No groveling, certainly, because the declarative sentence contained a definite edge that seemed to perk Lionel right up.

"Considering the fact that I own you, I consider it highly likely that we'll see a good deal of each other. I'm a very hands-on franchise owner."

"You own my contract, Lionel. Not me," Whit replied evenly. "There's a big difference."

"Of course there is! I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

"Yes, you did. There's very little that Lionel Luthor says or does that isn't deliberate."

"You don't sound happy about that."

"You played with my head in the shower — both of them."

Lionel held his gaze unapologetically. "I needed to make a point."

"Spelling out the rules in advance would have accomplished the same thing."

"I hate to disagree with you, dear boy, but you're wrong." Lionel's hand grazed his beard thoughtfully. "You'd have listened to the words, but you'd have tried that move eventually. In bed, out of it...in the shower, somewhere. I just hastened the inevitable."

"Lionel--"

His blue eyes turned to ice and hard, laser pinpoints that bored into Whitney. "Pardon the vulgarity, Whit, but let's be plain. Lionel Luthor doesn't get fucked by anyone, figuratively or literally. Not business associates, world leaders, family members, or even beautiful young quarterbacks with deliciously long, thick cocks. The only way you'll see me again — on terms similar to today — is if you accept that."

Whitney let a pause lengthen to uncomfortable silence. "Do you want to see me again, Lionel?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Did I mention the beautiful quarterback with the delicious cock?" he asked lightly. "Well?"

"When?"

"I'm not sure, but I'll call you. Soon. You can count on it. Now, shall we eat?"