WARNING: NC-17 Slash Fiction

How perfect could one 18 hour period be? Not even a whole day, just 18 hours. Whit wanted to bundle the perfection and put in glass, like one of those silly snow globes, and set it on his bedside table so that every day for the rest of his life he could pick it up and shake the perfection and remember it.

Only he couldn't put it under glass yet because the perfection hadn't ended. The joy, the delight, the pure, unadulterated high of being right in the middle of everything he'd ever wanted in his life was still going on, minute by minute. It was so perfect he was almost afraid to breathe.

"Fordman's showing was nothing short of spectacular!" Lionel was reading from the Daily Planet's sports page, every bit the showman. Only he wasn't on center stage, he was in Whitney's arms. Sort of. It was Sunday morning following Whit's first scrimmage as starting quarterback for the Sharks. They were on Lionel's penthouse verandah sharing a single chaise lounge; Lionel naked beneath a burgundy silk robe, Whit bare-chested and commando in a pair of Metropolis Sharks sweatpants.

They hadn't started like that. They'd started across a table from each other, and that had been wonderful, sharing breakfast with Lionel after a whole night in his bed, during which time there had been incredible, hot, welcome home sex because Lionel had returned from Zurich only minutes before the amazing scrimmage that had been the embodiment of the dreams Whitney and his father had shared since he was a child. The celebration after the scrimmage had been sweet torture, having to shake Lionel's hand respectfully and treat him like a boss instead of his lover, but afterwards they'd met at the penthouse and the sex had been scorching.

Then there'd been napping, during which Whitney had fallen asleep with his head on Lionel's chest, lulled by the sound of his lover's heartbeat. A lazy hand caressing his cock and soft kisses that deepened as he awoke brought his body to life deep in the night, and the sex had been so sweet that he couldn't call it sex at all. He and Lionel had made love. There were no other words for it. Afterwards, Lionel hadn't left the bed; he'd let Whit hold him, not easily at first, but he'd finally surrendered to sleep in Whit's arms and Whit had fought his own exhaustion to stay awake and savor the moment, the hours that had preceded it, the whole magnificent day.

And now this. Mioshi, Lionel's houseboy, had brought the morning newspapers after breakfast, a half-dozen of them, at least: the Daily Planet, Chicago Tribune, Metropolis Inquisitor, Kansas City Star..., all containing, as it turned out, glowing reports of how rookie quarterback Whitney Fordman had mopped up the field, the sidelines, and the bleachers with the Chicago Bears in the Sharks first public scrimmage of the season.

Lionel and Whit had moved to the matching chaise lounges to pour over the analyses, trading papers back and forth, until finally they'd ended up in the same lounge, Lionel reading aloud, Whit following along over his shoulder.

Lovers sharing the Sunday morning newspaper — how much cornier could it get than that? Not much, Whit admitted, but it was a first in their relationship, and for all he knew, it would never be repeated. They weren't cuddling, and as much as Whit wanted to idly brush lazy circles on Lionel's arm or massage his shoulders or nuzzle his neck, he did none of those things because he was afraid to upset the delicate balance of 18 hours and (he glanced at his watch) 37 minutes of perfection.

"Every pass was dead on the money," Lionel quoted from the Planet, "proving as we all suspected that Fordman's arm was worth every contortion, every draft pick, and every penny that it took for team owner Lionel Luthor to acquire the talented young star."

"Dammit! I knew you'd get credit! Let me see that!" Whitney snatched the paper out Lionel's hands for a closer look. Lionel simply leaned forward, picked up another paper, and shuffled through until he found the sports section as Whitney groused good-naturedly, "I call the plays, complete the passes, and even make a dazzling 43 yard run for a touchdown when Mosley gets taken out, and those damned sports reporters find a way to make you the hero. I can't win! I just can't win!"

Whit slipped his arms around Lionel's waist and pulled him back to rest against his chest. "What does that one say?"

"That you are a lunatic."

"Where? Let me see."

Lionel laughed. "Whitney, my love, if I hadn't been with you every single minute since we left the celebration last night, I'd swear you were higher than a kite."

"I am." Whitney tightened his arms around his lover and kissed his throat just below his beard. "I'm high on life. High on victory." Eyebrows raised, Lionel twisted in Whit's arms and turned his head to look at him. He got a sloppy kiss on the mouth for his trouble. "I'm high on you."

Lionel cleared his throat and groomed his beard with thumb and forefinger. "Very poetic."

"I thought you liked poetry." My love. He'd said 'Whitney, my love.' He'd never done that before. Nearly 19 hours and the perfection just kept on coming. "I missed you while you were in Zurich. Leave your beard alone. I'm going to kiss you again."

"Whit--"

Whitney twisted, shifting their positions enough to captured Lionel's mouth despite the protest. "Did I say I missed you?"

"Several dozen times."

Another kiss, this one with a lot of heat. "How likely are we to be discovered by one of the servants if I go down on you here on the chaise?" Whit asked.

"Not likely at all. When Mioshi left the papers I told him no one was to come into the living quarters for any reason whatsoever."

"You're always thinking ahead. I love that about you," Whit said with a grin. "And you're wearing silk. I distinctly remember promising to suck you through silk."

"I distinctly remember almost coming at just the thought."

Whitney kissed him again as they adjusted positions until Whit was on top, the chaise was almost fully reclined, and Lionel was gasping softly from the friction being generated by the wet silk that torturously shielded his cock from Whit's hand and mouth.

Whit was conscious of applying every trick and technique he'd learned from Lionel these last months, turning the tables on his lover until a small gasp became a moan that seemed wrenched from the depths of Lionel's soul. The sound coming from deep in his own chest seemed to shock him and he froze for an instant, but Whit ripped away the robe from Lionel's cock and quickened his efforts until there was another moan and Lionel's hands were clawing at the chaise cushion and his hips were thrusting as though he could take control, but Whit didn't allow it. He controlled Lionel, guiding him to the edge, retreating, bringing him to the edge again, and then shoving him mercilessly over the brink.

"Whit! God, Whit!!!" The words were wrenched out of him, explosive, a half-shout in the morning air, accompanied by a moan of agonizing ecstasy, and Whit savored the taste of Lionel and another amazing victory. After all these months, Lionel had finally surrendered to the pleasure and Whit was positively drunk from the way he'd shouted his name as he came.

He crawled up the lounge to capture Lionel's mouth, kissing him deeply, urgently. Unable to stop himself, he cupped Lionel's ass and pulled him closer, grinding the heat and hardness of his cock against Lionel's groin. "I want to fuck you, Lionel. Please..." His voice was ragged with his own desperation.

"Whit..."

"Please. I want to feel you tight and hot around my cock. I want to feel you buck with pleasure and press closer to take more of me inside you. Please, Lionel. Let me fuck you. Let me--

"Damn it, Whit!" Lionel pushed once against him and used the motion to lever himself up and out of the chiase. He was still panting from the force of his orgasm, but he had regained control. He shrugged his robe onto his shoulders, but didn't bother belting it as he swept into the penthouse. "I thought we had an understanding!"

Whitney scrambled after him, naked. He felt his perfect day coming to a screeching halt at 19 hours and 4 minutes, but he he couldn't turn back the clock. "I understand that you are denying us both an enormous amount of pleasure. Satisfaction. Intimacy."

"Intimacy is an illusion!" Lionel roared, his robe billowing around him as he moved swiftly across the long expanse of an oak-floored dining area. "It's like love! An impossible, romantic ideal cooked up by people too weak to stand on their own two feet."

"That's a crock!" Whitney pursued him past the two huge pillars that separated the open area of the entry hall from the enormous living room. "You don't believe in love?"

"I believe in power and sex. Those are the things I love."

"And what am I?"

"An avenue to convenient sex. Quite good sex, if you must have your ego stroked, but that is all."

Whitney closed the gap between them and captured Lionel a dozen feet from the archway that led to the corridor that led to the bedroom. He grabbed him from behind, trapping Lionel's arms at his side, his own arms like a vise around his lover. Lionel froze like a statue, tension evident in every part of his body, but not a muscle betrayed any imminent attempt to escape. They were both breathing harder than their quick walk across the enormous penthouse warranted.

"No," Whit said fiercely in Lionel's ear. "I'm a good piece of ass. Great abs, shoulders to die for, thighs like carved marble, and a tight asshole that feels really good to your cock. You are the 'good' part of our sex, Lionel. I'm just the meat." He caught hold of his anger, reigned it in and softened his voice, pleading, "Let me be good for you, too, Lionel. That's all I want. There's so much more I want to give to you."

Whit hadn't relaxed his hold and Lionel hadn't moved except for the rise and fall of his chest, but somehow, too quickly for Whit to even comprehend, everything changed. Judo, jujitsu, kung fu, hell, it could have been fucking David Copperfield for all Whit knew, but suddenly Lionel was free, Whit's arm was yanked rudely behind his back, and just short of being twisted into a position to do some damage, Lionel gave a shove that sent Whit stumbling away.

"Get out."

Whit whirled back to him and it became instantly clear why Lionel Luthor was one of the most feared men on the planet. Those blazing eyes and the tightly controlled rage behind them were terrifying. "Lionel—"

"Get dressed. Get whatever belongings you've left here, and get out. You won't be coming back."

Whit's little snow globe of perfection went soaring into the wall, smashing into a million pieces. But he wasn't going to beg Lionel to put the perfection back together. "That's it? We're finished? We can't even discuss it?"

"I don't discuss, Mr. Fordman. I negotiate, and I can't think of a thing you have that I'd want to negotiate for."

The dagger went in deep. Lionel Luthor had good aim and very sharp ginsu knives; Whitney had to give him credit for that. "All ri--"

"Dad, you really are going to have to get new help. I've been ringing—" Lex Luthor swept off the elevator and stopped at the mouth of the living room, stunned to silence. His father was more-or-less facing him, eyes blazing, robe hanging open exposing a salt-and-pepper-haired expanse of well-toned torso and three-quarters of an erection that was aimed in the general direction of a tall, blond, naked, broad-shouldered hunk who — from the back, anyway — looked good enough to eat. Particularly the ass. Amazing!

It was everything Lex could do to keep from laughing with delight. This was definitely one for the history books. Or the Luthor Family Photo Album at the very least. God, where was his camera when he needed it? "Am I interrupting something, Dad?" he asked sardonically, edging over to lean against one of the pillars. "Please, don't stop on my account."

"Shit." Whitney wasn't about to run out of the room like a humiliated virgin. He turned to the intruder. "Hello, Lex."

The look of shocked recognition on Lex's face was almost worth the humiliation. But only almost. "Son of a bitch," Lex intoned, his amusement turning to something that tasted sour in his mouth. "The 35 Million Dollar Quarterback. Really, Dad. I know you've got more money than God, but this is one expensive fuck. I hope he's giving you your money's worth." Lex cut his gaze straight to Whitney's cock. "The equipment seems more-or-less adequate."

"Go to hell, Luthor," Whit snapped, then stalked off toward the bedroom. "Both of you," he growled under his breath as he passed Lionel.