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THE RING - THE RING COVER ART
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WARNING: NC-17 Slash Fiction
"Hey, Sexy!" The raucous yell might have been appropriate at a County Fair Hog Calling Contest, but it was completely out of place in the trendy royal blue lobby of San Francisco's Hotel Triton. Still, Whitney knew exactly to whom the shout was directed and he wouldn't have traded decorum for down home country, even it it did come from a born-and-bred city girl. Whitney turned from the concierge station just in time to catch the curvaceous brunette that hurtled into his arms. "Hey, Hot Stuff!" he said enthusiastically, snatching her up and letting momentum spin them around. When they stopped, he still held on, leaving his captive's feet dangling nearly a foot off the floor. "Hi, Handsome," Lois Lane cooed, her smile mischief personified. And sexy. Damned sexy. She wrapped her arms around Whit's neck and punctuated the greeting with a kiss that was light-years beyond platonic. And all for show. It was an old game that Lois enjoyed playing more than Whitney, even though it was all for his benefit. Not that he objected to kissing his best friend, but he hated the deception it was designed to perpetrate. Still, he didn't protest when Lois's enthusiastic tongue slid into his mouth and tried to tease his into reciprocating. "Whoa, Fordman! No wonder you've been playing the monk. Hot chicky!" Whitney broke the kiss and returned Lois to solid ground. "Down, boy," Whitney growled at Trey Victor, one of the Shark's defensive lineman. "Hey, guys! Look what Fordman's got!" As if by magic, Whitney and Lois were suddenly surrounded by four of his teammates who'd been on their way out to dinner after their Friday afternoon practice. "Where have you been all my life, beautiful?" Lloyd Tanner, the Shark's center asked salaciously. Lois positively beamed at the attention, batting her eyelashes and flirting for all she was worth. "At Berkeley," she informed them. "She's getting ed-u-ca-ted," Whitney said carefully. "Can you spell 'smart'?" "Better than you, Asshole," Trey quipped. "You can't even count to five without screwing up." Guard Dan Gosset, who had a face like a train wreck and looked like he ate the locomotives for breakfast, grabbed Lois's hand and tried to take possession of her, but Whitney had her pinned comfortably to his side and he wasn't letting go. "Oh, come on, gorgeous. What do you want with an ugly mutt like Fordman when you can have me?" Lois looked up at Whit. "You're right. He's really hard on the eyes, but what he lacks in looks he more than makes up for when the lights are out." The guys roared and Tanner clapped Whitney on the back. "Go for it, Whit, old buddy. We'll expect details in the locker room tomorrow." Whitney began extricating them from the knot of Lois's new admirers. "Sorry, I never kiss and tell." "But I do!" Lois said, waving good-bye over her shoulder. "Film at eleven!" Whitney was laughing as he dragged her out of the lobby. "Will you stop that, you shameless hussy!" "Hey, being seen with me is good for your image!" Whitney grinned. "Being seen with you is good for anybody's image. But you are outrageous." "That's right. And in thirty minutes every Shark in the hotel will know that Whitney Fordman is getting laid tonight." She flashed him a wicked smile and whispered. "They don't have to know it's by a six-foot one, brown-eyed journalism TA with a killer smile and a reportedly nine-inch cock." Whitney bent to her ear. To anyone watching, they looked like happy lovers sharing secrets instead of two best friends talking dirty. "Oh, yeah? Who's doing the reporting?" "People in a position to know." "And what position would that be?" "I hear he favors Doggie, but he's probably flexible. Hope you still are." Whitney shook his head and laughed ruefully. "I never should have spent that semester at K State answering all your questions about gay sex. Where are you parked?" "In the hotel garage." She waved a parking stub at him and Whitney took it from her, along with the keys to her SUV. They started in that direction and Lois slipped out of Whitney's grasp, skipping ahead a step, then turning to walk backwards so she could look him up and down. She nodded approvingly. "Not bad. Not bad. Skin tight faded blue jeans, threadbare in all the right places. The authentic cowboy boots of someone who has obviously spent time on a horse." She reached out and spread his suede Sharks jacket open. "And a T-shirt two sizes too small. Perfect. You follow directions brilliantly. You're going to be the hottest thing to hit the bars since the fire of 18-whatever." Whitney shook his head and chuckled. "My God, I've created a monster. If I'd known getting ditched by my boyfriend would bring out the pimp in you, I'd get dumped more often." Lois fell into step with Whitney and slid her arm around his waist again. The top of her head came barely to his shoulder and Whit's draped his own arm protectively around her. "Hey. The dumping was nearly a month ago. It's time you got back in the saddle." "Yeah, that's what you said on the phone the other night—" "No, that's not exactly what I said." Whitney chuckled. He wasn't about to repeat it anything they'd said in their marathon three hour telephone conversation, during which Whitney had spilled his guts about Lionel and Lois had helped him patch himself back together. Clark had been a good friend through all this, but when it came down to the bottom line, Clark didn't see how anyone could possibly be in love with Lionel Luthor. Lois, on the other hand, knew Whit's secret — that he'd had a hard-on for the beautiful, brilliant older man since he'd graduated from high school. Lois understood how devastated Whitney was, and she was helping him cope with it just by understanding the depth of his grief. Well, understanding and pimping. Over Whitney's protests, Lois has promised to set him up with the aforementioned teaching assistant whom she knew for a fact was currently unattached and who'd once told her he had a thing for jocks. "..I'll bring the condoms, you bring your most worn out pair of jeans, your cowboy boots and a T-shirt at least two sizes too small," Lois had instructed him on the phone that night. "We'll meet up with Jessie at 'Zachariahs' and he won't know what hit him." "I don't like setups, Lois," Whitney had protested mildly, not certain he was ready emotionally despite the fact that his body was more than ready physically. "More often than not, they turn out badly for everyone — particularly the person in the middle." "I can survive," she had replied breezily. "You need a hot, sexy, young stud to take your breath away, fuck your brains out, and make you forget all about old Lionel What's-his-face. Honey, if Jesse Carmichael can't do it for you, no one can." "All right, all right." "Yes! Just call me Lois the Matchmaker!" "I think it's more like Lois the Pimp, and I can supply my own condoms, thank you very much." "Yeah, but mine are ribbed and they glow in the—" "Oh, shut up!" For the first time in a month, Whitney had laughed. Genuinely laughed because Lois had made him feel as though there was a light at the end of the tunnel. Of course, after the call had ended and he'd turned out the light and rolled into bed, the loneliness of missing Lionel had hit him in the chest again, but the impact hadn't been quite as bad as it had been the night before or the night before that. Now that the moment of truth was nearly at hand, though, Whitney was having second thoughts about digging into the Lois Lane Blue Plate Special. "What's this guy's name again?" "Jesse Carmichael. Straight women weep when they find out he's gay, he's that scrumptious." "And what did you tell him about me? I mean, for crying out loud, I'm letting you set me up with a journalist! How nuts is that?" They had reached her beet red Mountaineer and Whitney was adjusting the driver's seat to accommodate the 8-inch difference in their heights "Hey, I told him you were a friend from back home coming in for the weekend. He only knows your middle name and he's into baseball, not football, so chances are he'll never know the difference if you don't tell him you're an NFL Pro. And even if he did he wouldn't out you, Whitney," she assured him seriously. "I know this guy. We're friends. I wouldn't set you up with someone who would hurt you. Stop trying to chicken out." He harumphed noncommittally, and as soon as he had the seat where he wanted it, they were off for dinner on the Wharf — just the two of them, followed by dancing at the city's trendiest gay bars, and a meeting with a hot grad student with a 9-inch cock. What more could a lonely jock from Kansas ask for? He tried not to think about the answer because it was never going to happen. Time to accept it and move on. Zachariahs' was loud. Jesse Carmichael was everything Lois had promised and more. Six-foot-three. Dark hair, eyes that seemed to change color depending on the light or the angle — a lot like Clark's. Nice features, strong jaw. A shy smile that Whitney figured was about 1/3rd genuine and 2/3rds come on, but appealing all the same. Body by Nautilus and a package that Whitney could easily believe was nine inches when standing at attention. Yes, Mr. Fordman, just choose door number two and all this can be yours! Only everything Whitney wanted was behind door number one and it was firmly closed against him. "You're doing it again!" Lois had to stand on tiptoes and shout it in his ear in order for her to hear him. Whitney bent to her. "Doing what?" "Thinking about what's not here instead of what is here!" "We've been here ten minutes, Lois. I haven't had time to think about much of anything." "Bullshit. Do you like him?" "What's not to like?" "Then why aren't you out there dancing with him instead of that horny little hottie who's putting the moves on him?" "Lois, I'm letting him perform for me. He's flirting. It's supposed to be turning me on." Lois glanced down at his belt buckle, then lower. "I don't see any evidence that it's working." He laugh. "Honey, you are—" Whitney caught a glimpse of someone skirting the dance floor and frowned. "What?" Lois tried to follow his gaze. "Christ on a cracker. Did he think this was a costume party? You know that guy?" Whitney nodded, watching the man in full chauffeur regalia making his way steadily across the dance floor toward Whitney at the bar. "His name's Sandofer." He looked at Lois. "He's Lionel's chauffeur and a member of his security team. He goes everywhere Lionel goes." "You're kidding? How did he know you were here? Is he having you followed?" she shouted in his ear. "I don't know." If Lionel was having him followed, that would be a good sign, wouldn't it? he wondered, not daring to allow himself to hope that it was anything personal. "Lionel probably has all the players watched to one degree or other when the team is on the road." "Shit. Well, this is certainly subtle." Whitney tensed, waiting without a clue what he should be thinking or feeling. What the hell did Lionel want? "Mr. Fordman." "Sandofer." The chauffeur handed him a small, unmarked square envelope. Whitney opened it and pulled out a folded, unmarked note card with two words. "Outside. Now." Whitney flashed the card to Lois. "He's playing some kind of mind game with you," Lois warned him. "I know." "Tell him to go to hell," she advised him. "I can't." She sighed dramatically. "Okay, go. If you don't come back, I'll call you tomorrow morning for all the details." "I'll be back. I never leave a lady in the lurch." "And your Shark's jacket is in my Mountaineer." "That, too." He tried to grin at her, but failed miserably. "Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself. Go." Sandofer turned and led the way out of the club. With every step, Whitney became more convinced that Lois was right. This was nothing more than a mind game. Somehow Lionel had found out that Whitney was going to a club and he just wanted to rein him in, prove who was boss. It had nothing to do with their relationship, what they'd been to each other. Fear of wanting and being disappointed helped Whitney hastily erect a wall around the month's worth of pain he'd suffered. The only building blocks he had were composed of anger. A black limo of the make and model Lionel preferred was parked — barely and illegally — at the curb. No one had challenged it, not even the beefy bouncer who was checking ID's at Zachariah's door. Sandofer opened the door for him. Whitney bowed his head just enough to see Lionel's legs on the far side rear seat, leaving room for Whit to slide in beside him. Instead, he ducked into the limo and took the seat facing him. He looked beautiful in an elegant black suit and the black frock coat that Whitney had once told him made him look like a gunslinger in the Old West. That's how he looked tonight, dark and dangerous in the barely existent light of the limo. Black windows on all four sides shut out the world, and the subtle scent of Lionel that he knew so well hit Whitney like a physical blow. It was everything his could do to anchor himself to the seat, because what he wanted was to take his lover into his arms and beg him for another chance. That need only fueled his anger. He stayed where he was, meeting Lionel's dark eyes with all the detachment he could muster. Lionel was looking him up and down, taking in the boots and the jeans and the deliberately provocative T-shirt. If he liked what he saw, it didn't show in his imperious gaze. "Nice look," Lionel said with a hint of disdain. Whitney managed to find his voice. "I hear it's popular in the bars. What are you doing here, Lionel?" "Saving you from yourself." "The Sharks have no control over my private life," he said coldly. "You have no right to keep tabs on me." "Whitney, this is not college, where you can frequent gay bars on away trips and not be recognized," Lionel informed him, his words clipped but patient, as though he was talking to a recalcitrant child. "Your picture has been in every Bay Area newspaper this week. It will be prominent in Sunday's papers after the game tomorrow night. It's much too early in your career for you to be taking chances of being outed by some self-righteous queer who thinks you'd make a nice role model." Just as he'd thought. This was about his career. Nothing personal. Lionel Luthor was protecting his 35 million dollar investment. "I've been playing hide-and-seek with who I really am for a long time, now, Lionel. I can take care of myself. Now, if there's nothing else, I have a date waiting." He reached for the door. "Wait." He paused. "For what?" Lionel hit a button on the panel at his left hand and as if by magic the limo began moving. "Shit. Lionel--" "Whitney. Just...wait." That meaningless word again. Wait. But this time he waited. The silence was palpable. The tension more so, until finally he couldn't stand it any more. "What?" "I've..." Whitney couldn't recall when he'd ever seen Lionel at a loss for words. "What, Lionel? What could be that hard to say?" In the dim light, Whitney couldn't be sure if Lionel was looking at him or not when he said, finally, "Our parting might have been...precipitous." Whitney leaned back in the leather seat. "Wow. You really know how to bowl a guy over." "Whit—" "Precipitous as in, premature? As in, there are still a few miles on the stud's warranty — might as well drive him down the avenue for another block or two?" Lionel did look at Whitney this time, but there was nothing readable in his expression. He could have been asking for a weather report for all the intensity of emotion behind his words. "Whitney, don't make this hard. I'm not going to beg you to come back." That was for damned sure. "Then what are you doing here?" "I told you. I don't want to see you make a mistake." Whitney leaned forward. "I was going to fuck the first beautiful young stud that looked at me twice, Lionel." A pause. "I assumed as much." "And you felt it was your duty to rescue me? From what?" Whitney slid down the seat a little further until he was directly in front of Lionel. "Got a newsflash for you, boss. I like sex. Unlike you, I even like the part of sex where your body reaches the limits of endurance and this white heat courses through you and every nerve comes alive and there is not a goddam thing you can do to stop it." He couldn't help it. His voice softened when he told Lionel, "You made me feel that in a way no one else ever has. Maybe no one ever will." Whitney could see it in his eyes, this time. He'd reached something in Lionel. Touched something. What is was, he couldn't say, but it was there and it was real. "Whitney. We can be together again." Amazing. For Lionel Luthor it was a virtual declaration of love — as close as Whitney knew he'd ever get. "You want me back." "Yes." A month of pain began uncoiling in Whitney's chest. He slid to his knees and the barest hint of a nudge splayed Lionel's legs until Whitney was between them. He reached for the intercom. "Sandofer. Pull over at the nearest bus stop and wait." He switched off the intercom. "Whit—" "Shut up, Lionel." Whitney took his lover's face in his hands claimed the lips that he'd only been able to dream about. Tasted what he'd only felt on his tongue in memory. He traced Lionel's lips with his tongue and was immediately granted admittance and found his own mouth being hungrily plundered in return. Whitney knew the taste of desperation. When he found it in Lionel's kiss, in the hunger that poured into him in just the first moments, he knew Lionel hadn't been with anyone else these last weeks; whether he would admit it or not, he'd been as lonely and miserable as Whitney had been. The certainty told him everything he needed to know. He pulled away from the kiss, then went back to it, teasing, flirting, pouring his heart into it, letting Lionel know how how much he had missed this pleasure. And other pleasures, as well. With hands as hungry as his mouth, he reached for Lionel's belt buckle, pulling hard, freeing it, then the button, then the zipper, reaching for the ridge of Lionel's cock that was stiffening, growing harder as Whitney freed it. He squeezed it gently, then harder, let his hand slide the length, down and back to the tip, and as he lazily worked the cock, his mouth mated with Lionel's and he began sucking Lionel's tongue in a blatant promise of what else he was ready and on-so-willing to do with his mouth. The cock jumped beneath Whitney's hand and he felt the impact of Lionel's moan all the way through his body and straight into his own cock. He broke the kiss, looked for just an instant into Lionel's fierce, dark eyes, and saw what he needed to see. Whitney sank back onto his haunches and lowered his mouth to Lionel's cock. His tongue flicked out to taste the first sweet drops of pre-come, roll his tongue around the taste, around the source, around the need for more... One of Lionel's hands was in his hair, the other on his shoulder, urging him on, but also touching, testing, as though he needed to be sure that Whitney was real. His hips thrust upwards once, seeking more, but Whitney gave him only soft licks and breathy sighs against the sensitive cleft until Lionel moaned and thrust again, and Whitney let him have what he wanted. He took Lionel into his mouth, sucking hard in contrast to the soft licks, and Lionel gasped and bucked, trying to take control, trying to fuck Whitney's mouth, but that wasn't the way Whitney wanted it. With Lionel pinned against the leather seat, hard and hungry, Whitney was in control and he wasn't going to relinquish it. He swallowed, taking the heat and hardness of his lover deep into his throat. He heard Lionel's gasp. Heard him calling out his name, softly, begging, and Whitney gave him the friction he wanted, needed, craved with a desperation that Whitney had never felt in him before. He gave Lionel the pace he needed, the pressure, the friction to bring him to the edge, but when he got there, instead of pushing him over the brink, Whit's free hand slid to Lionel's sac, cupping his balls, applying pressure, holding release just out of his grasp. "Damn it, Whitney." Hands clutched and unclutched his shoulders. Hips thrust against the restraint, wildly seeking release. Whitney denied it. He squeezed the sac, moved his head back, slowly, painfully for Lionel, let the cock slid slickly from his mouth. "Whitney—" Whitney slid his hand around the cock, fondling it gently, making Lionel moan again as Whit came to his knees again and leaned close, capturing Lionel's mouth for another scorching kiss. "Taste," he moaned. "That's you." His hand began slowly stroking Lionel, and he whispered against his lover's lips, "I love you." He pulled back enough to be able look into Lionel's fierce eyes, dark with the naked need Whitney had evoked. "I've never said that to you unless you were making me come so hard I couldn't hold the words back. But it's true, Lionel. God help me, I do love you." When Lionel looked like he might speak, Whitney silenced him with a brush of his lips, then went on, saying what had to be said. "You're in my head and my heart, Lionel. I close my eyes at night and I can smell you. Taste you... god, I love how you taste... your mouth, your skin, your cock... I love how your muscles feel beneath my hand. I wake up in the morning and the first thing I think is, what's lionel having for breakfast? Is he going to quarrel with Lex today? Is he thinking about me? Does he miss me at all?" He brought his lips to Lionel's, lightly, whispering, "I ache for you every minute of every day. Isn't that pathetic?" "No." It was as much a moan as a word. "Whit--" Whit kissed him again, deeper this time. He quickened his hand on Lionel's cock and swallowed the sharp intake of breath from Lionel's mouth. "I want you to fuck me, Lionel. I want to feel you inside of me. I need to be connected to you. I need you. I have missed you so much." Another kiss, and then, "Do you want me?" "Yes." "Good." It took everything Whitney had, every ounce of courage, every scintilla of control, to pull back, toss the tail of lionel's coat over his exposed cock, and yank the door handle. "You know my price. When you're ready to pay it, give me a call and we'll negotiate." Willing his body to move, he stepped out of the limo, slammed the door, and took off walking hard down the street, not daring to look back to see how long the limo stayed or went, his body trembling and aching so badly he thought he might die. In seconds the colorful crowd swallowed him up. |
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Chapter Posted 9/26/02 |
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