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The Litney Casting Couch

Read Lionel's Journal

SUMMER LOVERS -
• Book Cover
• Chapter One

• Epilogue, for MIT Challenge

DADDY LONGLEGS
• Chapter One
• Chapter Two
• Chapter Three
• Chapter Four
• Chapter Five
• Chapter Six
• Chapter Seven
• Chapter Eight
• Chapter Nine
• Chapter Ten
• Chapter Eleven

THE RING -
• Charade
•Monday Night Quarterback
•New Man in Town
•With Charity for None
• Masque and Mirrors
• The Bachelor Auction
• Giving Thanks

THE RING COVER ART
• "New Man in Town" Calvin Klein Ad #1
• "New Man" CK Ad #2

• Duplicity

WARNING: NC-17 Slash Fiction

The only thing Whitney Fordman needed worse than a long, hard fuck was a win against the Oakland Raiders. Brookline was coming off the DL next week. If the Sharks' #1 quarterback stayed healthy and played up to his capabilities, it could be months before Whitney saw another game situation.

He'd already lost two pre-season games. He had to prove he was not an overhyped college washout.

As for the other... He could have taken care of that a dozen times or more in just the time it had taken him to find a payphone and get Lois there to pick him up after he'd made his dramatic exit from Lionel's limo. His worn-in-all-the-right-places jeans had made his state of arousal painfully obvious, and in that particular district of San Francisco, the condition of a guy's cock was the first thing anyone noticed. While he waited for Lois, he was offered two hand jobs, 3 blows, and $100 to join a three-way. He was never so glad to see anyone than when Lois's Mountaineer rolled to the curb and picked him up.

Lois hadn't pressed him for details. All he'd told her was that he'd taken a huge risk that he'd probably be paying for the rest of his life. The currency was going to be loneliness.

Lois had called him a Drama Queen because anything more, anything soft and comforting would have made him lose what little composure he managed to hold onto until he made it back to the hotel and up to his room. There were no messages waiting for him.

He headed straight for the shower, stripping out of his clothes and leaving them scattered across all three rooms of his suite. The bulge in his pants and the related ache in his cock had subsided enough to be bearable on the way to the hotel, but as he undressed, the smell of Lionel on his hands and his clothes engaged all of his senses. Suddenly, the taste of Lionel was in his mouth, bitter and sweet and intoxicating. He spun the dial of the shower, but instead of the the groan of pipes and rush of water, Whitney heard the quick rush of Lionel's breath in his chest, a gasp of pleasure, a low moan of hunger. His mind's eye fixed on the image of Lionel's cock as he took it into his mouth, on the way his hips had bucked up, silently begging for more, trying to take control until Whitney had pinned him against the seat and forced him to accept the foreplay of his lips and tongue and throat.

Water pummelled the walls of the empty shower as just outside, Whitney brought his hands to his face and inhaled deeply, fully, filling his head with the scent of Lionel until he was hard and aching and fighting back tears because he loved so much, needed so much...wanted something he was never going to have, and it had nothing to do with burying his cock in Lionel Luthor's ass.

He wanted Lionel to love him.

But it was never going to happen; not even if Lionel forgave him for tonight. Not even if he admitted that he wanted his pretty, expensive quarterback bad enough to let Whitney fuck him.... That would mean something, and Whitney was sure he could accept it as enough, but it wouldn't mean that Lionel loved him.

Whitney stepped into the shower and let the water sluice down his body. He slumped against the tiled wall and took hold of his cock, jacking hard and fast to get it over with, as though releasing the pressure would also release the lust and the love. He moaned, then bit hard on his lower lip as the pleasure built and he pumped his fist harder because release was there, in sight, but just out of reach. And then the spasms hit and Whitney was crying out Lionel's name and the water was washing away the cum that pulsed out of him. He pumped until the pressure was gone and there was nothing left. Except the part of him that was in love and refused to be expelled so easily.

31-17, Metropolis Sharks over Oakland Raiders

Not just a victory, a decisive victory. All the months of practice and years of preparation coalesced when Whitney took the field Saturday night. He felt the rhythm of the game in his head and in his gut. And once he felt it, he knew he could control it. With that knowledge came three touchdowns in the first half without a single interception.

It was astonishing, amazing, and when it was over his team mates tackled him in the locker room and baptized him with a shower of gatorade. "It's pre-season, Rookie! You were expecting champagne?" his Center teased him. By winning, he was now suddenly one of them, and he accepted the slaps on the back from virtually everyone in the franchise except Lionel Luthor.

On his way to the shower, Coach Lessening pounded on his back, congratulated him, and told him to be sure to enjoy his celebration tonight with Lois -- though he hadn't called her by name. "Better get in one more taste of heaven with that looker I've been hearing about because Tuesday's practice is going to be hell."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Whitney had replied, then nonchallantly added, "Coach... I didn't see Mr. Luthor on the sidelines tonight." He pointed up. "Was he up in--"

"Nope. Got called back to Metropolis on business. Said he'd watch the tape next week. Only don't expect a pat on the back from him," Lessening warned. "'Bout the only time you'll hear directly from Mr. L. is when you need a better ass chewing than the ones I deliver. And I can deliver 'em pretty good."

"Don't I know it, Coach." Whitney could have disputed the coach's argument in more ways than one, but instead, he held his tongue, bit back his disappointment, and headed into the shower.

Some of the guys invited him out for a beer, but he used Lois as an excuse. They didn't need to know that she had a real date, and Whitney just wanted to be alone and think. Or drink. Or maybe both.

Had Lionel really been called away on business or had he been so pissed at Whitney he couldn't bear being in the same city?

It had to be business, he decided on the way back to the hotel. Thinking that Lionel had fled the city because of him was the height of ego. Whitney Fordman wasn't that important. The glow of his victory wore off a lot faster than it should have.

Whitney let himself into his suite and looked first at the phone. No messages. Pretty much what he'd expected, but not what he'd been hoping for. With the time difference, it was way too late to call his mom. He'd call her in the morning with a game report.

It didn't hit Whitney that there was music playing somewhere in his suite until he reached for the TV remote. His first instinct was to accuse his teammate, Tug Zuchash in the adjoining suite. They shared a locked door between their bedrooms, and Whit had heard the defensive lineman's subwoofer once too often this weekend.

But this music was mellow, classical. Whitney tossed his Sharks' jacket on a chair and pushed up the sleeves of his navy turtleneck sweater as he moved to his bedroom to investigate. The room was dark but the music was fractionally louder.

And there was a faint yellow glow coming from the open door to Zuchash's room.

"Tug?" Frowning, Whitney picked his way across the mostly-dark room to the door. The yellow light was being generated by the flicker of candlelight spilling into the adjacent bedroom from the sitting room. He crossed the threshold and was hit by the unmistakable scent of Lionel's subtle, sexy, very familiar cologne.

Lionel was here. In San Francisco. In the hotel. In this suite. In this candlelit hotel suite.

Either that, or Tug Zuchash had suddenly developed good taste and a crush on Whitney Fordman. If that was the case, Whitney knew he was in trouble; they didn't call him "Tug" because of his permanent wedgie. The lineman had a good 90 pounds on Whitney and wasn't his type at all.

But Lionel was.

Whitney hurried across the room and was half way around the bed when he realized that the covers were neatly turned back and the sheets were black silk. The Triton was an swanky hotel, but silk sheets weren't standard equipment. The implication hit Whitney in the chest and stole his breath, but he shoved away the expectation and doused himself with a strong dose of reality. He wasn't dealing with a sappy romantic, he was dealing with Lionel Luthor, who had earned his power with a ruthlessness that was legendary. Last night Whitney had engineered a ruthless power play of his own, and if Lionel was angry, there was no telling how far he'd go for revenge.

Remember that, Whitney, he tried to tell himself, but like a persistent part of his anatomy, that damned hope just wouldn't stay down.

He moved on to the sitting room door and froze. The music was still soft, but recognizable now. Rachmaninoff. Rhapsody on a Theme by Paganini. Whitney's favorite. The flickering light came from a dozen or more white candles. There were vases of white roses, and in the center of the room a round table draped in white held a champagne bucket, two fluted crystal glasses, and a cut crystal bowl of strawberries. At the table in profile was Lionel with a bottle of champagne.

But this Lionel was unlike any Whitney had ever seen before. In place of his customary black, he was dressed completely in white. White pants, boots, shirt, and a white frock coat that was a perfect imitation of his black "gunslinger" frock.

Only his hair was still the dark sable that Whitney loved to thread his fingers into. He was beautiful. He was here. The impact of it hit Whitney like the downward rush of a rollercoaster across his stomach and abdomen and lower, settling where it belonged.

Lionel the Showman. Lionel the Lover.

Lionel the Ruthless.

His timing, as usual, was impeccable. There was no indication that he realized Whitney was there, but the cork popped on the champagne and he began filling their glasses.

Somehow, Whitney managed to find his voice. "I feel like I just stepped into ‘The Angel and the Badman.’"

Lionel chuckled. "And which am I, as if I had to ask?"

"Both." Whitney wanted take another step into the room. Hell, he wanted to take eight steps and be in Lionel's arms, but he forced himself to remain in place. "I thought this was Tug Zuchash's room."

Lionel plucked two strawberries from the bowl. "Housekeeping discovered a terrible plumbing problem this morning. Poor Mr. Zuchash had to be moved to another room. It is now registered to Mr. Oliver Cassidy. From Seattle." Champagne flutes in hand, Lionel finally turned and looked at him. The intensity of his gaze sent another rush of heat coiling down into Whitney's cock. "He came into town specifically to see Whitney Fordman stomp the proverbial shit out of the Oakland Raiders."

Whitney smiled. "Glad he didn't make that trip for nothing."

"As am I. You were positively brilliant."

"Where was Mr. Cassidy?"

"In the skybox. Until the half."

"Skybox? He must be a very influential man. I'm glad I didn't disappoint him. Or you."

"You rarely do. Point of fact: That was a ballsey move you made last night."

Whitney was amazed that his voice wasn't trembling. "'Fortune favors the ballsey.' Or so I've heard."

Lionel chuckled again and strolled to Whitney, extending the glass of champagne, then moving even closer when Whit took it, until he was deep into Whitney's personal space, meeting his gaze evenly.

Perfectly even, Whitney realized. Despite the difference in their heights, he was eye-to-eye with Lionel. Whitney cocked his head to the right and scanned down the lean, white-clad body to the white cowboy boots. With tapered two-inch heels. Maybe two and a half.

Whitney couldn't hold back his grin when he cut his gaze back up to Lionel's.

"Vanity," Lionel confessed without a hint of shame. "I needed two inches so that I could do this."

Holding his glass to one side, Lionel leaned in just enough to capture Whitney's lips. His own lips were parted and it took no encouragement at all for Whitney to open himself to the kiss. He accepted Lionel's tongue greedily and met it with his own, pouring every ounce of the hunger he had held back last night into the kiss.

Lionel the Ruthless.

The whisper in the back of his head went unheard. He melted against Lionel, his body pressed the full length of his lover's, relishing the strength, the heat... He ran a hand underneath Lionel's coat to steady himself, not the least bit ashamed of the soft, desperate sounds coming from his throat.

The lips finally broke from his. "Well... Now I know what was missing in the limo last night."

The kiss left Whitney breathless. "What?"

"Your hunger. It wasn't there last night when you were setting me up. I should have realized it, but you've become quite skillful at certain...distractions."

Whitney flushed. "Lionel, I'm--

"Ah! Ah!" He stepped away, putting more distance between them than Whitney would have liked. "Never apologize for winning, Whitney. Have you learned nothing from me? A month ago I said you weren't worth negotiating for. Last night you proved me wrong. In spectacular fashion, I might add."

"Are you angry?"

Lionel made a broad gesture to the room with his glass. "Does this look like anger?"

"You could be setting me up."

"For what?" He sipped his champagne. The Archangel Gabriel couldn't have appeared more innocent.

"With your creativity and penchant for revenge? Anything is possible."

"Why would I want revenge, Whitney?"

Whitney fought the urge to lose himself in Lionel's dark, hot gaze. "Better question: Why wouldn't you?"

"You did leave me in somewhat dire straights," Lionel admitted. "but once I'd restored my cognitive functions to the proper quadrant of my body, I realized that the risk was all on your side. Did you say anything last night that was a lie?"

"No."

"You laid your soul bare very eloquently."

A smile ghosted around Whitney's lips as he stepped to the table beside the sofa and plucked one of the white roses from its vase. "That's a romantic way of looking at it. Kinda like this."

Lionel moved to him, invading his personal space again, bringing Whitney within easy reach. Kissing distance. "I'm not a romantic, Whitney, but I do understand the fine art of seduction."

Did he ever. Whitney's voice was a little shaky when he responded, "Hey, I'm easy. You could have had me with a bottle of Sam Adams, a 100 watt lightbulb, and a softly whispered, 'Let's fuck.'"

Lionel brought his lips a breath away from Whitney's. "You mean a softly whispered 'Fuck me,' don't you?"

Heat shot down to Whitney's cock again. "I-- Are... Lionel--"

He chuckled and retreated. "Relax, Whit. That wasn't an invitation. But that is your price, isn't it?"

When Whitney hesitated, Lionel turned, one eyebrow raised archly. "Come, come, Whitney! You have your opponent on the ropes! You've brought me to the bargaining table, which is in and of itself nothing short of remarkable. Don't cave now! Name your price!"

"I want to be with you," he confessed.

"Too non-specific for the negotiating table. You had that. It wasn't enough, as I recall." Lionel sat on the sofa, his arms resting across the back, legs crossed with one ankle resting on his knee.

Whitney didn't care for the direction this was taking. Lionel's tone was too biting. "Lionel..."

"Say it, Whitney. You want Lionel Luthor to take it up the ass."

"I want to give you--"

"Nonsense. Don't feed me that rubbish about mutual pleasure. You want your cock in my ass. Why? Why is that so important to you?"

There were so many reasons, but only one that really mattered. "Because there are things you'll never be able to say to me, Lionel. I know it and I have to accept it." Whitney sat on the arm of the chair closest to Lionel, facing him. "But this matters to you. It would mean that you trust me, maybe not enough to let me all the way in, but more than you've ever trusted anyone else."

"So much meaning in one simple fuck," Lionel proclaimed with his trademark flambouyance.

"If it was simple for you, we wouldn't have spent the last month in hell."

He quirked an eyebrow. "Point taken. What things?"

Whitney frowned. "I beg your pardon?

"What things do you imagine that I'll never be able to say to you?"

Whitney drained his champagne flute and moved to the table to pour another. It wasn't easy, being this honest. He actually felt as though he was slicing open a vein. But a future with Lionel was worth it. "For one... Come live with me."

“‘...and be my love and we shall all the pleasures prove?’” Lionel quoted expansively.

"Yes."

"An accurate assessment on your part," Lionel replied dryly. "All other considerations aside, I don't believe we could convince the League, the press, and the other players who would crucify you that we're just ‘roomies.’ What else? You said things. Plural."

"You'll never say, let's go dancing. Do you know, I've never slow danced with someone I really love before? Never gotten lost in the music and my lover's heartbeat."

"You're turning into a poet, Whitney," Lionel said sardonically. "I'm not sure it suits you. What else?"

"I love you."

"So you've said."

"But you never will. Say it, I mean. I know that."

Lionel cocked his head to one side, his expression completely inscrutable. "So I'm to allow you to fuck me as compensation for everything you're giving up in order to be with me. Very flattering. And persuasive."

"What I'm giving up is my choice, Lionel," Whitney said, frustrated. "Living a lie limits what I can do, where I can go. Who I can be with."

"Ah, so now I'm your choice by default!" Lionel stood. "Thank you very much!"

"You know that's not what I meant! I don't love you because I have no other alternatives. But we're a good fit, Lionel. You may flirt with the press and hints of bisexuality, but you're not ready to come out. You never will be. I can't come out. Not until my career is over, anyway." Whitney moved to Lionel. "I've never had anything like what I had with you, Lionel. I don't want to lose it."

"But you want more."

Whitney laughed shortly. "When in your entire life have you not wanted more?"

"Ooh! Direct hit."

"Stop being sarcastic. Talk to me."

"What's to talk about? You want me. I want you." Lionel the Barnum & Bailey Ringmaster from Hell took over. If the walls could have bled, they'd have been oozing his excess sarcasm as he proclaimed, "If the price of that togetherness is Lionel taking it up the ass, well I guess I'll just have to pay, won't I?" He reached for his belt and unbuckled it. "What do you say we get it over with? Where would you like me? Up against the wall? Shall I bend over the chair? There's lube in the bedroom, or must we do it the hard way?"

"Shut up!"

"The hard way, very well."

"Fuck you, Lionel."

He tilted his head to one size, feigning puzzlement. "Isn't that the idea?"

Whitney whirled to go, but got only one step before he mastered his anger. He knew exactly what Lionel was doing. He was baiting him so that he'd cave, capitulate. So that he'd say, "Oh, Lionel, I don't want it this way. If this isn't something you can do, I understand." He was trying to manipulate him into taking "Whitney fucks Lionel" off the negotiating table.

And it was working. Some men just couldn't handle being the bottom -- the so-called "submissive" partner. Whitney enjoyed being the agressor, controlling his partner sometimes, but he also loved being fucked. He loved being taken, transported, pleasured. He loved letting go and being filled; connected and possessed.

All Lionel could see was that he was giving up something that was obviously precious to him.

Lionel was right. The fact that he'd come here, that even after a month he still wanted to be with Whitney so much that he was even willing to consider it... That was enormous.

If he had been willing to consider it.

Whitney turned. Calmer. "Tell me truth, Lionel. The God's honest truth."

"All right." He was calmer, too. But cautious.

"When you arranged for the room, the sheets...the seduction, was there any part of you that thought you might be able to give me what I want?"

"Whitney..." Lionel crossed the room until he was close enough to cup Whitney's face in his hands and press a soft, seductive kiss to his lips. When he pulled back, he captured Whitney's gaze and defied him to look away. "When I went after you at the club last night, I knew there might be only one way to get you back. I knew it even more strongly tonight."

Typical Lionel. A non-answer worthy of a politician. "And if I don't cave in and let you off the hook?"

"Then I'll pay your price."

That sent an inescapable thrill to Whitney's cock, but there was a dark undercurrent in Lionel's voice.

Whitney canted his head, searching Lionel's face. "And hate me afterwards?"

"I don't know."

Was the answer another manipulation or a rock bottom truth? A little of both, probably.

Whitney slid his arms beneath Lionel's coat, wrapping them around his waist, and Lionel responded by molding his body to the contours of Whitney's, thigh to thigh, cock to cock... "I can't risk you hating me, Lionel."

That quirked eyebrow again. "You're taking Whitney fucks Lionel off the bargaining table?"

Whitney discovered he couldn't be angry about the little 'I won!' glint in his lover's eyes. Being this close felt too good. Too right. "God, you're incorrigible." He plagued Lionel's lips with a couple of flirty, open-mouthed kisses. "What do I get if I do? This is a negotiation, and I'm not an unreasonable man."

Lionel replied with deeper, more insistent kisses. Whitney could feel Lionel's cock stiffening and his own responded accordingly. "Name an acceptable price," Lionel said gruffly.

"You won't like it."

"Try me."

"Let me rim you."

Whitney felt a stiffening, but it wasn't just Lionel's cock. It was his whole body. Lionel eased away and Whitney let him go. "What's the matter? Afraid that famous Lionel Luthor control can be shattered by a little tongue action?"

Lionel retrieved his glass and poured another flute of champagne. He took a generous sip. "You already have shattered it, Whitney."

Whitney moved to his side. "You're joking, right? I cracked it. Once. Just a little crack across the corner." He leaned forward and whispered, "When you shatter, Lionel, you'll know it."

"You could have shattered me last night if you'd continued."

Whitney lightly brushed the back of his hand down Lionel's jaw, caressing the salt-and-pepper beard. He saw the effects of the light touch shudder through his lover. "And yet you came here tonight with champagne and roses. Are you sure you don't want to be shattered, Lionel?"

Lionel frowned. "I'm not sure that insinuation is going to help you to achieve the result you're looking for."

"I'm looking for your trust, Lionel," Whitney said, taking the glass. He put it aside and took hold of both ends of Lionel's belt, pulling him close. "I'm going to live with the hope that someday your desire to feel me inside you will outweight this need you have to control everything. Even your own pleasure. I can wait until you're ready to give me that gift."

"I don't think anyone has ever referred to my ass as a gift before."

Whitney grinned. "From heaven. Do we have a deal?" Whitney instigated another kiss, deeper this time, and more insistent.

"Yes."

"Thank God," Whitney whispered fervently. A month of agony ebbed away, leaving nothing but the ecstasy and expectation that accompanied the knowledge that need was about to be fulfilled. "Let's celebrate. Fuck me, Lionel."

"I thought you wanted--"

"First things first. I've missed you. In me. I can't wait."

He let go, stepped back, and stripped out of his dark blue sweater in one easy motion, then unfastened his belt. And his fly. "See anything you've missed?"

Lionel chuckled darkly and slid his hand beneath the waistband of Whitney's briefs. His eyes closed and his breath hitched in his throat when his fingers closed around the stiff cock. "Only everything," he replied. Whitney moaned at Lionel's brief exploration of his shaft, but it ended all to quickly.

"Bring that in here," Lionel suggested, releasing Whitney and moving off to the bedroom. He stopped at the door. "Bring candles. I want to see your face when I take you." He disappeared into the dark.

"You, too," Whitney whispered to the roses and the champagne and the candlelight. He picked up two pillar candles and followed his lover to the bedroom. "You, too."

Chapter Posted 10/14/02
The Usual Disclaimers Apply