Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
Sequel to More Than Anything.
"God, Chlo, where have you been?"
"I'm sorry." Chloe Sullivan put her arms around her boyfriend, pressed her face into his broad back, and held him from behind, feeling the tension in his muscles, the dampness of his blue t-shirt. He'd clearly been sweating, which meant he was pretty far gone already. "I was interviewing the governor, Clark. That's not a chance a cub reporter gets very often. I couldn't just walk out."
"You agreed to be there for me." He sounded uncharacteristically surly. "You said whenever I needed you, you'd be there."
The midday sunlight slanted into the loft, making dust motes glitter, gilding his dark hair. A warm breeze blew in through the open window, bringing with it the scents of summer, the earthy odor of the growing crops in the fields, mingled with the fragrance of the roses Martha Kent grew in her garden. It was, Chloe thought, a beautiful day, but Clark was clearly oblivious to it-- oblivious to anything but his physical needs.
"I got here as fast as I could. But I don't have superspeed. Fortunately he was here in Lowell County, so I didn't have to drive all that far. But you could have come and gotten me."
"I couldn't leave the barn. I was afraid I might..."
His voice trailed off, and she sighed against his taut back. "You were afraid you might just grab some random girl and have sex with her," she finished, squeezing him sympathetically. "That bad already, huh?"
"I thought maybe this would get better with time." His voice trembled a bit. "But this is the third time it's happened, and I... I think it's just getting worse, Chlo."
"Shhhh, Clark. It can't go on like this forever. Sooner or later, it'll get better."
A few months ago, Clark had entered Kryptonian adolescence. He was fertile for about three days out of every Kryptonian month-- about six weeks-- and during those three days, he needed sex as much as he needed water or oxygen.
"What if it doesn't?" He sounded close to tears. "What if this happens for the rest of my life? I can't live like this. And I can't expect you to always just--"
"I'll do whatever it takes," she interrupted, squeezing him more fiercely than before. "Like I told you already, somehow or other, we'll work it out."
She flattened her palms against his chest and ran her hands down his front, caressing him from collarbone to navel, and he shuddered.
"That's what you need," she whispered, stroking her hands over his front. In truth, he needed a great deal more, and they both knew it. Right now, he needed sex the way a junkie needed drugs. Over and over again. But an undeniable part of his condition was the craving to be touched.
"Unnnhhhh," he answered, his body quivering beneath her touch. "Don't stop, Chlo... don't ever stop..."
She caressed his chest for a few moments longer, until he was trembling, then let one hand slide up under his shirt, caressing his flat nipple, while the other slipped over the front of his jeans. He was marble-hard, hot to the touch even through denim, and as her palm glided over his erection, he jerked and gave a long, sobbing cry of pleasure.
"Clark," she whispered against his back. "Your mom..."
"She's out, Chlo. We're all alone."
"So you can scream as loud as you want." She grinned against his back, because when he was in this state, Clark was pretty damn loud. Not that she minded.
She began stroking him a little harder. His cock jerked eagerly in her hand, and he uttered a low, sensual groan that ordinarily she would have thought meant he was close to orgasm. But she knew by now that when he was in this state, he couldn't come unless he was inside her. No matter what she did to him, he couldn't find release except inside her body.
She unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants, shoving his boxers out of the way, and his erection all but jumped into her hand. She wrapped her hand around it, cradling him, and he gave a strangled cry.
"Chlo. Oh, God, Chlo, I can't wait..."
"Yes, you can." She began moving her hand, stroking him in a slow, steady rhythm. She felt his whole body arch backward, heard him make a low, desperate noise.
She moved her hand faster and harder, stroking him so hard that ordinarily it would have brought him to a violent climax. She heard his voice rise in a frantic wail, and she knew she was only driving him higher and higher, to a jagged peak of need that couldn't be satisfied by anything other than intercourse.
His hips thrust against her hand, and his breath came in ragged gasps, and there was visible dampness on his t-shirt now. For a guy who didn't sweat, he was sweating a lot. She buried her nose in his t-shirt, inhaling the musky, hot scent of him.
Her hand moved even harder, and he sobbed out desperate words.
"Chlo... please... I have to... I have to..."
He was so hot he all but scorched her palm, and precome flowed from him so freely her hand was slick with it. She could feel her own arousal, could feel the hot moisture between her own legs, but she figured she could wait a little while. She knew what he wanted-- what they both wanted-- but she was in no hurry to satisfy him.
The truth was that she kind of enjoyed having Clark Kent, ordinarily so calm and collected, grow frantic and sweaty and wild-eyed as she touched him.
And the begging. She definitely enjoyed the begging. Maybe that made her a bad girl, but she couldn't help it. Having this gorgeous man begging and pleading to make love to her made her stomach melt.
She was stroking him hard now, so hard that ordinarily he couldn't have held back. He met her hand eagerly, thrusting hard, crying out with every thrust. She knew she could do this to him for hours, while he grew hotter and hotter, without ever actually climaxing.
But she also understood how desperate he was, how badly he needed release.
At last she let him go, unwrapped her arm from around his waist, and walked around him. He stood unsteadily, trembling all over, his skin glistening with sweat, his eyes as wild as a frightened horse's. His cock stood straight up, gleaming with come, pulsing with every rapid beat of his heart.
"Please," he whispered, staring at her. "Pleasepleaseplease..."
"Soon," she answered, and dropped to her knees in front of him.
He'd been thinking about this all morning. Oh, hell, he'd been thinking about everything all morning. Any dirty fantasy he'd ever had, any smutty image he'd ever seen, any sexual position he'd ever heard of-- since midnight, when he'd awakened to find himself caught in the relentless grasp of his hormones, all of it had graphically played out against the movie screen of his mind.
This time of the month, his brain was x-rated.
But this-- he loved this. Her tongue, slowly trailing over the head of his cock, licking away the precome; her lips, brushing over him as lightly as butterfly wings; her breath softly caressing him. He was so hard and swollen that even the lightest touch was a torment to him. But it was a good kind of torment.
She licked and kissed and nuzzled, and he squeezed his eyes shut. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, and he felt his knees trembling beneath him. Liquid flame pulsed through his veins, and he heard himself panting for breath. He couldn't stand much more of this.
But God, it was good.
"Chlo." Even to his own ears, his voice was a harsh rasp. "Chlo, come on-- do it-- just do it--"
She gave a soft, throaty chuckle, and then her lips parted, drawing the head of his cock into her mouth, and his voice rose in a helpless cry of pleasure. He was so goddamn sensitive right now, and the feel of her mouth, the impossible heat and suction...
Well, ordinarily he'd be shooting right down her throat about now.
But this time of the month, he couldn't. No matter what, he couldn't. Pleasure swelled in him, and his hips thrust, entirely of their own volition. She took more of him into her mouth, and he moved in her eagerly, his cries rising to a fever pitch of desperate need.
He was deep inside her mouth now, not even trying to hold back, totally out of control. He was aware of nothing except her mouth, the scent of her arousal, the wild, driving need that consumed him. The rhythm of his thrusts was hard and fast, driving him higher and higher.
But he couldn't come this way, no matter how good it felt, and a wail of tormented need rose from him.
At his anguished cry, she let him go and rose to her feet. He reached for her, but she eluded his hands and stepped back, smiling. She stripped off her suit jacket while he watched. Beneath the jacket she wore a silky shirt. Her nipples were erect, clearly visible through the shirt and the bra. He stared at them, entranced.
Slowly, she unbuttoned the shirt and threw it aside. And then she was unfastening the bra and tossing it aside, too.
He quivered, caught by a sudden desire. He didn't try to fight it. By now he knew there was no point in fighting any impulse he had while he was in this state.
He stalked toward her, caught her by the waist, and yanked her down into his lap on his old red couch. And then he was bending, suckling on her nipple, and she lifted her hands and dug them into her hair.
"Clark," she whispered. "Oh, Clark."
The sound of her voice, whispering his name with that unmistakable note of longing and love, was a bigger turn-on than anything else she'd done to him. He kissed and licked her breast, and his hand moved down between her thighs, squeezing the soft flesh.
She parted her legs for him, and he slid his hand right up against her panties. He wasn't really subtle this time of the month. But she didn't seem to mind. She gasped, and he felt her stiffen in his arms.
He caressed her through the silky material. His fingers were big, and maybe a little on the clumsy side, but he'd gotten pretty good at this over the past few months. He found just the right place, the place that made her moan and sigh, and stroked her there, listening to her heartbeat, bringing her right to the point of climax but refusing to allow her release.
If he had to suffer, then she was going to suffer right along with him.
The scent of her arousal filled his head, and her soft cries and moans filled his ears, and suddenly he couldn't stand it any more. He had to have her, right now. He couldn't even take the time to get his jeans all the way off.
He ripped her underwear off, shoved up her skirt, and pushed her down onto the couch cushions, then leaned over her. It was narrow, but it would have to do. His knees were shaking too hard to allow him to make love to her standing up.
He let his hips move, pressing the head of his cock right up against her. She was so hot, so ready for him...
A shudder of need shook him right down to his foundations.
Her arms came around him, and her hands dug into his hips. He closed his eyes and let himself slowly sink into the humid warmth of her body.
The first thrust was so good he thought he might die of the pleasure. He felt another shudder rock him. God, he needed her. He needed her so much. There was no way to explain how desperate his need was, no words he knew of to describe what he felt. He was just one giant mass of need and desire and sexual longing that could only be satisfied by this.
She lifted her legs, wrapping herself around him, so that his second thrust was even deeper, the pleasure even greater. He felt the tension coiling inside him, and he knew he was almost at the point of orgasm already. He wanted to make her come, too, but he wasn't sure he could wait.
He thrust again, slowly and deliberately, feeling the aching need right down to his balls. His fists clenched and his back arched. He was dripping sweat, gasping for breath, every muscle in his body so taut he quivered.
On the fourth thrust, his control broke. He gave into his need with a breathless sob and let himself slam into her, over and over again, in a hard, wild rhythm. She cried out, her hands digging into his ass, and he felt her body begin to contract around his, squeezing him in relentless contractions.
"Oh, fuck, yes," he ground out, hardly aware of what he was saying. It wasn't a word he used under normal circumstances-- but this time of the month wasn't normal. It was almost like he was a different person, made up of raw sexual need and dark, feral impulses.
She shuddered beneath him, coming in long waves. He could feel her coming, could feel how good it was for her, because with every orgasm she squeezed him more tightly, her muscles convulsing around him. He swore again, uttering a long stream of syllables his mom would have washed his mouth out for, and thrust harder than before.
And then his hips stuttered, losing the rhythm, and a rush of flame burst through him. His voice lifted in a roar as his release crashed over him, more powerful than anything he'd imagined in his dirtiest fantasies, so intense he couldn't breathe, so completely satisfying he almost wept with relief.
It seemed to go on a long, long time, but at last he collapsed on her, gasping for breath. Her arms came around him and held him.
This quiet affection after sex was always the same, whether he was in the throes of hormones or not. She always held him, brushed kisses over his forehead, stroked his hair. Always told him without words how much he meant to her.
It was weird, he thought, but in a way, the cuddling afterward was his favorite part of sex.
At last he stirred tiredly. He'd been up since midnight, his brain and body rioting with need, and he wanted to sleep for the rest of the day, but he realized he couldn't do it on top of her. He shifted his weight, and she wiggled out from beneath him. She pressed against him spoon-fashion, her back to his front, and he draped a heavy arm over her.
"Clark," she whispered. "I'd do anything for you. Anything at all."
Despite his sleepiness, the words made him smile. God, he hated putting her through this every six weeks. But he was grateful that she could put up with it, with his crazy surges of hormones and wild spates of need. Most women, he thought, would have run away screaming by now.
"Yeah," he answered, the words blurry. "I'd do anything for you too, Chlo. But right now, all I really want to do is sleep."
"Then sleep," she said. She turned her head and brushed a kiss over his cheek. "I'll be here when you wake up. Same deal as always. For three days... I'm yours."
His eyelids felt like lead, but as he fell into sleep, he managed to mumble a response.
"I'm always yours, Chlo."