WARNING: NC-17 Slash Fiction

"I am so sorry, Lionel. I mean, really sorry. Mortally sorry." Whit lowered his head and wiped the tears from his cheeks with the back of one hand. His shoulders were shaking from laughter that was proving uncontrollable. "I-I-I-" He couldn't even get the words out. More tears streamed.

A glass of Scotch-rocks appeared in front of him. Whit took the glass and managed not to spill it when another gale of laughter doubled him over. "Sss-s-sor-" was all he could get out.

Lionel eased onto the sofa, one leg beneath him, his body angled so that he was facing the lover who was nearly incapacitated. His coat and tie were somewhere across the room on the back of a chair and his sleeves were rolled up casually. "Whitney, I assure you it is all right. I have been pursued by marriage-minded women my entire life."

"Yes, but my mother?" Whit's abs hurt from laughing, but he couldn't seem to stop. Every time he'd think he had himself collected, he'd get another image of Ruth Fordman batting her eyelashes at Lionel Luthor this afternoon at his graduation and the fit would start all over again.

Lionel rubbed a soothing hand over his back and Whit managed to pull himself upright. He caught several hitching breaths and dried his eyes again. "Oh, Lionel... I had no idea. It's been four years since my Dad died, and I know Mom's been lonely, and she has every right to be happy again, but... Flirting? My mother? With my lover!"

"She was very charming, Whitney."

"You're being polite. She's a sweet, but unsophisticated Smallville housewife who still cans her own peaches in the summer and organizes bingo games for seniors at the nursing home." Whit's laughter had quieted to a grin. "I don't know. Maybe she didn't even realize she was flirting with you. Maybe it was just a testament to the magnitude of your sex appeal."

"Hmmm... I am rather irresistible, aren't I?"

"Completely." Whit leaned forward and kissed Lionel with no intent other than a lazy punctuation of his half-joking assessment of himself. He pulled back quickly because he wasn't ready to adjourn to the bedroom.

Whit had been seeing Lionel several times a week for over a month, but extended, comfortable moments like these were few and far between. Their usual pattern, with occasional variations, was a drink, a few minutes of conversation, then sex. Amazing, unbelievable sex; after which, Lionel would immediately leave the bed, shower and return to his office. Whit was welcome to doze for a few minutes, but was expected to depart soon after. He wasn't sure when Lionel slept, but it wasn't when Whitney Fordman was in his bed. He ached for that simple intimacy. And moments like these.

"...suppose I could have put an end to it by telling her in vivid detail how I happen to know your body better than she did when she diapered and bathed you, but that didn't seem polite."

Whit dragged his full attention back to Lionel. "Thank you for avoiding that temptation. I'm not sure her heart could have stood the shock."

Whit found that Lionel's gaze had shifted from amused to speculative. "Obviously she doesn't know about us. Does she know you're gay?"

Whit drained his glass and left the sofa to replenish it. "I've never told her, but she knows -- on some level just below the denial. These last couple of years her favorite soapbox has been the sin of homosexuality. Rumors are rampant in Smallville about--" He stopped abruptly.

"About my son and the Kent boy?"

Whit nodded, sorry he'd brought it up. "Mom rails on that every now and then, even though she has no idea whether any of it's true. And closer to home, I made the mistake of giving her Premium Cable for Christmas last year. One night she was running the channels and came across that show, Queer as Folk. She had the cable man out the next day and I still take regular tongue-lashings over that one." He shot Lionel a grin. "And not the good kind you give."

"Thank goodness." Lionel moved toward the bar, pausing to give Whit a perfunctory kiss, then took center stage expansively to quote: "‘Sin, guilt, neurosis--they are one and the same, the fruit of the tree of knowledge!’ Henry Miller." He stabbed his empty glass in Whit's direction. "You don't need your mother's approval to be who you are, Whit."

The league, the players, the media, and even the Shark's owner did a quick conga line through Whit's head, and he snorted softly. "I may never have anyone's approval to be who I am."

"Ah! Is that self-pity, I hear?" Lionel demanded flamboyantly.

"Yep. You got a quote for that, too?"

"André Maurois, French critic, ‘Self-pity comes so naturally to all of us, that the most solid happiness can be shaken by the compassion of a fool.’"

Whit considered the quote. "So, I shouldn't expect you to stroke me and hold my hand and say, 'there, there, Whit. It'll be alright'?"

"On the contrary..." Drink replenished, Lionel stepped to him again, but this time with an intent and intimacy that make Whit's cock sit up and take notice. "I shall stroke you very thoroughly tonight. But I will never say, 'there, there.'"

The mating of mouth and tongues that followed had enough heat to send them straight to the bedroom, but Lionel only returned to the sofa and Whit finally whisked his mind far enough away from his mother's out-of-character behavior to realize that there was something different about Lionel today.

"Did I tell you I thought your commencement address was wonderful?"

"I believe you may have, but I was too busy fending off your mother to fully appreciate the compliment."

Whit returned to the sofa. "Why didn't you tell me you had agreed to give the address after that English guy cancelled?"

"That 'English guy' is Great Britain's poet laureate, and I assumed you would hear, and if you didn't, it would be a surprise. A pleasant one, I'd hoped."

"It was." Whit sipped his Scotch and focused on the Jackson Pollock that occupied half of the wall behind Lionel. "What really surprised me, though," he said casually, "was that you would act as anyone's stand in." He cut his gaze to Lionel and found his lover's lips pursed into a wisp of a smile, a wicked gleam in his eye.

"If you're fishing, Whitney, you need better bait and a bigger hook."

"Did you agree so that you'd have a reason to attend my graduation?"

Lionel sighed deeply and set what was left of his neat Scotch on the glass table. "Whitney, I receive more public speaking invitations than I can count, and considering how much money I have, I can count fairly high. If you're going to fantasize, why not go the full ten yards and imagine that I even arranged for Kensington's cancellation so I could step in?"

"Did you?"

"Of course not. K State was in a bind, I'm a high-profile benefactor. They called, I granted them a favor. End of story." Lionel reached into his pocket and removed small, slender box wrapped in silver paper. "I did, however, get you this."

Whitney was shocked. "Lionel... I didn't expect... I didn't expect a gift." He paused. "But I was going to ask for one."

One dark eyebrow went up. "Really? That's not like you. What were you going to ask for?"

"Later." Lionel clearly wasn't happy with the response, and Whit repeated, "Later. Please?"

A nod of acquiescence and Lionel handed him the silver-wrapped box. A shiny silver seal bearing the Luthor crest held the paper together on the back. Whitney was careful not to damage the seal. He opened the box and found a keyring bearing the emblem of the Metropolis Sharks. It was virtually identical to the one his dad had bought him five years ago from a souvenir vendor at the last Sharks game they had attended together. Except, of course, this one was solid silver save for the Shark emblem that stood out in 14K gold.

"Lionel... Thank you. It's beautiful."

"This goes with it." He held up a key and Whitney's heart slammed hard against his ribcage. Lionel was giving him his own key to the penthouse? Not possible. Unimaginable.

"What--"

"Your contract with the Sharks specifies that we must provide you with a condominium. This is it. Assuming it meets with your approval, of course."

Pleasure swallowed a brief stab of disappointment. "I'm sure it will be perfect, Lionel. Where is it?"

"Come." Lionel bounded off the sofa and headed for the floor to ceiling windows that overlooked the city. The sun was just about to set and the lights of downtown Metropolis were beginning to wink on. In the hazy half-light, it was like looking down onto the Milky Way. "Do you know The Lancer building?"

"Who doesn't?" Whit pointed to the 20 story building that was one of the most sought-after residential addresses in the city. "It's the southwest corner of the four block area that forms Luthor Plaza."

"That's right. I've secured you a condo there. It's fully furnished and has a magnificent view of the city. It's convenient to the stadium, of course, and best of all, it has sub-level access to the Plaza Mall. You can take an elevator from your condo down to the mall, walk through the concourse where you will no doubt find ample shopping and dining facilities, and if you know exactly where to look, you will find the private access to One Luthor Plaza and my elevator to the penthouse."

Whit's heart was doing that thumping against his chest thing again. "Convenient. Discreet."

"More so than giving you a parking pass and having your every trip in and out of this building logged and noted by curious parking attendants. Here." He handed Whit what looked like a gold credit card but it contained no logos, no indentifying wording, just a magnetic strip.

"What's this?"

"Your own security code for my private elevator. Obviously, you are never to use it unless I know you are coming. In point of fact, I must authorize each use of the code or the card won't work. But it will be a convenience. For both of us."

Whitney was speechless.

"Well?" Lionel prompted. "You don't want it? I can take it back--"

He reached for the card, but Whitney snatched his hand away. "No! I just-- I don't know what to read into this, Lionel."

Whit searched Lionel's face for clues, but his lover had played too many games of poker on a global scale to betray himself to a dumb jock with great abs and a tight ass.

"You may read into it that I enjoy having you in my life, Whitney. I want that to continue until such time as we decide the relationship no longer suits us. Is that acceptable to you?"

A smooth answer that told Whitney next-to-nothing he hadn't known five minutes ago. Except of course, there was a pretty good assurance that he wouldn't get the boot today. Tomorrow looked pretty secure, too, if he didn't screw things up in bed tonight.

"Perfectly acceptable. Thank you." He took a step closer and bent his head to Lionel's lips. This time the intent he telegraphed in the kiss was perfectly clear. It spelled out BEDROOM. FUCK ME. NOW in fireworks.

Lionel responded in kind, but ever the gracious host, he apparently felt obliged to ask, "What about supper. Aren't you hungry?"

"Only for you."

No further encouragement was needed. Ten minutes later they were undressed and Whitney was writhing on gray silk sheets. Lionel was in rare form, dispensing with the subtleties of pleasurable torture that often passed for foreplay and going straight for direct stimulation of Whitney's cock with the mouth that had the ability to drive Whit wild, no matter where it focused. The softness of his lips, the agility of his tongue, the mildly abrasive quality of his beard against Whit's balls, the convulsion of his throat around the head of Whit's cock...it was all intoxicating, seeming to go on forever, with Whit's hands alternately clutching and unclutching in Lionel's hair and the silk sheets, his hips thrusting mindlessly, fucking the only part of his lover that was allowed him.

Normally, Lionel withdrew just as Whit was ready to come and forced him to hold on, gave him a moment to recover. He seemed to like having access to Whit's engorged, aching cock when he repositioned them so that he could take Whitney's ass, but tonight, he didn't stop until Whitney was shouting his name. He drank deeply, then withdrew with Whitney moaning his name softly. Whit felt feathery kisses blazing a trail up his abdomen, across his chest, finally finding his mouth as Lionel pressed his body the full length of Whit's. The hard cock trapped between them brought another moan to Whit's throat. His arms secured Lionel to him, his hands running smoothly over his back and buttocks as he wrapped his long legs around Lionel's waist.

Lionel bucked lightly against the restriction, but grinding his cock against Whitney's groin took precedence over anything else, until he couldn't bear it any more. "Let me go, Whit," he commanded, his voice soft and guttural. "Roll over."

But Whit didn't comply. His legs, locked at the ankles around Lionel's waist were enough to keep his lover from going anywhere unless he was really determined to escape. "No," Whit whispered, chasing Lionel's mouth when he tried to pull away. "Fuck me like this... Missionary. I want to see you, Lionel. Feel your weight on me. Kiss you as you fuck me. You never let me see you. Give me this, Lionel."
Lionel's weight was on his elbows and he raised to his hands, connecting them only where Lionel's hard cock met Whit's sated one. His gaze was unreadable in the nearly nonexistent light provided only by three candles on the other side of the room. "Is this your graduation present?"

Whit licked his lips, tasting Lionel. Tasting himself. Afraid to go on and afraid to stop now that he'd started. "A real graduation... To being your lover instead of your puppet..."

Lionel pulled away sharply and Whit had no choice but to let him go. But not far. Lionel rolled smoothly to the edge of the bed and Whit followed him. Grabbing his arm gently but firmly. "Don't be angry, Lionel, please. Please! You almost never let me touch you. You perform for me, you give me such incredible pleasure, but you're like a master puppeteer and I'm your marionette. You won't take any of the things I could give you."

"Whit, I made it clear--"

"Not that," Whit said urgently, then recanted. "Well, okay, Yes. That." The silk sheets made it easy for him to slide closer to Lionel, one long leg stretched out behind Lionel, the other folded between them, resting against the length of Lionel's thigh. He pressed a kiss to Lionel's stiff shoulder, and was encouraged when he didn't pull away. "I won't deny that I would love to know the intense pleasure of being inside of you, but that's not what I meant, Lionel. I want to wrap my legs around you and feel my cock trapped between us. I want to kiss you. God, I want to see your face as you fuck me, Lionel. I want to see what you look like when you come, when you whisper my name in that ragged voice... You never let me see you. You're so controlled. So contained..."

"That's who I am, Whitney."

"No it's not. It's who you think you have to be." Whitney cupped Lionel's chin, his fingers woven into the softness of Lionel's beard as he gently turned his lover's head so that he could lean in for a kiss. He was heartened again when Lionel allowed it. Even welcomed it. It went on for an eternity, deep and soft. More yielding than any kiss they had shared in their month together.

"Whit--"

"Lionel...I'll never be your equal, but please... let me by your partner. Here. In bed." Whit leaned back onto the sheets and Lionel came with him, eased onto him, settling between his legs, cock-to-cock. Whit brought his knees up and locked his ankles high around Lionel's waist. They moved against each other, fondling, kissing, until both cocks were rock hard again. Lionel reached for the bedside table, prepared them both, and then he was inside Whitney, pressing deeper and deeper.
Instinct made Whitney want to close his eyes and ride the waves of pleasure, but he kept them open, fixed on Lionel's face, absorbing every nuance, every flare of fire in Lionel's eyes, every swallowed gasp of pleasure that he had never seen and seldom heard when Lionel took him from behind. But this was different. He could see the concentration now, not just feel it. He could see the heat that blazed in Lionel's eyes when he deigned to open them and capture Whit's gaze before dipping his head for a hard, scorching kiss.

Lionel pounded into him, making him cry out, demanding that Whit call his name when he took hold of Whit's cock and began stroking a rhythm that matched his thrusts, brilliantly, masterfully bringing them both to climax together. Lionel claimed his mouth in a kiss, but not before Whit had a chance to see Lionel's face as he came, softly calling Whit's name as though it was wrenched from him, not freely given. He saw the way Lionel held back, controlled himself, feeling the pleasure of his release but not allowing himself to be carried away by it the way it carried Whit away.

Lionel took his lips, kissing him the way he always did after, but tonight, Whit's thoughts were racing a million miles ahead. What would it take, he wondered, to break through Lionel's control? To get under his skin and make him let go?

What would it take to make Lionel Luthor love him as much as he wanted him?

"They called me "Saint Whitney."

"And why would that be?" Relaxed, the dinner table between them, but with plates cleared and only their wine glasses and a nearly empty bottle left, Lionel was slumped comfortably in his chair, his gray silk robe open to the waist displaying the salt-and-pepper hair that Whitney loved to run his fingers through when Lionel would allow it. Whit was opposite him in a plush white terry with the sleeves rolled up. It fitted him perfectly and when Lionel had handed it to him after their first amazing foray into missionary sex an hour ago, it had been all he could do to keep from asking if he was getting hand me downs from Lionel's last broad-shouldered lover.

But Lionel had given him everything he'd asked for tonight, and he wasn't going to spoil it with stupidity. "I was St. Whitney because I somehow always had the misfortune to fall for 'good girls' who wanted to wait until they were married to have sex."

"Clever. Cutting down on rumors and performance anxiety."

"Exactly. I went through high school in a state of perpetual arousal, and all the guys pitied me for it. I was quite certain that by the time I began seeing Lana Lang my senior year, I had raised the art of masturbation to an art form."

"No on-the-side boyfriends?"

"No. We're talking about small-town Smallville, not anonymous, lots-of-options big city Metropolis. No boyfriends, just an occasional drunken blow-job at the end of a kegger when the blower could claim he'd been too drunk to remember anything that happened the night before."

Lionel divided the last of a bottle of merlot between them. "When did you know you wanted me?"

Whitney grinned. Leave it to Lionel to bring the conversation back to where it mattered. "That day I barged into your office. You treated me like a person, not like a hick teenager from Smallville. We sat. We talked... Well, you talked, I listened."

"Not true," Lionel said. "I remember you being very articulate and knowledgable. About football. And you were quite open about the impact of your father's passing as well."

"You were very compassionate. I was grateful. And aroused. Stunned. Shocked, even. I'd only ever had those kinds of feelings for one adult before. Maybe two." Whit grinned again. "I drove home to Smallville that night so hard I could barely sit behind the wheel of my truck. Finally, I had to--"

Lionel chuckled. It was a sound Whitney had grown to cherish. "You're blushing. If you don't go on I shall have to shave one of those millions off your contract."

"I finally pulled over at the Interstate rest stop, found a secluded corner, and let my imagination go wild," he confessed.

A devilish glint in his eye accompanied Lionel's raised eyebrow. "And was I good?"

Whit laughed. "I was eighteen, Lionel. All I had was imagination and an Internet connection. But yeah. When I came, you were the best imaginary blow job I'd ever had."

"And now?"

"The best I'm ever likely to have."

Lionel finished his wine. "This conversation seems to have awakened a renewed desire to see you in my bed, Mr. Fordman."

Whit leaned forward, his elbows on the table, forearms crossed. "Would I be stretching my luck to suggest that we do each other simultaneously? Your head at my cock, mine at yours? I'll bet you a bottle of your favorite wine that I can make you come first."

Lionel leaned forward, mirroring his position. "Whitney, my favorite wine costs $1,700 a bottle."

"Two bottles."

"It's a bet." Lionel started to rise.

"Wait a minute! We're not finished!" Whitney waved him back into his chair. "What do I get if I win?"

"What do you want?"

"You. Asleep in my arms. All night. A lazy fuck and breakfast when we wake up."

A small frown gathered on Lionel's brow. "You are, indeed, pushing your luck, Mr. Fordman," he said sternly.

Whitney feigned surprise. "You don't think you can outlast me? Lionel, I'm shocked at how little confidence you're showing in your legendary--"

"Shut up and get into bed."

"That's more like it."

They rose together and Whitney took advantage of an opportunity to pull his lover close for a kiss.

"You are insatiable, Mr. Fordman," Lionel declared when Whit let him go. "Next thing I know you'll be demanding to ride my cock."

"Funny you should mention it. That was going to be my birthday wish."